His agreement comes as a swift snort. He, too, fell foul of having parents not living anywhere near each other; his father's duties with his herd outside Helovia evidently outweighed his desire to help raise his youngest twins, meaning that Volterra had only his mother and sister's influence for most of his life. Whilst he wouldn't complain about his upbringing (he wouldn't dare, else Confutatis corrode his flesh with a single well-placed bite) he would also have preferred to have Tyradon's input, to know that both his parents cared and that his sire saw him as more than just another number, an equine soldier to add to his holy war.

Once upon a time, Volterra thought very similar about his children. Strong sons to further his empire, pretty daughters to use to bargain with the testosterone-filled princes of other lands. That's what his father no doubt thought of him, yet the beast has found himself realising it's nowhere near as simple as that. His offspring are far more valuable, far more loved, than he'd ever thought possible - they mean the world to him. They're so much more than just the means to an end he'd once imagined them to be, and so he doesn't for a second want them to think that about themselves. He's already made mistakes with his earlier accidental progeny, but has done his best to repair those particular wounds.

After all, isn't it each generation's job to ensure a better life for their children, a life they didn't have themselves? If Volterra has his way, each and every one of his foals will grow up knowing how important they are to him, a task he's already admirably set about achieving with his legions of existing offspring. The one curled like a comma inside Isopia's belly will be no different - he or she (or both) will know from the start how much they mean to their sire. That can only be properly achieved if they all live together as one, which is why he hangs on the Mountain's every word.

I will come with you. His heart soars, and his face splits into a Cheshire grin. Vérzés chirps happily towards Hubris, whilst Vadir sends a silent spasm of pleasure into her bonded's mind - Babel close to hand? Excellent. "Kiváló! You will love the Throat, I'm sure of it." He offers her an affectionate nuzzle to the shoulder - she certainly won't have to worry about the cold when they're in the Throat, and his lava-golem crumbles sadly into dust at their feet as though it realises its task is null and void. "Our Wise ranks are led by Maren the Crownless, and I am sure she will be more than happy to have you as an Apostle. Have you ever seen our church, kis hollo? It is magnificent." That's glowing praise coming from a man rarely impressed by things as none-war-related as buildings. "Unless you would prefer to pursue the path of a warrior - I can certainly vouch for your fighting ability." The smile is slightly thinner now, unsure if he's overstepped a mark by mentioning that particular incident. He does his best to forget about it, because being beaten to a pulp was embarrassing even though he made absolutely no effort to fight back, but his ribs often ache during cold weather as testament to their bad breakage all that time ago.