Her words etch a grin onto his lips, but he says nothing in response. He doesn't want to admit that it's not just dragons he finds resplendent - it's her, everything about her, her innate Isopia-ness that she hasn't lost even in dragon form. Saying that would only make his musings, his feelings, tangible and real, and when they're only alive in the sanctum of his head, he can try and pretend they aren't there.

Even though they quite clearly are.

He looks to his own dragons, in all their red and gold glory. Yes, it's evident that he adores and admires their species, and don't they just know it. They are as vain as cats, proud and easily insulted - he has the marks to prove it, the burns on his fetlocks from where he pointed out Abraham's white was actually not a queen back when he was a boy. "Which she isn't," says the red, disgusted, and Vadir is so aghast by the impertinence of such a thought that she almost falls out of the sky. For once, the duo agree on something.

He looks from his companions to Isopia, who is strangely quiet. He bats his ears, scrutinising her and trying to think of something to say. Suddenly she rises from her rock, like a scaled angel ascending back into the heavens that created her, and he watches her with lidded, envious eyes. He doesn't want to fly, but to have the option... "What are you...?" He tilts his head, puzzled, as she circles behind him. He tries to turn to face her, but confusion turns to alarm and then to blind panic as her limbs suddenly wrap around him from behind before he has chance to pivot. Her scaled flesh against his hot, quivering skin sends all kinds of feelings like arrows through him from throat to groin, but only one very determined part of his mind can focus on the pleasureable sensation of her on top of him. The rest of him feels only pulsing fear as she beats her powerful wings forwards and her intentions become clear, and his eyes roll back into his head. "Oh, no - kis holló, don't you.....DAAAAAAARRRRREEE!"

He arches his neck, wiggling, trying to escape, but it's futile. The ground twists, shakes, then drops. He rams his eyelids shut and begs his stomach to quieten before the contents of it can make a rapid escape from his backside, and ceases his thrashing because it now seems much less of a good idea for her to release him when her doing so would leave him as a bloody smear on the rocks far below.

In his ears, he hears the cackling of his dragons, both overjoyed at Isopia's easy manhandling of their bonded. Traitorous bastards, he fumes.

He can feel her breath on the back of his head, and his body - which, apparently, is as traitorous as his companions - quivers in delight at the sensation. For the first time, he dares to open his eyes to narrow slits in an attempt to keep the wind out of them, and allows himself to glance at the panorama below. His heart, thumping so fast he fears it may beat right out of his chest, sinks then soars at the dizzying height they're at, and his legs flail uselessly as though doing so will create something to grab onto. Being beneath her, her undersides rubbing against his spine, her arms snug around his thick chest...he concentrates on those sensations instead, trying to find the fine balance between enjoying such close proximity and hating the fact he's utterly helpless. He is in her thrall, hers to control, and for such a dominant creature as Volterra, it's something entirely new.

And not entirely unpleasant, either.

"If you drop me," he manages to gargle out of his dry throat, although he'll never know if she hears him as the wind snatches away his voice, "I will not be impressed." And also dead. His dragons dart and twirl in the background, caught in Isopia's slipstream, twisting around with joyous screeches, revelling in the fact their bonded is flying. Their enjoyment is infectious, and the stallion tries his level best to shove his fear away and focus on this once in a lifetime experience. After all, very few men have the opportunity to fly alongside dragons. Hell, the only time Isopia carries someone like this is probably when it's prey... The thought of her as a hunter only arouses him more.

He puts that down to fear of imminent death, and not the fact she's so close to him, so real, so hot, mounting him as he dearly wants to....no, he cuts himself off mid-fantasy. That's also down to fear, he decides. Nothing else.

The ground races up to meet them, and his hooves touch glorious, blessed hardness. He's forced into an ungainly gallop to keep from tumbling, but suddenly the scales above him have melded into flesh, and the dragon has become horse again. Now he's safely back on solid earth, his stride slowing gradually, he cannot put his racing pulse down to terror. He can't blame his aching loins on fear. And he certainly can't blame either of those emotions for the fact he's leaning into her far closer than is strictly necessary, that his haggard, gasping breaths are just decoys to allow him to take deep gulps of her scent, and that his velvet muzzle is moving without permission to try and rub softly against her shoulder. "Is that how you impress all the boys?" he murmurs into her soft brown skin, his gasping voice tinged with as much amusement as he can muster.