The gentle snowfall has already sprinkled a white layer upon the Indomitable's blackened flesh by the time his opponent approaches. The dragons notice the stranger first, as they almost always do, and Volterra narrows his eyes to peer through the snowflakes at this potential contender.

The first thing that hits him is the stranger's smell. Volterra relies on his nose for a multitude of things, from ascertaining the receptiveness of a mare to determining the territorial boundaries of a stallion. This sheep-horned palomino does not possess the heady stench of testosterone, but nor does he exude the heavenly aroma of womanhood. He is....neither. The leviathan's brow furrows as he scrutinises his pale opponent, and he is forcibly reminded of his battle with Kiuaji, when the feminine male's wiles made Volterra's body react in ways that disgusted him. Unlike Kiuaji, this flaxen stranger does not swing his hips and act like a woman, which leads the beast to assume that he is male. However, he cannot possibly be all-male, because his scent betrays him. He is...lacking something.

Sir. Something about the bow that follows the horned one's greeting makes Volterra think that this faux-respect is not entirely genuine, and his ears flicker back suspiciously. "Always," he growls in response to the palomino's question. Forcing aside his musings on the other's gender, Volterra instead begins to scrutinise him as an opponent. They are similar in height, with the Indomitable just slightly taller, and there's little competition for sheer muscle tone. A simple assessment of the palomino convinces Volterra that he edges almost every asset, although his opponent's lean figure suggests he possesses superior stamina. This may play into things towards the end of the fight, as trying not to fall over is going to take its toll on the leviathan's reserves of strength.

He notes the man's magnificent set of horns, and knows he must be careful to avoid them. Cracks spasm outwards from his foe's hoof as he stomps it down upon the ice, and it serves as another stark reminder to Volterra that he will have to be careful upon his feet. One slip and it could twist the fight in his opponent's favour, despite the fact that the leviathan should have the ability to win. He takes nothing for granted on the battlefield - he knows the perils, not to mention the cruel quirks of fate that can sometimes push David to fell Goliath.

The dragons screech and howl above, itching to be involved. Volterra demands that they stay away for now, however. He does not like using them in spars, as he believes in the strength of his body rather than the united power of his assets.

With a savage war-growl, the blackened beast throws himself forwards. Blood immediately begins to pound through his system, threading strength through his muscles and determination through his mind; when he's in the arena, he feels truly alive. Despite the frigid temperatures, a thin sweat begins to glimmer upon the hardened muscles of his monolithic body, a frenetic sheen of excitement that can only be rivaled by the precious few seconds before he mounts a mare. When he's fighting, he is truly the Indomitable. When he's drawing blood or having it forcibly pulled from his own veins, he's more of a man than at any other point in his life.

He loves it. He thrives off it. He is the warlord, the soldier, the dragon-king. His mind is a twisting mass of frantic thoughts and insatiable desire for victory, and it's these delightful things that provide fuel for the fire of his blows.

The stallion attempts to approach his opponent head-on, his eyes gleaming with savage concentration and his hooves splayed further apart than usual to try and give him a greater surface area. He wants to cause as little damage to the ice as possible; the cracks could prove deadly. Utilising his superior strength, the black colossus attempts to slam his chest into the chest of his opponent, trying to make Toulouse skid backwards and hopefully lose his balance.

Simultaneously, his right foreleg lifts then stomps downwards, trying to scrape the tip of his hoof down the front of the palomino's left foreleg from knee to fetlock. He hopes to create a beautifully painful array of scrapes and bruises, not enough to break the bone but hopefully enough to cause exquisite agony. Volterra also contemplates a bite, his favourite move, but he does not want to risk impaling himself on those lowered horns. So he resists, keeping his jaws firmly tucked away like a sheathed sword.

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Teaching spar for @Toulouse ! And you got Vol's 500th post whooo -confetti-

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