Helplessness does not suit the Gladiator. He refuses to submit to the agony in his side, refuses to bow to the palpable torture that rages in his broken ribs. They hurt slightly less now that a couple of weeks have passed, the bones finally starting to knit together and restrict his movement less. He can trot and canter now, instead of being confined to the ploddy, hobbling walk that he'd been forced to adopt in the immediate aftermath of the challenge, when even a deep breath would send him into spasms of unbearable agony. His stride is still slightly disrupted by the healing pains of his ribs, but overall he's in a far better state than he was right after Isopia's brutal attacks.

Now that his days are not consumed by pain, the leviathan's mood has also improved. He is no longer sullen and ill-tempered, a rancid mass of self-loathing and frustration. He hadn't realised quite how crippling such a blow to the ribs can be, how it affects almost every single aspect of his life. Breathing, walking, eating, talking...nothing is safe from the sharp grasp of his injured ribs. It is little wonder that he was cast into such a foul mood, as he's always been a particularly able-bodied man who certainly did not appreciate having to pander to his own weakness.

He has refused to seek healing for his injuries. In Volterra's war-orientated mind, a fight is a pact (even if he does not count the Isopia incident as a fight, given that a fight requires two parties equally intent on hurting the other) and the accumulated wounds are part of that pact. To get healed breaks the pact, and part of the leviathan wants to suffer for his sins. No matter how much pain he's in, he knows Isopia's grief at the loss of their child must be far, far worse.

Unfortunately for the giant black, fighting is still out of the question. A direct hit to the ribs could undo all the arduous healing that they've been through over the past weeks, and it is not a risk he wants to take. He could cripple himself for life if he fought again so soon, ruin his chances to become the indomitable warlord he wishes to be. Refusing to simply lie low and do nothing, however, the beast has decided to come to the Threshold. Recruiting, at least, will take his mind off his woes.

Vadir still rides on his back, as her own injuries were far worse than his and so her recovery is a great deal slower. She is still not speaking to him, either; their silence has spanned since the day after the fight. Her red brother is away hunting, leaving Volterra with a sulking golden queen for company. Little wonder he wishes to hunt down a potential new recruit to give him some much-needed social contact. He prowls through the trees, his stride still holding the ghost of a limp and his face still twisted into a haunting mask of pain. Crimson eyes scan for potentials, and he soon sees one in the form of a rather familiar face.

"Orithia?" he questions as he moves closer to the mare that had attempted to castrate him. He broke her ribs for her sins, if he remembers correctly - he now has far more sympathy for her. But to his knowledge, she had a herd - so what is she doing here? "What brings you here?" His voice is still a thunderous earthquake, having regained its masculine baritone now that his ribs no longer restrict his voice.