The voice is a rasp in his eager ears, and immediately his eyes rest upon their would-be opponent. Straight away, excitement bristles inside the juggernaut's chest as he sees the size of his foe, the warrior's posture that denotes a worthy nemesis, the three ruthlessly long, savage horns that crown the face like obsidian javelins. A smirk splits the behemoth's jaws as his gaze darts across the antlered bone that adorns his erstwhile foe's head, lending him a menacing air that Volterra can quite appreciate.

To the unicorn's first words, he nods, still unaware that the other cannot see. "It was me." Then, as the male speaks again, Volterra's heart sinks. Blind. He's fucking blind. So much for a worthy opponent! How can he take pride in kicking the shit out of a blind man?! It is no better than crushing a helpless child, or snapping the frail carapace of an ant beneath his hooves. These devilish thoughts pound the back of his mind, fighting for authority, addling his brain with bitter disappointment.

It is tempting to walk away. To refuse to cross swords with a blind man, to take his business and his brawn elsewhere. But the horned one seems eager to fight, and perhaps it will be good practice for Volterra to tangle with an opponent he's expected to defeat. It is a different sort of pressure to that which he's faced in the past - against Grimalkin and Ciceron, he was the underdog against an older and more experienced foe, allowing him to fight freely without fear of the consequences. Win or lose, it was about the experience, the practice, gathering fragments of fighting intelligence and piecing them into one coherent whole. This time, the sheer shame of falling to a blind man means he has to win, and that is a weight he is unused to having on his young shoulders.

This is a rare opportunity to test himself with that weight, and he slowly nods his colossal head before remembering Morir cannot see. "If you're sure."

Despite his desire to win, he makes a silent pact with himself, with the small hint of goodness that festers in his black heart - he'll go easy on the blind man. He won't annihilate him as his arrogance tells him he can, he'll simply do what it takes to win and no more. There's no need to humiliate the poor bastard, as he's undoubtedly depressed enough. Volterra cannot imagine not being able to see the sun dying on the horizon, the iridescent gleam of dragon scales, the sumptuous curves of a woman's body spread like a feast beneath him. No, the unicorn has enough pain in his life without Volterra crushing any last shred of esteem from him.

His dragons shriek indignantly at the other man's suggestion to leave the kids out of it, and he can feel their hunger as they fix their gaze on the great raven nearby. But Volterra grunts his agreement - he's quite confident he can win without the help of his companions. Shutting them out, the behemoth focuses completely on his opponent. Although he's sure of his victory, it's important not to grow complacent, and he carries out his assessment as rigorously as always. He notes the man's superior age, and no doubt he has some tricks up his sleeve in order to conquer his lack of eyes. Their sizes are equal, although Volterra's draft heritage probably lends him greater strength. The counterweight of this is that the unicorn is undoubtedly faster and more agile, something Volterra will have to be careful of.

His assessment complete, the behemoth launches from a standstill into a ground-shaking canter. He aims to approach Morir head-on, but as he charges he attempts something...different. He stomps his feet, hard, and instead of running in a straight line, he zig-zags. His aim is to create an utter din, a great clashing cacophony of noise to try and confuse the blind unicorn. After all, Volterra is assuming that he will compensate for his lack of eyes by using his ears, and so the brute hopes to cause such an almighty racket that Morir simply can't detect him.

As he nears his foe, the beast feints to his right, attempting to run parallel with the unicorn. He throws his weight to his forequarters and kicks his hindlegs out to his left in a savage cow-kick, aiming for the middle of Morir's left ribcage. Last time he tried this attack, against Grimalkin, he ended up falling on his arse - like the old addage about getting back on the horse, Volterra is eager to reassure himself that he can perform this attack successfully. He does not aim to shatter the man's ribs, simply bruise them and let him know he's in a fight.

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@Morir spar !

1/3 - 799 words