Each coquettish little shift of hers is perfectly calculated, deliciously concocted to ensnare his senses - and ensnare it does. He can't take his eyes from her, even though every single pore in his body is screaming at him to look away. Finally, with a herculean effort, the behemoth shifts his gaze from her to the egg, the only thing that's likely to be able to keep his attention from her.

This isn't normal. This isn't right. But, he reasons, when has he ever fallen into conformity? He wants what he wants, he likes what he likes. Who dares tell him otherwise?

He tells himself that he's looking simply because her transformation from girl to woman is so remarkable that he can't help but admire it. That's part of the truth - it's baffling to him how the girl he once chased through the snow with her bottlebrush of a tail tickling his chin is now a woman grown and flowered, able to create foals of her own. No doubt she thinks the same of him - he is a colt no longer, that much is obvious.

Closer she comes, closer, so close he can see every whisker. Instinct grips him and he leans down and forwards, huffing warm air from his nostrils as he tries to touch his nose to hers. One thing that hasn't changed from boy-Volterra is his penchant towards touch and taste, although even as he does this, a memory jumps into his mind. Him, extending the same gesture to his sister's newborn black and receiving deep wounds in return, the scars of which he still bears to this day - but he hasn't learnt his lesson, and he simply can't resist the allure of his sister's caress.

Each carefully-calculated move of hers causes his heart to leap, and he's sure she knows it, too. She isn't the sort to waste energy on moving for movement's sake; everything she does has a purpose. He's so distracted, so caught up in her trap, that he almost misses her when she speaks - he has to physically shake his head to try and clear the fog from it, and he finds himself watching her lips more than he's listening to what comes out of them. You will achieve more than Confutatis ever did. You already have.

Confusion jerks him from his lust-soaked reverie, and he flickers one ear. "I have accomplished nothing." The black behemoth is not one to diminish his own achievements - quite the contrary. But to say he's already done more in two short years than his infamous dam ever did? It seems a little far of the mark, and whilst the earthen titan usually accepts any compliment that reaches his ears, he doesn't like to do so at the expense of his mother. He looks again to the egg, knowing that it will help him to greatness, but equally knowing he has to prove himself worthy of the queen within it. His natural size and strength is just one small step on the road to glory - hard work and training has taken him several steps further, but he's still only at the start of his journey to power.

She demands he use his head, and his ears dart backwards, still confused, still lost. He is no scholar, no wordsmith - he hasn't the brains or patience for his sister's complicated games. As he often does around the more intelligent of his species - like Nymeria and Isopia - he feels brainless in comparison. "Speak openly, sister. You know that using my head has never been my strongest asset." At least, not the head at the end of my neck. Jaws shift into the smallest of wolfish grins, but his feral gaze never leaves her.