He does not come to the Threshold these days. It is a task best left to his smooth-tongued underlings, and he's rather too busy to dally in such things, as arrogant as that may sound. Volterra is not above recruiting, but he's never been very good at it and there's better things he could spend his time upon. Sparring takes priority; he will not become the greatest warlord in history if he doesn't forgo menial tasks like this in favour of sparring.

Today, he happens to be grazing in the forest just outside the Threshold, a coincidence that could perhaps be referred to as fate. There's a savage, thunderous roar from above and the beast glances upwards to see Vérzés circling frantically around, bellowing and exhaling great plumes of ice. The titan pins his ears, glowering up at the crimson dragon. "Why the noise?" he questions, stern command glowing through the mental words.

Vérzés circles, bellows again, and sends Volterra an image that ejects the thought of everything else on his mind. His massive head is flung up within seconds, his powerful legs turned in the direction that his red dragon bids him. He doesn't think, doesn't question, he just does - because Vérzés's image is of Nymeria, and that transcends anything else. The goliath runs like he's never ran before, his long stride easily twisting him through the trees and undergrowth. Fallen logs are hurdled with impunity and branches that slash his skin are pointedly ignored; nothing else matters, and no force of nature will stop him. Vérzés flies swiftly beside him, his focus as single-minded as Volterra's. Vadir is elsewhere, purging the forest of its prey.

He breaks through the final copse of trees, and sees her for the first time in years. Sweat beads his flesh and his thick, rippling muscles shudder with exertion as he lurches to a halt, his breath haggard but his eyes bright. "Nymeria." Vérzés waves a paw at Lilómiel, seemingly bearing no ill-will towards the black despite the somewhat heated exchange during their bondeds' fight.

Suddenly, the onyx monolith is unsure. Does he approach his sister, plunge his nose into her mane and pull her close, as he wants to do? That, though....that will risk unearthing memories of their last meeting, when she'd offered herself to him on a plate and he'd come so, so close to taking it. The ensuing fight is burnt behind his eyes, and he's loathe to do anything that may cause a repeat of it. Instead he stands his ground and just stares at his skull-face sister, his massive chest still heaving as he catches his breath. They've both grown in the time since they last met; he's bulked out and added countless more scars to his pelt, and she's even more beautiful than he remembers.

"Where have you been?" he demands in that thick baritone of his, his words stern but with an underlying tone of warmth and love.