He casts another cursory glance across the older male, wondering what brought the daft old fool into a land so riddled with thorns. He also attempts to gauge quite how old this stallion is, but finds himself unable to hazard a guess - Volterra is young, only a month or so away from entering his third year, and he cannot truly imagine living to such an age that his fur turns grey and his back grows bowed. He expects he will die in battle long before then, although this is not something he muses on very often. The brute is too young to yet pay much thought to his own mortality - it is simply a thing that he will one day have to face, far in the future.

He reasons that one must be either brutally strong or extremely clever to last to such an age. There is something to be respected in that, and it does indeed seem quite wrong that a man who has reached such an age should find his undoing in a patch of thorns.

That is why Volterra will help him - because one of this man's advanced years deserves a more dignified death than this. The hellion does not normally do things for no reward, and there is certainly nothing to be gained from freeing this stranger. But Volterra does have some morals, as skewed as they can sometimes be, and it does not sit right with him to leave an old man to die slowly and cruelly - a man who has proved his right to life by succeeding in surviving this long. The young warlord has no qualms delivering death with a single flick of his giant hoof, but there is no glory in watching an elderly kinsman suffer - and there is no shame in preventing it.

The older male asks if Volterra has the power of telekinesis, and the brute shakes his massive head. "Alas, no." Vadir ruffles up her scales as the old one's gaze reaches her, inflating herself to her full and impressive size whilst continuing to fix him with her contemptous, superior glare. At the mention of a small-handed companion, the queen snorts loudly in a manner that says, quite clearly, like hell am I helping you.

But, whether out of true masculine sympathy for the unicorn or purely out of spite towards his golden sister, Vérzés descends like a crimson bullet from the skies and lands heavily in front of his goliath bonded. "I could do," comes his rasping voice in Volterra's head, whilst his sharp-snouted head looks between his bonded's cocked eyebrow and the strange stallion's beseeching expression. Vadir huffs, disgusted at the thought of helping for no reason - she'd far rather wait for the male to grow weak with starvation then pick his flesh from his bones - and flutters away into the undergrowth to inflict misery on an unsuspecting burrow of rabbits.

The beast looks from his golden companion back to the trapped unicorn. "My dragon could help, but you would have to remain perfectly still whilst he removes the thorns." He looks down to the red's savagely hooked talons - Volterra knows how easily they can carve through flesh, and he would not like them anywhere near that particular area when one inadvertent twitch could turn him into a gelding. But needs must, and the leviathan daresay that this unicorn would sooner risk such a fate than succumb to a guaranteed slow death trapped in these thistles.