Again he listens, and again he wants to kick himself for his lack of intellectual ability. "That in itself is difficult. Deciding whether you want to be a strong leader, a cruel leader, a gentle leader, or a mixture of all. It seems like a thankless job to me, because it's impossible to please a whole herd all of the time." The 'perfect' leader would be able to taper their personality to each situation. They would know when to rule with an iron fist and when to let their grip slacken, when to send in their soldiers and when to try and find a more diplomatic solution. That is why Volterra knows that he is not yet mature enough to rule. His answer to every situation would be kick the shit out of it until it submits, which is not an ideal way to lead a herd. He wants to be a feared and famed king, but not a stupid one, a little boy playing with toy soldiers.

Hell, this conversation makes him wonder why he wants to lead at all. But he does. It's in his blood, it thrums in his muscles and sings in his heart. He must achieve it one day, no matter the trials that will be put in his way.

She answers his question and his ears are pivoted towards her, interest evident. Indeed, Isopia's cold view of the world would likely help her ability to lead - she doesn't have to worry about being tugged by emotional urges. When she mentions sexual tensions as one of her leadership perils, he feels his spine tingle, hoping that her feelings towards such things aren't entirely derisory. Surely, surely, there is something inside her that is a tiny bit curious about such tensions? Not that it should bother him if she isn't, but for whatever reason, it does.

At the moment, though, such things are far from his mind. He has never felt less attractive, with his oozing face and stupidly sensitive senses. He begins to wander out of the water, feeling the chill begin to set into his bones and bring a shiver to his tight flesh. He is about to end their talk and head off to graze and muse over this new disease when she speaks again, revealing that she has tried sparring and found herself...lacking. This interests him, and he turns his thick neck back to her. He allows his gaze to travel brazenly across her, noting her size and physical age that far dwarfs his despite the fact she is actually a few months his junior. He'd never considered before how this may affect things like her co-ordination, her fighting ability, her ability to forsee a hit and move accordingly. He naturally assumed that she would be a warrioress, a young war machine bred out of godly perfection. He finds himself itching to test his strength against her, two giants fighting like street dogs, but he knows this isn't wise until he gets more control over his stallion's instincts. He wouldn't want to make a dick of himself by having her decimate him because he's too busy staring at her ass.

"You are young, kis hollo," he rumbles, his voice aimed to be reassuring. "We are not born warmongers. I like to think I will be able to step straight onto the battlefield and destroy all in my path once I reach manhood, but I know that is unlikely, that perfection takes time. I don't doubt that, with practice, we will both become strong warriors, able to rule powerful herds." Or the same herd. He flashes her a wink at the reference to their leadership conversation. He hovers by the edge of the water, tilting his head to invite her with him towards the lush grazing nearby, before they go their seperate ways.