The frigid wind batters the leviathan's flesh, driving tiny daggers of ice into every inch of exposed skin. His eyes are narrowed against the blizzard, his ebony mane twisted like a tempest behind him with the force of the wind. He presses on against the gale, his muscles bulking and flexing between his snow-drenched black fur, his hot breath misting the icy air in front of him as he presses on through the storm. The snow is fetlock-deep, making movement difficult, and it clogs in the heavy feathering around each massive limb.

It has been too long since he last fought. He has not worked his fingers to the bone, not pushed his colossal body to the limit, simply to slacken in the winter months and allow his pristine fighting record to become marred by inactivity. He is already close to becoming the warlord he always dreamed of being in his colt months, but it is not enough. The stallion cannot and will not rest on his laurels now. He is the Gladiator, and winter is his season. It is when he feels strongest, when he feels most invincible, most Indomitable. There are dozens of opponents just waiting to meet him and to fall beneath his hooves, and the continuation of his march to glory starts today.

His dragons are certainly not inclined to allow him to, either. They fly high above him, scanning the snow-covered land for potential opponents. Somehow he thinks he will struggle to convince them not to help him out in this fight, as they itch to be involved in his battles and stretch their sparring muscles. Both red and gold are formidable presences in his mind, almost threatening to overwhelm his own consciousness with their desire to sink claws and teeth into an opponent's flesh. They are savage beasts in the blizzard-ridden sky, and Volterra knows he will have a difficult job on his hands to stop them assisting him.

He finds a flat plane of snow, devoid of rocks and any other obstacles. It seems like a reasonable enough arena, and the behemoth deems it adequate with a simple snort of cold Frostfall air. He is prepared for the battle ahead; Gashad's skull mask covers his face, lending him additional defense against the elements. He rarely uses it in meaningless spars, but he's keen to test it out again and see how it holds up against the relentless hammering of a foe.

A simple black hulk in the snowstorm, the colossus lifts his head and bellows a war-cry into the blizzard.

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Teaching spar for @Arah ! Set in a heavy snowstorm in the Thistle Meadow in the late afternoon. Feel free to have first attack :D

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