The unicorn's remark on his new crown makes him ponder for a moment - he's so used to the skull on his face now that he often forgets it's even there. He keeps meaning to prise it off and keep it for battles only, as it does sweat quite horribly when the weather gets hotter, but for now he's content to leave it and let it enhance his natural menace. "Ah, yes. One of the creatures who came through the Rift made the fatal mistake of attacking me. His skull makes quite the trophy." The brute declines to mention the fact that the skull had landed on his face purely by accident, or via some beyond-the-grave curse by the skeletal bastard he killed.

His cousin's second words bring an idle smirk to the skulled face, and his tail entwines lazily between his thick thighs. "There are only two ways that I know of to ease said loneliness," he rumbles, his eyes gleaming. If Öde seems awkward in any way, Volterra does not notice. He is on a high of Isopia-feels, and the sweet, sweet memories make his groin ache. "One is to fight, because there are few things better than the slap of flesh and stench of blood to warm you on a winter's day." The livid scars on the stallion's pelt, not to mention the battle-hardened tones of his body, show that he is no stranger to the battlefield. "The other is to service a mare." He says it simply, grotesquely, his eyes wide with delight and his jaw set into a smirk. They are both men, are they not? It is their wont to talk about whatever they like when they are in each other's company, and the beast assumes Öde - with his refined, if a little creepy, good looks - is a big hit with the broads.

Then, there is another. The goliath's head turns, intrigued, curious as to the identity of this gatecrasher. There is something vaguely familiar about him, although Volterra is fairly certain he has never seen him in the flesh before. He stinks of musk and piss, and the odour makes the stallion's own hips buckle in preparation to release a reeking stream onto the soil of the Grove. Only his small semblance of social decency prevents it, and he holds his bladder with considerable effort. I interrupted, hisses the stranger, and Volterra feels himself examined. "Not at all," he responds, his own voice a throaty growl, a neutral purr. "You know each other?" He looks between his cousin and the stranger, questioning.