He bleeds, aches, tires, and yet he does not cease his bombardment. His hooves strike hard and true, and he shifts backwards as they do so in order to not fall over with the force of the blow. When he lands, he immediately favours his injured limb; his breath comes in great haggard breaths, his thick muscles aching and heaving with exertion.

But it is the best kind of exertion, save for that which comes after sex. He sweats and he hurts, but it is beautiful. It is what he was made for, created for.

A roar erupts from nearby, and the behemoth turns his colossal head to see Vérzés dealt a hefty blow by the woman's swinging tail. Although her barbs make no mark on his diamond-hard scales, the force of the smack sends him wheeling through the air, and he only just catches himself before he smashes into the ground. He hisses, bares his teeth, and it takes a massive mental effort from Volterra to stop him attacking her again. Stop! The fight is over. The red growls and snarls, climbing back into the embrace of the heavens and circling ominously over the two horses.

He has decided he does not like this woman. Vadir, in contrast, thinks it quite splendid that her red brother has been dealt such a blow. She releases a smug coo, and Volterra feels Vérzés' potent rage bubbling through his mind.

The stallion's own attention, meanwhile, is snatched by the mare. He expects her complete submission - he expects her to fawn over his fighting prowess. But she does not. His brow furrows at this, and his ears slap backwards into his sweaty mane. Indeed, he rarely uses his dragons in battle for this precise reason. They are added bonuses, not weapons that define a fight. "I do not rely on them - do not forget how many blows I landed before Vérzés attacked." His voice, haggard with tiredness, remains deep and strong in the face of her criticism. His tone remains level, unperturbed. "But a true warrior, as you put it, uses all the weapons at his disposal if and when he needs to do so. My dragons are no different to your tail-spike - which is quite delightfully barbaric, I might add." A dark glance of approval lands on the savage weapon at the end of her tail. "If I might ask, what species are you? You are quite a unique and exquisite specimen." His natural curiosity gets the better of him as he looks her up and down, now able to fully appreciate the contours of her scaled body in the aftermath of the fight.

He meets her gaze, watching with morbid fascination as blood dribbles into her eyes. He wants to blink on her behalf - can she even blink? Do fish-mares have eyelids? Interesting.

Her first words bid a cold, dark smile to spread across his lips. "Oh, I won't." His gouged chest throbs unpleasantly, blood still dripping freely down onto the sand. The pain is deep, sharp, and hideous. He assumes the wound will scar, another livid mark to add to his expanding collection. But the goliath does not shirk from pain. He has suffered enough of it in his life to know it is a valuable tool in growing and strengthening, and to Volterra a fight is not glorious, regardless of the result, unless he hurts because of it. Unless he's bleeding, unless he's aching, he clearly hasn't tried hard enough - and that is unacceptable to him.

Battle with all your weapons, but train to hone your own skills. Sage advice, but hardly needed on the black monolith - he was blessed to be born with a good degree of physical strength, and his draft heritage plastered muscle to bone long before he was old enough to train. But the rest - the evolution from boy with potential to warmongering stallion - has involved hard work, constant training, sweat, blood and pain. "I do," is his abrupt response, shifting in order to display every rippling, battle-hardened muscle on his colossal frame. If she thinks that comes from using his dragons in every single fight - well, she needs to cleanse the blood from her eyes and play closer attention.

The conversation turns to her tail, and he glances with some degree of admiration towards the sharp weapon. The wound on his face pulses with faint pain, and when she mentions poison he lifts a brow in surprise. "Poison, you say?" He huffs for a moment, contemplating the hypocrisy of the fact she insults him for using a dragon when she has a weapon that could fell a man with a single blow - a weapon that certainly no other horse in Helovia probably possesses. He wonders why it doesn't work, and the wound begins to itch at the thought that maybe the venom is biding its time, waiting to kill him when he's least expecting it...

He doubts that. Let it try.

She declares that she is Akvian, from the Rift. "Interesting. Did you fight with us against the Rift Gods?" Or did she fight with them? As she remarks on his skull headwear, it is his turn to swell with pleasure. Oh, he is proud of this particular trophy, and the tale that comes with it! "I do not know his name, but he came from the Rift, too. He made the fatal mistake of trying to kill me - but I killed him first." His jaw sets with determination at the memory, at the glory of his first proper kill. He'd taken down smaller, lesser creatures to feed his dragons, of course, but Gashad was the first equine - if the skeletal giant could be called that.

Fish-horse looking at you.

The voice is Vérzés, harsh inside the stallion's head. He flicks an idle ear and, so as not to disappoint his piscine admirer, he ensures every single muscle is bulked and ready. Well, not every single muscle, because that would be inappropriate, but every single muscle that can be flexed in polite conversation. His own gaze roams freely across her, too; she is not like the other mares, who are soft and warm, who grow heat in their bellies and allure between their thighs. He imagines this one would be tough and hard beneath him, her skin abrasive against his own...but he's sure that armour conceals a woman who, like all the others, could be made to sing.

Ah, he must avert his mind from these musings, else those other muscles will find themselves flexing, too.

Vjanto. Picxeto. Akvo. Her language is queer, but strangely alluring to the ears of the brute who is used to the harsh, guttural words of his own Hungarian tongue. He doesn't know what she's saying, but her tone is a dead giveaway that it's probably something so bad it'd even make a dragon blush. "You kiss your mother with that mouth?" His voice is lighthearted, humorous, jovial. There is little to be miserable about when he is in the presence of a fine woman and a fine warrior, in the aftermath of a fine battle. This is what his life is all about, and it's why his life is so fucking awesome.

His interest is piqued when she reveals the skeletal beast attacked her, too. "Aye, he is dead - although in the months since, I've found myself questioning whether he was ever truly alive." He thinks often of his first battle, of the creature held together by blue wisps and menace. The skeletal demon had certainly seemed sentient, and yet Volterra could not shelve his cynicism for long enough to believe the creature had been capable of the same thought processes as a fully-fleshed horse. He would never know; he only knows that the demon will terrorize nobody else, and that his skull makes a fine prize.

She speaks of her poison, and he listens with interest. He is about to point out that she may not be devoid of her weapon forever, when she takes the words right out of his mouth and remarks on his earth structure. "Magic," he says simply. Summoning his remaining strength, he drags his other magic up from the depths of his body; between the two conversing horses, the ground suddenly bursts up as it had during the battle, but this time instead of creating an immovable lump of rock, it moulds into the shape of a small wolf. Veins of lava ripple across the wolf-golem's body, and it shakes its rugged head as though waking from a deep sleep. It blinks useless, unseeing lava eyes, then begins to lope lazily around Volterra's stout limbs. He can feel its dull rock mind throbbing against his own, devoid of any sentient thought or emotion. It is simply a thing, an animated version of his structures - and yet by virtue of the fact it can move, it almost appears to be alive.

The behemoth watches the wolf scurry around, then sit beside him like a guarding sentinel. "Do you remember our Gods from the fights, the ones who fought against those of the Rift? They have the power to bless us mere mortals with powerful abilities, and even companions such as my dragons. I have little doubt they could restore your poison." And that would make her an even more tricky opponent.

He allows himself a chuckle as she speaks of her mother. Yes, he knows that feeling - his own dam, with her corrosive saliva and overall zest for world domination, had hardly been the most snug of bosoms for him to press himself into when he was a boy. But it is from his mother who he has taken his hard line in fatherhood; affection is a rare prize, to be given only when earned, and thus all the more valuable for it.

The golem-wolf rises, runs around a few more times. Outside of battle, where its creator's whims would have bid it to attack, the rock-creature hunts for purpose. It finds none, and crumbles sadly into a pile of dust at Volterra's feet. He lazily nudges the golem's remains, safe in the knowledge that he can conjure another whenever he desires it. He's made a handful of different shapes and sizes, from the small wolf to the great humanoid behemoth who had served him so dutifully against Rikyn, and he knows that he's only touching the very edge of this newest power of his. Only time and practice will give him greater knowledge of what he can do, so for now he's content to use his magic as an interesting party piece.

It seems mention of the Gods and magic has piqued the fish-mare's interest, and understandably so. The beast himself grew up with the knowledge of Gods and the powers they bring, but to a relative newcomer to the lands he imagines it's quite the revelation. "You can try and find them," he corrects her. "They are, after all, Gods. They do not always heed the cries of us mere mortals." In fact, seeing a God in person is rather rare. Except for the Rift fights, when the Gods demonstrated their splendour in the form of battle, Volterra has only met them twice. Both times, he met the enigmatic, powerful and yet gentle Father Earth, who commands a rare respect from the young stallion. He does not doubt that the Earth God gave him his powers, and perhaps had a hand (or a very large hoof) in him receiving his dragons. The first time, they'd met through another male, who had requested the God's attention and been lucky enough to receive it, with Volterra as a young and awestruck bystander.

And the second time - well, the second time he hardly remembers, so dark had his psyche been at that particular time. He remembers the quest he's been set, for the newest magic he craves, and yet he can't shake the suspicion that the Earth God only heeded his cry that time due to his ties with Isopia.

"Finding them is not that simple, I'm afraid. I believe they frequent a place known as the Veins of the Gods, where they each have a shrine. I have been there numerous times, but only had a God attend to me twice - and the first time it was not me they came to see." Although he'd been fortunate enough to receive an amulet that time from the kindly Earth God, it had been the other, older male who received a quest. "I would be more than happy to take you there, but be aware that you may be disappointed." He isn't quite sure why he offers this - perhaps there is some gentlemanly instinct buried deep within him, or perhaps it's because it is always good to be able to call in favours from those he's aided.

"There is another way to obtain magic, too. Sometimes, there are...happenings around Helovia. These events are usually attended by dozens of eager Helovians, and there's usually a task set in order to determine who should receive the prize. I'd advise you keep an eye out for those, too." Volterra himself hasn't had any luck through that particular means, but his fishy friend just might.

Crimson eyes widen as she mentions that particular 'happening', with the dancing fish and the prize won by some unworthy mare. Heavens, he'd forgotten about that. "You remembered me?" There's a slight sultry hint to his voice, only slight, at the notion that he stood out enough amongst the crowd for her to recognise him. Embarassingly, he can't say the same - he was fully focused on the task at hand, and his tunnel vision meant he didn't even notice somebody as remarkable as her.

He won't confess to that, however, unless directly asked. He might not lie outright, but he's been known to lie by omission, and he'd hate to hurt a woman's delicate feelings. He'll notice her from now on, that much is certain. The way she fights, the way she is...ah, she is unforgettable.

She demands he take her to the Gods, and he obligingly nods his mammoth head. "Your wish is my command." But then she has a change of mind; she needs healing. Volterra respects her decision, and he sometimes wishes his own masculine pride would let him seek a healer after battle, too. His chest throbs where her horn ripped through flesh and muscle, and his movements are restricted by the severity of the gash, but the idea of seeking a healer for himself...it does not sit well with him. He believes that a battle does not just consist of the fight itself; it includes the wounds, too, and that he's honour-bound as a warrior to see said wounds through to the end. That, he believes, will prove his resolve.

It's a rather stupid belief, and one that's left him suffering in agony for days and weeks with his injuries, because he's too damn proud to seek help. He certainly won't judge her for doing something he occasionally wishes he could do, too.

"Very well," he rumbles. She gives a name - Aquila, a name filed away in his memory banks, because he suspects he will need it in the future - and asks for his own. "I am Volterra." He fixes her with his penetrating red gaze, his tail twining lazily between his hindlegs, although the movement is only temporary as he finds it jars his aching muscles.

Although he can't seek medicine for his wounds, he can go and bathe them in the fresh river-water, to prevent infection. He needs to rest, too, regain his strength so the healing process can begin, because there's a hundred more opponents waiting for him on the battlefield. "Until I see you next, then. It was a pleasure, Aquila." He dips his colossal skull to her - because they are not quite friendly enough yet to exchange touches, he thinks - and allows his gaze to roam across her unique physique one last time before he begins the long prowl back away from the vast expanse of the Flats, his dragons soaring in his wake.