He is snatched from his sleep by the croon of his dragons, as they respond to her greeting in their eerie, lilting tongue.

His heavy head lifts, aching muscles throbbing painfully. A smile ghosts sleepily onto his face, and he shakes the tiredness from his eyes with a mane-tangling shudder. "Kis hollo," he rumbles, stretching the long expanse of his neck with a languid yawn. She is in her dragon form, and memories assault him - their flight, her on top of him, then him returning the favour in the only way he knows - as his own companions trill greetings to both her and her bronze.

The leviathan - always so suave around women, so comfortable in his own skin - is unused to the flutters that infiltrate his stomach, or the way he suddenly doesn't know where to look. If he looks at her, then it'll be all too obvious how enamoured he is with her beauty, even in dragon form - he is not the best at hiding his emotions, and his face will be an open book for her to peruse at her leisure. If he looks at the floor, then it'll seem like he's being submissive, which he never is. And if he looks at his mud creations, it'll seem like he's drawing her attention to them, like he's expecting praise - or sex - for his gift, when in reality it's meant to be a thoughtful, altruistic present with no reward in return. That, in itself, is unusual for the young warlord. He never does anything without demanding repayment.

He settles for darting his gaze between her eyes and her chest, admiring both in equal measure. She asks if he's waiting for his sister, and his eyes widen - it shows how much he and Nymeria have drifted that he didn't even know she had joined a herd, much less this one. That's a question for a different day, as this is all about them. "No, I was waiting for you. I, uh, made you a....something." He steps aside, displaying his mud-men for her discerning eye.

Weird how his heart is racing so much because of two pieces of frozen mud. It is as though the two statues are metaphors for what Volterra can provide for Isopia, for his primitive, caveman desire to make woman pretty thing. There is so much he cannot offer her, that his beliefs and Volterra-ness forbid him from offering her, but he has to show her what he can offer. Himself. The occasional sweet gesture, like this. Protection - and oh, would he tear out the beating heart of any who harmed her, and deliver it to her on a silver platter!

But whether that is enough, only time will tell.