The night is a particularly dark one, the moon almost fully hidden by thick clouds heavy with spring rain. He wanders through the eerily tall trees which blanket what little light there is, guided mainly by his sense of smell and, most of all, his sense of adventure. At a couple of weeks old, the colt's natural curiosity is more intense than ever, and exploring a creepy forest in the dead of night is the height of excitement for him. His ears pivot at each noise, each bullet-like snap of a twig beneath his hooves, each chirp of a cricket hidden within the undergrowth. He blends in well here; his jet black fur matches the shadows beneath the trees and his white markings could easily be dapples from the weak moonlight speckling through the foliage. Only his crimson eyes stand out stark against the monochrome hues of the forest, great bloodied gems that seem to glow in the darkness.

He has no destination in mind - he simply wants to explore, to create a mental map of this ethereal place and file it away in his sharp mind for future use. Compared to the rolling fields up in the mountains where he was born and raised, this forest is practically a playground. A myriad of scents assault his sensitive nose and he flares his delicate nostrils to inhale every last one of them. There have been other horses here - and he can detect an aroma that will one day set his loins to burning, the odour of a mare in heat, although he doesn't yet appreciate the finer tones of such a scent - but it isn't those smells he is interested in. No, he can get horse-scents anywhere he wants, but here, here he can detect the unique trails left by rabbits, rats, birds, dragons, all sorts of wildlife that doesn't seem to occur as regularly up in the mountains. It is these scent trails he follows beneath the cover of darkness, simply to compile a mental encyclopedia of what-smell-means-what-animal. He is still a boy, an infant in nature's terms, and still discovering everything there is to discover in this complex world. These associations are things that will aid him in surviving and growing, ensuring he knows the difference between the harmless tang of a rabbit and the dangerous, predatory reek of a jaguar.

Ears flailing, nostrils gaping, he moves at a high-legged trot in pursuit of a deer's musky aroma, although he doesn't yet know what a deer looks like and is determined to correct that little oversight. Finally the forest seems to disappear in front of him and he is free in a clearing containing an ancient fir and a pond, beneath the surface of which glimmers ruby red rocks distorted by the water and the reflection of the few stars in the heavens. The young beast's eyes widen in shocked curiosity, itching to move closer and admire the crimson rocks but resisting due to the impressive stag that stands with his head dipped, drinking the clear liquid. Clearly this is the deer smell that Volterra has been following, and he is quite a magnificent specimen - all muscular neck and imposing antlers, silhouetted impressively against the dark forest. Deer is added to the youth's memory, and he stands just in front of a large tree to admire the stag in awestruck silence. ""

The first indication that he is not alone is when the stag he's observing stands up stark straight, bob-tail held erect and ears pivoting frantically as the water from his drink trickles down his chin. Volterra watches from the shadows, wondering if somehow the stag had managed to detect him, but the great deer's antlered head is pointed towards the other side of the clearing. Just like that, his legs whir into motion and he disappears back to the forest, leaving the colt resolutely alone, or so he believes. Disappointed, but pleased he has managed to file away a new scent for the future, the young barbarian moves towards the now-vacated pool, intent on having a drink himself - until he sees a sight on the other side of the clearing that makes him freeze. It is suddenly apparent that the stag he was spying on did not flee from Volterra himself, a harmless young colt, but from this.

She is dragon. Juvenile memories of his father's bonded flash before his eyes, all sharp scales and elongated tail, yet it is though that memory has spliced itself with the picture of a horse, to create something that is both. She is not purely dragon, that much is apparent even to the colt's young brain, but nor is she fully equine. He suddenly feels remarkably dumb for ever thinking Auriel was a dragon simply for having horns and wings - he'd been a lot stupider a couple of weeks ago, apparently - because this creature puts unipeg hybrids to shame. Not only is she armoured in numerous places with scales, but two dragons flutter above her; a red and a green, like Cynder. "Woah," comes the colt's awestruck voice in the form of a breathy whisper. Something about the young mare's dragons do not seem entirely right, however; they are not as solid as Cynder was, almost as though they are visions as opposed to reality. But none of this matters to the young titan as he steps closer, feathered feet kneading the moist soil below as his nose flares to inhale the new scent of this dragon-girl. A boring old deer is nothing compared to this new discovery, and the memory of the stag is ejected in favour of this.

He stops a short distance away, crimson gaze focused on the two dragons - he may have no sense of self-preservation, but he does recall the danger that his father's dragon exuded, and knows better than to bound up to them and their bonded when they could burn him alive in the space of a second. "What are you?" he asks her, blunt and juvenile in his unbridled curiosity.

He simply doesn't know where to look - his eyes are torn between the dragons dancing above them, and the dragon-girl herself. The young mare seems to fold into herself, appearing more equine before him, and he finds himself disappointed - the emotion is shortlived, though, as her dragons begin to sing and she bristles. Before his very eyes she becomes a beast, a dragoness to rival his father's bonded, and he watches in awestruck silence as that deadly-armed tail thrashes and those powerful wings shift. Other children would cower, flee home to mother, perhaps, but not Volterra. He stands stock still, curious rather than afraid, obsessed rather than fearful, standing up straighter to get a closer look rather than crumpling himself in submission. Indeed, he is even so bold as to take a step closer, jaws hanging agape in delighted shock and nostrils flaring to inhale the scent of her. Fur and metal, hair and scale, leather and bone.. She is a delicious combination of all, and the memories that grow in his young head are certainly ones he will revisit and cherish.

She answers his question with one of her own, and the colt falls momentarilty silent, thinking. He does not want to reply with the first thing that comes into his head - a dragon - because he does not wish to appear stupid in front of his new idol, so he gives himself time to think. It is, after all, quite apparent that she is not fully dragon. His father's companion was scaled from nose to tail, and possessed claws rather than hooves; she was a good deal smaller than this, and her tail was tipped in flame. No, this mare certainly has something of the horse about her, and Volterra is not quite so stupid as to blurt out his initial reaction. It is even more apparent when the hybrid alters herself again, becoming less draconic and more equine, and once again he feels a tide of disappointment at how she suddenly seems less ethereal, less mystical.

There is still something supernatural about her, though, and she has those dragons above her at her beck and call. She has power, that much is obvious. From the young goliath's teachings, he knows there are gods here, omniscient creatures of the skies who bless their subjects as and when they desire. It is likely these gods who gave Nymeria her magic in the womb, these gods who decided the twin curled against her was not adequate enough to receive such gifts, and the colt can perhaps be understood for thinking it is now one of these gods that stand before him. After all, he has never met one, only heard tales of their splendour - and this right in front of him is the most godly thing he has ever seen. "A god?" His voice is as firm and authorative as he can make it, like he is completely convinced by what he's saying; he stands up that little bit straighter, wanting to appear strong in front of this goddess, in the hope she may bless him as other Helovians have been blessed.

The red dangles tantalisingly close, like a delicious apple growing just out of reach. He aches to lean his muzzle forwards and touch it, to see if it is as solid as his father's green had been when she entwined the amulet in his mane, or whether it is as flimsy as the fog that looks real until his hooves crash into it and send it dissapating into nothingness. The songs they make, the childlike laughs they create - oh, how he wants to dance amongst them, to be bonded heart and mind to them! Imagine, him, Dragon King, master of the beasts. Of course, the brash boy does not realise that dragons can never truly be tamed or controlled, that they tie their consciousnesses to horses out of choice, not out of fear. A part of him - the domineering, overbearingly arrogant part - sees them as dumb animals like the deer and the rabbits. Majestic, yes, regal, yes, dangerous, definitely, but less intelligent than the equines they bond to, less evolved, less advanced and less capable of true complex emotions. It is a blinkered point of view that will likely not change until he bonds with one himself - if he is ever to be so priveleged.

The young leviathan's pride is deeply wounded at the scoff that leaves the dragon-girl's muzzle, and he flips his ears back and gives a haughty pout. Her words sting, and his lower lip ejects dangerously - a sure sign that a fully-fledged temper tantrum is on the way. "I'm not small! I'm bigger than my sister, and most other foals I've met!" Indignant voice is filled with boyish conviction and masculine desire to be the biggest and the best. Naturally, he is small in the grand scheme of things; he is only a handful of weeks old, an infant, but he doesn't particularly appreciate the insult, even from a god. But she seems adamant that she isn't a god, and surely if she was she would want to shout it from the rooftops? And, if not a god, then what the hell is she?

She gives a name, and he files it away, deciding to ask his mother about it - Confutatis has her metaphorical fingers in dozens of pies, and would surely know of a half-horse-half-dragon running around Helovia. "I'm Volterra," he says, pout disappearing and chest thrusting out proudly at the giving of his name. His curious red gaze never leaves the dragons or their bonded, darting between each of the trio with barely-veiled hunger. "You look like a dragon, but you look like a horse, too. How?" Perhaps it's a disease she caught? If so, he sure as hell wants some of that disease. Imagine, scales! "My father had a dragon," he announces. Yes, his sire is his father now, not his Pa, because only tiny little children said Ma and Pa, and the young colossus is far too old for that now! Why, he's almost a whole month of age, and must be sophisticated to reflect that. "She was green, like that one." He gestures with his nose to the green, who lacks Cynder's flame-tail, leading the titan to wonder quite how much diversity there was amongst the draconic species.

She croons, and the colt is momentarily startled by the noise. It isn't a sound he's used to - it isn't the gentle whicker of affection he (albeit rarely) hears from his dam, it isn't the shrill whinny of fear or the scream of a battling stallion. It makes him think of his father's green, of the queer birdlike noises she made when she tied the amulet in his mane and the chirps of lament when she gave the beloved black egg to Nymeria. It confirms even more to him that Amaris is completely different to anything he's ever met, and a number of questions float around his head at what else is dragon about her. Can she breathe fire? Does she lay eggs or have live foals? Could she choose to mentally bond with a fellow Helovian? So many things the young titan hungers to ask, but he doesn't want to seem too eager, or to offend her with his incessant prodding. A few weeks ago he would have asked without a second thought, but thankfully he is finally beginning to develop a sense of tact.

He tears his gaze away from the preening dragons to focus on Amaris, ears pivoting to greedily drink in her words as she speaks. She tells him a tale - a tale of a stallion and a mare, lovers. To Volterra that means they must have stood for a while and decided to have a foal together so just like that it appeared in the womb - because that was how children were made, right? But all is not as it seems, and the colt's eyes widen in startled delight at the revelation that the female was, in fact, a dragon. Not just any dragon, but one larger than him, one that he would give his left hoof to meet and admire. "Woah," he says again. It is quickly becoming apparent that Volterra's fascination with dragons is bordering on an obsession. He simply cannot help it; he is so intrigued by them, so taken in by their beauty and their power, so hungry for their affection and, yes, their devotion. He wonders if Nymeria shares this obsession, given that she is lucky enough to have a dragon of her own, or whether it is just him, alone in his utter hero-worship of the scaled ones.

Maybe his father had got it right at their birth - there was something of the dragon about the twins.

The story continues, his crimson eyes still wide and childlike as she dips her head to his level. Again there's a barb about his size in her words, but he's too engrossed in the story to notice. Finally, the crux - the bronze dragon-horse had been her father, and that is how she is the way she is. Daughter of a hybrid - he wonders what her mother is. "Woahhh," he repeats, all semblance of eloquence lost with the sheer magnitude of his awe. "So you really are part-horse, part dragon? What was your mother? Did you hatch from an egg too? Do you eat meat? Are you going to eat me?" Questions he'd been trying so hard to smother suddenly spill freely from his mouth, although he manages to cut himself off before he bombards her with more. There's also a noticeable lack of fear about the possibility of being eaten; what a glorious way to die, to feed a dragon queen! The red and green are momentarily forgotten as all his boyish attention focuses on Amaris and her thrilling tale.

The notion of rejecting her, of fleeing, did not even cross his mind. To him, she is not an aberration, a blot on evolution - no, she is evolution. Perhaps she is what they will all become one day, with bodies of scales and powerful wings, hybrids between herbivores and carnivores. The alertness and herd mentality of the plant-eaters, spliced with the guile and menace of the meat-eaters. He wonders idly what his father would make of this girl. From what little he had gleaned at his birth, and from what their dam had told them, their sire was a rather closed-minded fellow who loathed the mutants, be they horned or winged. Yet, he adored dragons, was bonded to one. Would his hatred of none-equines stretch as far as an equine combined with the fearsome creatures he so admired? Would he be proud of his fledgling son for the interest he is taking in such a hybrid?

She seems pleased at his questions, rather than annoyed, and the colt is rather relieved. He does not want to overstep his boundaries, yet he wants to gather every last piece of knowledge from this stunning hybrid that he possibly can. Her joyous laugh is a sound that even the most miserable bastard would be hardpressed not to be uplifted by - Volterra feels a silly smile spread across his young face, delighted that the laughter seems to be with him, not at him. She reveals her mother was a queen, perhaps unsurprisingly. "A dragon-queen, or a horse-queen?" Or maybe both. The young monolith knows little of herd life, given that he spends his days with just his mother and sister and they are his queens, yet from what he instinctively knows he thinks that Amaris would make a fine leader. He does not realise, of course, that he himself is descended from royalty, that his grandfather was bonded to a royal gold and ruled empires with her beside him. He thinks himself a peasant, especially when stood beside Amaris in all her glory.

In all his youthful exuberance, he misses the fact that Amaris does not answer the question of her birth; he's so enraptured by the way she ruffles her wings, then leans down to display razor-sharp fangs. None-horse fangs. Predator fangs. That answers that question, then. Her whiskers tickle his side and he stands stock-still, his own nostrils flaring to properly drink in the smell of her. It doesn't occur to him that she could take a bite right out of his shoulder; hell, knowing him, he'd probably think that quite the blessing.

She retracts her head, much to his disappointment, and remarks that he's too small to eat. "Heyyyy," he whines again, although he sees the good humour in her eyes and realises she's probably saying it just to wind him up. "One day, I'll be as big as my father. Then you'll want to eat me." Because Volterra logic thinks being eaten by a dragon is something you aspire to, not do anything to avoid. He looks to the red and green again, then, ears flickering to pick up on any sounds they make, bloodied gaze drinking them in. They still don't look quite right, somehow. "Are they your bondeds?" he questions. Maybe, like him - apparently - she can bond to two dragons.

What do you think? She likes to make him think, this one. It makes a change from having all his numerous questions answered without a thought, challenges him to use the brain inside his head. Again he pauses, adopting a thoughtful expression with one hindleg cocked to rest his weight as he ponders the question. There can only be one answer, surely. Amaris can only be descended from royalty. "Both?" Bloodied gaze looks up at her hopefully, ears riveted forward and alert.

He gives her a quizzical look at her gentle laughter, wondering what she's thinking. If he knew, he would be quite keen to correct her on the aspect of having an active father figure - Volterra has only met the man who sired him once, at his birth. The black behemoth gave him his name and his amulet, gave his sister her dragon, introduced them to his grandson who attended the birth and ensured they were all adequately protected, then he was gone. Gone, back to his equine herd miles outside Helovia, where he reigns supreme with his green queen at his side, with foals who obviously mean a lot more to him than Volterra and Nymeria. But the colt is quite content with the family he has; he admires his father and that admiration is only heightened by the sense of mystery that surrounds the man who donated him half his genes, who gave him his black coat and white forelegs and obsession with dragons. Family to the youngster is simple; Confutatis and Nymeria are his world, his everything. He will never be lonely with them at his side...at least, not until Nymeria's egg hatches and she becomes bonded, until the creature he so admires takes the girl he loves away from him.

He decides to ask Amaris more details about the bond, to find out the extent which he is likely to lose his sister. Will she forsake him completely once her black hatches? His gaze travels back to the dragons, listening as the mare reveals that they are spirits. "So your magic makes them real again? That's amazing." An even higher sense of awe takes the colt as he looks at the red and the green, brought back to life by magic. The young titan has a basic grasp of life and death and knows this must be an unusual occurence, knows this means the dragons should be afforded an even higher respect.

He stays perfectly still as the red descends towards him, twitching not even a muscle for fear he will scare it off. It comes towards his muzzle and a small giggle of utter delight leaves him at the sensation. "Woah," he says, for what feels like the hundredth time. Gently he inhales through his nostrils to drink in the scent of the red, then puffs slowly out in greeting, also hoping to softly ruffle the wings and see how they move. But, internally, his heart sinks - having a dragon, even one that is neither alive nor bonded to him, close to him makes him forget everything around him in favour of tunnel vision towards the beautiful creature by his muzzle. How on earth can he hope to compete with an actual bonded dragon when his sister has one? She will want to spend every waking hour with her black dragon, will forsake her black brother in favour of the scaled magnificence that will forever adorn her shoulder.

He looks to Amaris, deciding one more question can't hurt - if she was going to kick him and tell him to stop bugging her, she would surely have already done so. "Do you know...what it's like, to be bonded to a dragon?" he asks, voice a lot shyer than it has been. She is not bonded herself, that is now clear, yet she is more worldly than him and if her mother had a gold as he suspects, Amaris will hopefully know at least some details. "It's just...my twin, she has an egg. I'm worried that when it hatches she won't love me anymore, because she'll have her dragon and the bond with a dragon has got to be pretty intense, right?" Such irony! He is soon to be in direct competition for Nymeria's affections with the creature he admires the most, the creature he is devoted to.