Volterra has lived long enough to know his body. He knows every detail of himself either through touch or the reflection of a smooth forest pool, and he likes to think that he would be able to tell very quickly if something was....amiss. Especially in a region so precious to him, a region that drives him to hunt for mares and has ensured his neck swells with the stallion's crest, a region that has had a large part in the creation of the thick muscles that coat his body.

It's surprising, then, that it takes him the whole journey from the Blood Falls to the Dragon's Throat to notice what has happened to him. He hadn't felt any different after the devil-horned creature gave him the trick he asked for, but somehow he knew he couldn't possibly have escaped unscathed. Others had received useless bits of tat on string or stinking potions in vials, but Volterra had got nothing. This leads him to believe that he'd been given something different...and the arrogant part of him dared to think he'd got something better. Magic, perhaps. Untold power coiled into his body because of who he is, because the demonic creature sensed his potential and handed him something superior to the pointless items received by the others.

Has he ever been more wrong!

The leviathan is still blissfully unaware even as his wings of fire carry him over the sea and onto the Throat. He's still oblivious as he wanders amongst the sand dunes, hunting for something to graze on after the long journey. It is only when he stops to empty his bladder that it finally hits him like a bullet between the eyes - it's taking far longer for the golden stream to strike the sand this time. And it doesn't feel quite right....

Vadir peeks beneath him to investigate, and the stallion snorts his shock as the golden dragon releases a raucous shriek of laughter. What is it? he demands of her, but the queen is too preoccupied stumbling back and screeching with mirth. Her red brother is hunting, so Volterra doesn't even have him to balance Vadir's casual cruelty - it is a good five minutes before the gold has stymied her laughter enough to send him an image of the zone between his thighs.

A savage roar erupts from the mammoth's lips as he scrutinises the image his companion has sent to him. Oh, no. No no no. "You goat-horned bastard!" he howls, ducking his head between his forelegs to try and get a look for himself. Vadir rolls onto her back, draconic tears streaming down her face and great cackles of cold laughter rolling in waves from between her teeth - she is cruel at the best of times, but she and her bonded are still not fully back on track after their argument, so she delights in his misery. "So small!" she squeals gleefully, her face twisted into a dragon's imitation of a grin.

That is how the world would find Volterra; head ducked between his forelegs, desperately hoping that the usually sizeable area will miraculously grow back again instead of being a freakishly dwarfed version of itself.