He hears voices, and a strangled groan leaves him. God dammit, he's not in the mood to entertain! He just wants to struggle away at his knife until he makes it work, because Volterra does not give up until his task is either complete or he's broken it in the process. His dragon abandons the stone and rises high on his leathery wings, sending his bonded an image of a pegasus mare and a young filly, along with a soaring falcon. With a considerable amount of hope, the red asks the giant colt if the bird is edible, but Volterra keeps him in check with a sharp stab of his mind - best not to let his dragon eat other people's companions, not yet anyway.

The trio comes closer, and with a resigned sigh Volterra drops the knife to the ground. He'll come back to it later and hope it is willing to co-operate this time. "I'm Volterra," he says by way of introduction, his voice a rough, earthy rumble that contains untold power and authority. At her question, the titan flashes the antler a filthy look before glancing back to Parelia. "I'm trying to fit the stone into it to make a knife, but the damned thing won't stay together." His irritation is evident in the sharp backwards slant of his ears and the harsh curve of his neck, a sure sign a temper tantrum is just around the corner. He is a hot-tempered young man, after all, all new testosterone and volcanic rage, and his inability to make a simple knife has pissed him right off.

The mare's daughter wobbles towards him, all spindly legs and flailing wings, and despite his dark mood the colt has to smother a chuckle. He remembers when he was that age, full of questions and endless curiosity...and with a healthy fascination with dragons. As a result, he can sympathise with the filly as she stares at the red. Vérzés - filled with all the arrogance and vanity of his draconic kind - drops from the sky to land upon his bonded's heavyset withers, bulking his gleaming red scales up and preening beneath the girl's gaze. He's a little attention whore, after all, and Volterra snorts. Mist rises from his nostrils and drifts away, dragged apart by the wind.

The beastling looks down at the filly, content to humour her. "His name is Vérzés, and he is a dragon. They are powerful, proud creatures, strong too." Alas, the girl's pegasus blood means she'll never get to bond with one, and will undoubtedly have to settle for a lesser companion, like his dam's kitsune. Mongrel is interesting enough, but he has no scales or scorching breath.

Why do you want a knife? The leviathan shifts slightly. Saying to a complete stranger so I can shed the blood of my foes strikes him as not the best thing to do, so he simply heaves his massive shoulders in an approximation of a shrug. "I just think a knife would be useful," he says. And it will, not just for battle. To be able to scythe his way through thickets even his dragon's claws can't penetrate, or to chisel wood to push during his training...a knife would be an extremely useful accessory, hence why the colt is so frustrated that he can't seem to make his grand plan work.

He tenses as she asks to see the antler, but soon relents and kicks it towards her with a grunt. After all, what's the worst that can happen? If she breaks it, he can simply create a new one - it's useless without the blade, a simple decorative piece of bone. Again his frustration bubbles, and he puts enough gusto into the kick to make the antler land at Parelia's feet with a wobble.

Again amusement fights its way through the anger as the filly tries to pronounce the dragon's name, butchering it quite considerably. "Close enough. It means bleeding," he explains - Vérzés flares his wings proudly at the description of his name, showing every blood-gleaming scale and flesh-rending spine. For a dragon of finest scarlet, the name suits, or so Volterra thinks. "Your mother's bird is quite impressive, too. Maybe you'll get a companion as well," he says to her. He doesn't know quite why he humours her, but he supposes that he's not that long out of his childhood stage himself. He is only a few months into yearlinghood, and his impressive size is perhaps misleading about quite how old he is. Besides, foals have never bothered him. They're sweet enough, harmless little things. Maybe befriending this one now can aid the black monolith in the future - it never hurts to build up allies for what lies ahead.

The filly seems suitably impressed by the explanation of his dragon's name, as he would be if he was still her age. Anything dragon-related had earned his undying love when he was a boy, and although he still adores them now, his enthusiasm is less childlike.

He looks as Parelia lowers her nose to the antler, shutting her eyes. The colt's scarred brow lifts, baffled, but his expression quickly turns to one of greedy fascination as sand begins to gather in the groove carved for the blade he cannot create. In his stead, she makes a weapon, a curved and violent saber of stone with a dragon's snarling head carved into it - a dragon with a look of Volterra's own red. It is beautiful, small but deadly. Like Vérzés. Bloody delight glows in his feral as as he looks at it, dull in colour but sharp of edge.

She kicks it to him, and he lowers his powerful neck to examine her handiwork. His lips fasten around the handle, his teeth grasping the rawhide wound around it and fitting like the piece of a puzzle. When he lifts his massive skull, the knife feels lightweight and easily maneuverable - he practices twisting it in his jaws to pivot the deadly blade around. Dropping it, he looks to the mare, humbled by her display of good faith. To do something for a stranger without asking for anything in return? It is selflessness that the greedy, self-satisfied colt could never imagine. "You...are kind. I thank you." His baritone rumble is nicer than usual, because whilst Volterra might be a little shit, he is not an ungrateful little shit. Mother taught him his manners after all, and he has received many a sharp kick and corrosion-laden bite for forgetting them.

She offers to darken the handle with her fire and he shakes his head to politely decline. He likes the contrast of the pale brown antler with the sharp stone blade, plus he's scared fire may shatter it. "No, I love it how it is. Is there...anything I can do for you in return?" He has nothing to give her, no possessions save for the precious amulets which he would give to nobody, but his manners demand that he offer. On his back, the ruby blood-dragon chirps, and both he and Volterra give an amused snort as Areli demands a knife of her own. Ah, what a violent little girl - I like her.

The Earth God's blessing. Again, the massive God's power benefits Volterra. He got one of his amulets from the earthen man, and he suspects his magic was from him, too. He is close friends with the God's daughter, and now he has a knife crafted by magic from the God's own element. Perhaps the deity really does have a grander plan for the behemoth colt.

To his surprise, the mare agrees to create a knife for her daughter, too. Volterra flashes the smallest of smirks. Not every mother would be so willing to hand sharp objects down to their children - she must know that saying no will only foster resentment. Perhaps her daughter shall be a little warmonger in the making! Parelia requests that he looks out for her daughter, and the beast nods his giant head. That isn't the worst thing she could have asked. If he sees the child in trouble, he will simply crush her assailant and walk off with gratitude in his ears - nothing too strenous, all in a day's work for the young colossus."You have my word. Not that I think she'll need my help, if she has a knife of her own." He grins down at the filly. He can quite imagine her stabbing any creature who would try to endanger her, taking them by surprise. Of course, a knife is no substitute for hooves and teeth and brute force, but it can certainly be a welcome addition to an already loaded arsenal.

True to her word, the mare summons her magic and creates another knife. This one is straight, but glimmers with deadly intent. "Ah, a fine weapon," rumbles the giant. "Will you name your blade?" He looks to his own weapon, already trying to think of a name for it - Brokenfang? Bloodbringer? Dragonclaw? Ah, Volterra shall have endless hours of fun trying to come up with a suitable dubbance for his beloved weapon!