Stern-faced, stoic, occasionally uptight - all words used to describe Volterra. Fun-loving, relaxed, easygoing - words not used to describe Volterra, yet words he will need to embody if he is to fit in at this gathering. He might have developed quite the taste for fermented apples recently, but during this mixing of the herds he knows better than to indulge. The last thing the denizens of Helovia need is to be regaled with drunken stories of the time the great Sultan of the Dragon's Throat emptied the contents of his balls upon the rump of the Time God's daughter, or the time he struck up a one-sided conversation with a tree whilst under the influence. No, it's best that the other herds continue to see only Volterra the Indomitable, fierce warlord, fearless leader, not drunken oversharer.

Sadly, it's a lot harder to refrain from delving into the apples once he arrives at the gathering. His dragons are absent, unwilling to sully themselves with such trivial events, and indeed the onyx behemoth finds it hard to justify engaging in such frivolity when Kaos still needs to be studied, found, and stopped. That's not to say that the beast hasn't made an effort, however. His ebony coat has been painstakingly washed in a stream on the way here to rid himself of travel-stains and muck, and the white feathers on his forelegs glow like polished ivory in the absence of the usual mire and dirt that cakes them. His muscles gleam and ripple beneath the smooth, clean fur, and without any armour or face-masks, he looks entirely natural.

After all, he never knows who he might meet. There could be eligible bachelorettes at this party for him to charm, ideally Basin ones for him to lure to the Throat with the promise of fame, glory and mind-blowing sex just to piss Rikyn off.

The party is already in full flow by the time the Indomitable arrives. In this strange, snowy land, Volterra is not as comfortable as he usually is; his stride somewhat lacks its normal arrogance, his body held just that bit less dominantly. He pulls up beside sweet familiarity in the form of Ampere, and flashes her his most winning grin. "Made a beeline for the drink, I see? You're a woman after my own heart, Sultana." He offers a wink, his vow not to drink suddenly fading away in the presence of all this lovely alcohol. One couldn't hurt, could it?