The disappointment that ebbs within him at Zhu's refusal is somewhat tempered by the Hungarian that flows from the boy's lips; despite his displeasure, the beast forces his head into a curt nod, and switches his attention back towards Kid. His brow creases into a frown as the lad reveals that Nymeria is his mentor, and anger bubbles up deep within his gut - not towards Kid, but towards Nymeria, so-called sweet sister with her uncanny ability for dark arts such as lying. How long has she kept this from him? Did she not think to tell him, for one that he had a son (who Volterra is quite sure would have been considerably less angry had they met a few months ago) and for two that she had been mentoring him for God knows how long? Or had something that big just slipped her mind?

Oh, he will be having stern words with his darling sibling, and his expression visibly darkens at the notion whilst his tail slaps heartily against his flanks.

"Was your mentor. You will have no further need of her now." Why did the boy need Nymeria when he could have his father, keen to tutor him in the art of battle? For all her gifts, it is clear that Volterra holds the edge in physical combat over his twin, and thus it should be him who teaches Kid the most important skills in life. Of course, the stallion is sadly unaware that Nymeria has been teaching the colt other things, things of which Volterra would heavily disapprove if he knew.

At least Kid is quite willing to hit him - where Zhu hangs back, the grullo colt is quick to obey his father's command. He charges, and Volterra stands firm. There is time; he could move out of the way, if he were so inclined, and doing so might well send Kid sprawling to the ground beneath the force of his own momentum. But that is no way to teach. He can't have the boy disheartened - his first hit must strike gold, to give him a taste for the sweet pounding of flesh on flesh. Mother was an expert at this, allowing her children's blows to land when they both knew as well as she did that she could dodge in the blink of an eye, a coiled snake with jaws of venom and a kiss of corrosion.

But that's not the only reason why the brute stands his ground and allows Kid's teeth to hammer down, hard, onto his breast. The other reason - and one he does not intend to share with anybody, not even his dragons, who wisely shift their minds away from this particular thread of thought - is that he thinks he deserves this pain. Volterra rarely admits his mistakes, and even less often does he make amends for them, but in this he will freely admit he was wrong. He should have tracked the other mares as he has with Aithniel and Tiva; he should have ensured that his children did not need to seek mentorhood in the form of his sister, because they should have had him.

Yes, he was wrong, and he is slowly changing his ways. But he deserves punishment for slacking his responsibilities in the past, and this seems like quite a poetic way of earning his absolution. The child he left to grow up alone, the bastard, able to bruise and batter the flesh that created him. Ah, glorious symmetry!

So as Kid's teeth collide with his chest, tearing a bruise from its confines and blasting it into fruition across the hard black flesh, the beast drags in a deep breath and savours the sweet taste of pennance. The attack itself isn't too shabby, either, and the goliath's ears bat sideways with approval. "Excellent! Your teeth are your most faithful weapon; use them often." And the boy does, his teeth delving towards Volterra's tender stomach, where the flesh is softer and more delicate than the hard, solid lines that make up the rest of his body. This will hurt, he idly notes to himself, and his instincts scream at him to move away from the inevitable pain. But he doesn't - and when the blow comes, it smarts just as much as predicted. His gut shudders - the movement more exaggerated than strictly necessary, in order to feed Kid's ego - and his head dips in another gesture of approval, his eyes burning with delight.

Doubtless, it is instinct more than training that guides the boy's movements, but they are precise and effective, the building blocks of a warlord. If that's what he wants, whispers a little voice in the back of the giant's head, but he smothers that unnerving itch as soon as it arises.

The boy isn't finished yet, either. A bombardment of blows rains down upon Volterra - his leg does not buckle against the kick, although another bruise forms painfully at the impact point. More bruises pepper his skin until he's actually beginning to question the wisdom of offering himself as a living punchbag, now he aches from head to toe with a plethora of new wounds. He'd assumed Kid would have a little nip then retreat - how wrong he'd been! But, he muses as the salvo finally ceases, Kid's violence is a good thing. He'd far rather the boy be vicious in his attacks than pull his punches - how else will he learn? Allowing just a hint of his pain to shine through his expression (once again, a carefully calculated movement intended to make Kid feel proud of himself) he fixes his gaze upon the colt. "That was good - very good. There are a lot of warriors who would question the wisdom of allowing your anger to guide your movements, but I am not one of them. In battle, your rage can be your greatest ally. It makes your blows that much harder, and makes your own wounds ache that little bit less." Maybe that's why this particular set of bruises hurts so damn much - because they weren't created in battle, where adrenaline and anger goes a long way towards making a salve for the pain.

"Channel that anger each time you fight. Control it, own it. Hell, picture my face everytime you go onto the battlefield if it helps, because there's potential there, Kid. Potential I can help you reach." His ruby eyes scrutinise the somewhat sick-looking boy for signs of a reaction; does he want to be tutored by his absent father? Then the titan turns to Zhu, his gaze firm. He has tested one son - he is keen to test the other. "Yes, your turn. I wish to see where you are at too, Zhu." He turns (somewhat gingerly) and presents himself to his glass-horned son, subconsciously hoping that he chooses to attack the uninjured side rather than adding more bruises on top of the existing ones.