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HEROES ALWAYS GET REMEMBERED BUT YOU KNOW LEGENDS NEVER DIE Volterra does not believe in the power of prayer; even if he ever had, his illusion would have been shattered by recent events. The mortals could have begged, grovelled and screamed for the help of the Gods against Kaos, and where would it have got them? The Indomitable was perhaps guilty of placing the Gods upon a pedestal, revering them as omniscient, omnipotent overlords with the power to grant boon or blight upon anybody that came to them. If they are so wonderful, though, why have they abandoned their loyal subjects? "Whatever gives you hope," he rumbles, trying valiantly to keep the cynicism out of his voice. His expression suddenly darkens again, although this time with lust because she's just planted a nip upon his onyx skin; it feels good, and he's reminded once again how his desire for this mare is doing a fine job of muddying his thoughts and polluting his mind. He itches to bite her back, to launch nips upon parts of her body that he knows will make her quake with need; he could have her writhing in ecstasy with the force of his teeth alone, yet with a herculean effort, he banishes these dastardly images once more. He focuses instead on her voice. "What would you like to discuss?" He fixes her with his penetrative ruby stare, noticing how her wings keep ruffling and her tones seem to hold the haunted undercurrent of a woman frightened. Instinctively he steps closer, his anger at her forgotten as he presses one massive side against her in a gesture of comfort, in an embrace that he desperately tries to tell himself is just platonic and not because he'll use any excuse to touch her. |
[ you can't stray from what you are, you're the closest thing to hell i've seen so far ]
[ use of force/magic on him is permitted aside from death/maiming ]
