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He walks on ground that reflects his titanic frame back at him; it feels odd beneath his feet, so eerily flat that surely it cannot be real. And, damn, the sound of his hooves on the sand - if that's what it is - is torture to his overly sensitive ears, and he can smell every salty whiff rising from the furthest reaches of infinity. His thick neck is arched, ears flattened in the vain hope that will prevent him having to hear everything. Black slime loops from his nostrils and lips, and his obsidian face is stained even deeper by the tear-like black droplets that ooze from his eyes. At least the fucking boils did not affect his senses, and turn him into some all-hearing, all-smelling beast. This land's patron God is one the giant has never seen before - sun-coloured, powerful. So far, the only God not to show up is Volterra's personal favourite, the deity of the Earth - the king of the Gods, in the earth-crushers opinion. Not just because he sired Isopia, but because he radiates everything the yearling believes in. Strength, power, earth magic. Perhaps there will be another fight, with dear Earthy leading the forces - if so, Volterra will fight harder than ever before, a willing soldier to the man who gave him magic and amulet alike. For now, he probably has another battle to get through here, another God to fell with the brawn of his body. His dragon sits sprawled across his back, twiddling a bone between his forepaws. The crimson king's tail thrashes idly behind him, his spines erected in preparation for the fight that will most probably come. After all, these new lands seem to be signified by demonic Gods who need bringing down. "" |
[ 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 ]
