He fucking hates summer. He hates the flies, the heat, the sweat, the dry grass, the thirst, the heat, the heat! Long, hot days and short, cool nights blur into one another as the Sultan performs his duties admirably despite his suffering, his onyx pelt glistening with sweat as he completes yet another circuit of his borders. He moves at a fluid, collected canter despite the temperature - these long-distance runs in such conditions help improve his stamina and tone his already formidable muscles, and Volterra is not the sort to shy away from potential training merely due to discomfort.

His dragons fly alongside him, gleaming hulks of red and gold. They test their own stamina with these flights, their wings straining against the humid air and their scaled snouts pointed determinedly forwards. Whilst Volterra has nobody but himself to compete against, Vadir and Vérzés race shamelessly against each other. The Indomitable knows from experience that both of his dragons are just as stubborn and competitive as he is, and even though he can tell that both of their bodies are aching and their lungs screaming for air, neither is willing to admit defeat. Stop, he finally commands them. They cannot sweat like he does, but their tongues are lolling as they desperately try to inch their noses in front of the other. You're going to kill yourselves. Tinglings of relief flow into his mind as both companions submit to his whims and slow their frantic wingbeats, whilst putting up a valiant show of disgruntlement.

When Vadir suddenly deviates from the path and barrels forwards again, Volterra rolls his eyes. What did I JUST say? But the queen's determination is resolute, and with a small grunt the stallion alters his own track to follow her. Vérzés growls crossly and reluctantly follows as well, whilst Vadir finally reveals the source of her interest - two more circling dragons, and a very familiar mare. The gold makes a beeline upwards towards Isopia's companions, studiously ignoring Hubris whilst sending little blasts of flame in greeting towards Babel like the shameless attention-slut she is, according to Volterra anyway.

Despite the heat, despite the discomfort, despite his already sweating body and despite his already punishing pace, Volterra's stride lengthens as eagerness overtakes his exhaustion. By the time he reaches her, he's feeling decidedly the worse for wear - his obsidian fur is stained with sweat, his ears lolling flaccidly to either side and his sides heaving with tiredness that he desperately tries to mask. He must have cantered for several miles without a break in this unrelenting sunlight, and he hopes his frothing and travel-worn body is attractive in a raw, masculine, look-at-my-stamina way and not repugnant in an eww-you-stink-get-a-bath way.

Just to complete the image, the moment Volterra halts he almost disappears beneath a blanket of flies, as though they are drawn to him by a magnetic pulse. He pins his ears and slaps his tail against them, but he can feel their persistent little suckers sinking into him in a haze of pinpricks. "Kis hollo," he greets the mare, forcing a smile. It still feels wrong to call her that after everything that's happened, but the Indomitable is a creature of habit. "To what do I owe the pleasure upon my sands?" Referring to the sands as his is purposeful, hoping she will notice and ask what he means so he can gleefully reveal his new title. In the depths of his brain - the folds of consciousness where hope gets caught - he thinks she may be here to see him, to add the second chapter to their fledgling new relationship. In reality, it is probably something business-like, but it is a joy to see her all the same...even if that same part of his mind still feels betrayed by what she did.