It seems that the Steppe is becoming another common hang out for me, the once foreign icy plane become something close to a place of sanctuary— it's the farthest from Mother I can get without taking to the skies and crossing the border of Helovia into some alien land far beyond (what lays past Helovia's boundaries?). Although it isn't suitable for anything other than aimless roaming (it's what I do best), it still serves purpose enough for me. I seek refuge in the comfort of a snowy tundra, finding comfort in the slick texture beneath my hooves as I pick my way across the frosted landscape. It certainly isn't as harsh in Birdsong as it is in any other months (other than Tallsun, obviously), but it still isn't some wonderful springtime meadow where birds sing and bees buzz— it was empty and quiet, save for the occasional howl of wind or passing traveler.

Today I came to seek companionship in the solidarity of the steppe because Mother's woes were souring into something less sullen and demeaning— they were becoming furious huffs and angry mutterings, threatening to blossom into something sinister and dangerous in the weeks to come. I gave her some space, a moment to cool her piping head and let her rethink her reactions (with even the smallest occurrences she overreacts). Her disastrous behaviour was becoming worse, cataclysmic temper daring me to linger for longer than necessary (I'd rather not).

I begin to ease up, tense muscles relaxing as I trod through the tundra, eyes carrying to the horizon as the colours blur— as I approach them they become increasingly clearer, eyes wandering towards the dark obstruction (what the hell?) nearest the deepest blues of the ground. It takes another few yards before I come to recognize it as the downed body of a horse, questioning whether they were on the ground of their own accord or made a mistake in where they tread— tempted as I was to just walk away and leave them be, something called me (for reasons I'll soon discover) forward to investigate the still body. Even closer now I could make out the shallow breathes, the subtle rise of a wide barrel,exhaling gently and repeating the eternal process.

I take another step, reaching my head out and squinting carefully, trying to make out the figure (why did it feel so familiar?). Closer now, tip toeing over dreaded slippery spots and making my way towards the now growing body until it finally hits me, brows knitting together and a bitter taste washing through my mouth— before me lays the solid black body of Volterra the Conqueror, feminine eyes batting once, twice to make sure I wasn't delusional.

Indeed it was the man who held responsibility for this mess of an existence, a lip curling subtly into an uncontrollable snarl at the sight of him so open. I could take this moment right now and strike him down, I could crawl closer still— I could take the titan down before he even has a chance to fight back, could smite him now and let my sizzling hatred wash away with the blood that trails through the small channels in the ice. But no, I'm no father murdering child, no murderer at all (not directly)— I will leave Volterra's death in the hands of someone much more capable, someone who isn't a prepubescent babe with a need for vengeance. Instead I close in, looking down at the fallen gargantuan in his moment of vulnerability. "You're defenseless like this, an easy target," I tell him, voice hushed, firm and confident yet barely louder than a whisper against the gentle winds of the steppe. Even useless men need their rest I suppose (being worthless is a tiring activity, don't you know)— I'm sure Volterra tires himself out thinking about how many possible children he's made (a head count is in order).

I look down (down) at him with indifference— I should cherish this moment now, for soon enough he will rise again and I will again look up at him (as I always will). I scoot closer now, trying to place a heavy cream hoof upon Volterra's shoulder (whether he remains on the ground or springs up out of surprise all depends). "What a pleasure it is meeting your fat ass here." In all honestly, I'd been hoping to run across Volterra— there was much to discuss in terms of his accidental success in procreation, and his current lack of being present for the lives of his children. I feel obliged to ask how many he has and see if my numbers add up to his (Sabre and I, Zhu, Astarot, Tyrath. A total of five), what did he believe? Did he still foolishly think that it was still his three, or did he realize that he was unfortunately fertile?

"Talk."

kid