The snow is melting, burnt away beneath the spring sun to expose rock and hardy shrub beneath. Only the furthest reaches of the Steppe seem safe from the ire of Birdsong, and it is this little patch of winter that the blackened goliath finds himself in. He suffers in the heat, his great size and his ebony fur like beacons for the searing sun, and the last dregs of his winter coat are still clinging on for dear life to compound his sweaty, humid body. It is here, too, where he can find some relief from the flies.

The flies - dear lord, the flies! They are relentless in their persecution of him, and no combination of his tail's swings and Vadir's fire seems to deter them. Indeed, the golden dragon is still working at mastering her flame, and her attempts to immolate the flies around Volterra tend to result in him losing several layers of fur beneath the heat of her badly aimed torrent. Vérzés finds this the height of hilarity, and happily freezes the pests mid-flight with one blast of his own superbly controlled ice-breath. The queen is unamused by this, which only makes her redouble her efforts to incinerate any flying insect that buzzes within a five-metre radius of her bonded's person.

Overall, a combination of the heat, the flies and the constant smell of mare in heat that seems to be soaked into the spring air have all ensured that the stallion is ill-tempered and cantankerous this Birdsong. The far north is the only place he can gather some relief, and there is an expression of almost sexual bliss upon his face as his massive feathered feet sink into the snow. Cold air tickles his sweating, steaming frame, and he allows his fearsome muscles to relax. For the first time in weeks, tension drains from him; his dragons sense his desire to simply mooch around without their endless squabbling in his ear, so leave him to his solitude and fly away to hunt.

After a furtive glance around to make sure nobody is looking (because it wouldn't do to have anybody witness the stern, stoic behemoth doing anything but brooding, fighting and fucking), the beast drops to his knees and rolls happily onto his back. He groans with pleasure as the ice-cold snow presses against his hot skin and sinks its moist fingers deep into the aching recesses of his muscles, like a sensuous massage. Shit, that's better than sex....well, almost. Hell, it's almost arousing how good it feels, but he's quite sure not to let his concentration slip and result in anything becoming more visible than it should be. For once, he doesn't want to think about women, or war, or his children, or his dragons. He just wants to think about the simple enjoyment of a roll in the snow, and by god, has he earnt it.

The beast lays there for a moment on his back, forelegs tucked against his chest and hindlegs waving colt-like in the air, before flopping inelegantly onto his right side. Here he remains, his hindlegs now tucked beneath him and his tail splayed across the snow, a blissfully content expression on his usually hard, stern face. It'd be a dreadful shame if someone was to see him like this, at ease, defences down and simply enjoying his own company...