It quickly becomes apparent that Volterra's first lesson in politics is set to be a jarring one. Perhaps it is for the best that the first alliance negotiation he witnesses should not go smoothly - when he is a king, he will need to learn how to tackle difficult situations like this.

It starts out innocently enough, with the Basin mare politely introducing herself and offering a greeting. The black colossus dips his head in acknowledgment, ears flickering forwards to devour each word that the Valkyrie says. She mentions freedom from Basin stealths, herd exchanges, friendship. Volterra pictures himself marching into battle alongside the Basin's soldiers, alongside the man who made his mother a sworn enemy of the herd - it does not sit quite right in his craw, but he remains silent. It is not his job to offer opinions, just support.

That is when things start to sour. Aithniel responds by asking about a wing-ripping incident during her time in the Basin, and Volterra turns his massive head towards her in surprise. His mother had mentioned that the Basin held racism in its heart, and Erebos had only confirmed the mammoth's suspicions that the northerners were unicorn supremists, but the notion that they had tried to remove the wings of a child.... The Gladiator visibly stiffens, his features darkening with disgust. In his mind he pictures his father, ever the racist, ever the closed-minded fool; he imagines the man purring at the idea of ripping wings from hybrids, age nonewithstanding. Volterra, however, is only his father's son in appearance, not mindset. To him, they are all equal, whether they sport wings, horns or neither. True strength and glory lies in what one does with the body they possess, not what appendages that body has.

The conversation escalates, with each woman exchanging their opinion in a rather forceful manner. Volterra is insure whether to interject - would Aithniel want him to offer his vocal support to her, back up her decision? Truthfully, he doesn't know what to think, doesn't understand enough about the situation to say anything for fear he may only make things worse. Instead he simply takes one step closer to the Inquisitor until their sides are almost touching, until his hulking mass is beside her as a pillar of support and strength. His features are masked, unreadable, forced into neutrality, but his crimson gaze is hard as it looks upon the Basin mares. He stands beside his Sultana, her powerful soldier, her loyal dog - it's like something clicks in his mind as he suddenly realises that yes, this is a herd he wants to protect. This is a herd he can work with, live in, make a home in. It may not be his intended final destination, but for now it is his, and he belongs to the mare who rules it.

The leviathan does not speak, but his body language screams loud enough to compensate; in no uncertain terms he says that he supports his queen with his bulk placed so protectively close to her, with his raw power breathing softly next to her. His motion confirms that he has thrown his lot in with the golden sand that catches in his feathered feet and, yes, snags in his heart; that if Aithniel should ask him to fight with her against these women, he will do so without question.