Ah, the delightful little kitten has claws - she snaps at him, and her teeth burst a bruise into existence onto the hard muscle of his shoulder.
She turns, her side to his face; he is a monolith above her, a great wall of power and virile, masculine desire. The thick feathers around his hooves tickle the dirt and dust beneath them as he marches forwards, seeking to press his thick chest against her side, looming over her.
In his mind, his dragons hunt as one; recently, he forces them to work as a team, to try and forge a relationship between them and increase their shared power. They chase after an adult deer, niggling and biting, predatory and magnificent. He cuts down their mental bond until their hunt is just a vague series of images and emotions inside his head, because he is hunting too and it needs his full focus.
Hard to be in heaven if you're sinning. He smiles a cold, dangerous smile. "That is very true." But the goliath has never claimed to be close to heaven - he is decidedly bonded to hell, in all senses of the word.
She asks for a name - why does she need a name, something created in words, when actions speak far louder? All the same, he gives it. "Volterra. And you?" Best to know it - a broad needs a name.
Her tail swings, slapping him in the face; again he growls, guttural, and aims a bite for her dock. Any excuse to get close to where he wants to be.