But, Volterra reminds himself, he did the exact same thing when he was fresh from the womb. He chuckles deeply to himself, then continues his path towards the boy.

Heralded by both dragons, the leviathan soon finds his latest son. He is the first of Volterra's children to have wings, and it is quite surreal for him to witness the great feathery appendages protruding from the lad's shoulders. Vadir swoops low and lands heavily on the behemoth's broad back, her golden scales glimmering beautifully as her refined, large-horned head coils around Volterra's thick neck to scrutinise the newborn colt. She huffs, swishing her tail lazily. She approves of the nubs of the boy's horns, and the skull-marking on his face, but aside from that he is rather useless in her eyes. Vadir, unlike Vérzés, did not know Volterra when he was this age. She only met him when he was a powerful adult stallion, rippling with muscle and refined strength, imposing and assured. She did not know the fledgling youngster with a dragon obsession and nothing but dreams and ambitions behind him; she did not know the child, only the man.

But Vérzés remembers when Volterra was this small, so he has marginally more tolerance for this new colt. Crushing the earth beneath his goliath frame, the beast slows to a halt near to the boy, well aware that the colt won't know who he is. But he will surely recognise the dragons - no boy worth his salt could see a magnificent pair of dragons and then promptly forget them. "Boy," he rumbles, unaware of his name unless it gets mentioned in the birth thread but shhhhh timelines. "You should not be this far away from home without your mother." He might approve of the colt's adventurous nature, but he does not approve of the notion of losing his newest son to a predator before he's even had chance to properly meet him.

Yes, he decides - he much prefers meeting his children when they're young, before they grow to hate him for his unintended absence. They are far more easily moulded at this tender age.

The boy's eyes rest upon Vadir, and the golden queen preens beneath his stare. She might see him as little more than an irrelevant speck of dirt, but she is a narcissistic creature who will never turn down some admiration. Vérzés swells with jealousy, his tail swinging behind him with irritation. "I hope you teach hatchling that scale colour matter less than strong heart and strong body." The red knows as well as Volterra that the black leviathan does not need Vadir - she is simply the crowning glory of his power, his precious queen. But Vérzés believes that scale colour does not make a dragon strong; they are to be respected for their feats, not their high birth. To an extent, Volterra agrees - he, like Vérzés, is lowborn, a mongrel, and yet they are both destined for greatness, they are both power incarnate.

But he wants his son to have an eye for the best, for royalty, so he quells the red's objections in an instant. Vadir croons her delight.

The boy asks why the dragons were at his birth, and the monstrous stallion flashes him a small, dark smile. "They belong to me," he rumbles in his thick baritone. Both dragons huff their objection at being referred to as possessions, and Vadir's claws hook slightly deeper into his skin. "And I happen to be your father, Tyrath. Unfortunately, my lack of wings prevented me from attending your birth in person, but I could not simply fail to be there. So I sent the dragons to be my eyes and ears." He falls silent, to let this information sink in.

The dragons scream in tandem and lunge high into the air, to give their bonded an aerial view of the advancing predators. The leviathan respects and admires wolves, and yet he knows that they are not here to exchange pleasantries. If the creatures are here, they mean ill-will towards Tyrath - and that means they have signed their own death sentence.

He can see their desperation - the long and relentless winter has undoubtedly driven them to extreme measures, as no wolves with brains in their head would usually even consider trying to take down a full-grown horse and his son. The larger of the two places itself between Volterra and Tyrath, and the stallion releases a savage whinny; like fuck will the creature drive him away from his child! The beast did not go through the effort of attending the birth and hunting the boy down simply to lose him to a pair of rabid mongrels!

He needs to think fast; this isn't as simple as just taking the wolves down in a beautiful symphony of blood and gore. He could, he is confident of this, but he has to consider the fact that Tyrath's life is at stake, too - one wrong move and the second wolf will fasten its jaws around the tender young throat, end a life with so much potential before it's even truly begun. "Keep calm, Tyrath - keep facing it, don't expose your sides." He pins his ears, glancing between the wolves, racking his brains on how best to go about this - his eyes slide towards the colt, and to his astonishment he sees scales beginning to ripple and glow beneath the pale fur.

Magic. The boy has magic. But whether it will aid him in this first and most important of battles remains to be seen.

The behemoth strikes, and he strikes swiftly - speed is of the essence here, as the faster he can take down his own wolf the faster he can try and aid his son. He rears, thrashing his colossal forehooves in the wolf's direction, feathers flying with the momentum. The creature strikes, too, going for the leviathan's exposed underside - its teeth rasp against his flesh, drawing blood, drawing pain. But it is a small, insignificant victory for the doomed predator, because a fraction of a second later Volterra's hooves slam down onto its skull with a sickening crunch. It is dead before it hits the ground, and blood, brain and fragments of bone cling to the white feathers on the stallion's forelimbs as his feet return to the ground.

Simultaneously, his dragons begin to swoop in a glimmer of red and gold, to go and help Tyrath with the other wolf - but a mental stab from Volterra stops them. They hover, confused, filling the mammoth male's brain with ???. Volterra doesn't quite know what makes him command his companions not to go and help the boy. He supposes it's that small part of him that wants to see how Tyrath will handle this situation - will he fight like a man, or crumble into dust, into prey? The giant values strength, and now is a fine time for the colt to prove himself to his father. If things turn sour, Volterra is now confident that, with only one wolf left, he could move to help the boy in time - but he wants to see what happens first. He wants to see what potential lingers within his newest son, how optimistic he can dare to be about what the future holds for young Tyrath.

So, bleeding from the stomach, his forehooves dyed red, with the carcass of a fallen predator at his feet, the beast stands tall and watches, his expression hooded but his eyes hopeful.

The magic explodes out of the boy, and Volterra watches, engrossed, as fur turns into scales before his very eyes. Golden scales - Vadir croons, and suddenly her wanton dismissal of this boy turns into thinly-veiled interest. Such is the force of the colt's magic that one of the amulets Volterra keeps stashed about his person - largely unnoticed, forgotten about, irrelevant compared to his more powerful assets - begins to glow and burn against his flesh. Unknown to Volterra, the amulet has absorbed Tyrath's magic, storing it to be used in the future - if he did know, the beast would be thrilled at the notion of turning into a dragon, but as it is he simply ignores the odd sensation and focuses on his son.

His son, the dragon.

The wolf is slaughtered; Volterra watches, his expression impassive but his heart soaring. For the first time in his life, he looks upon a child of his and he feels....proud. When he looks upon the others, Kid and Zhu, he feels excitement at the potential they possess, and also some odd squirming sensation in his belly that he supposes is love. But neither of them have yet done anything that makes him stand up and pay attention, that makes him feel proud that they came from his loins. They will, he is confident of this - there is power in them, strength, untold potential. But it has not yet manifested.

In Tyrath, it has. Great, soaring waves of pride flood through the leviathan, tingling into each of his limbs and washing over his brain. His son is a dragon. His son is a killer, so young - as young as Volterra was when he killed animals for his newborn companion. His son can fight. No doubt the colt's actions were simple, crude instinct more than anything deeper, but that can be worked on. He has the seeds - Volterra will help them grow into a mighty tree, an ageless oak to conquer all who fall before it.

In the deepest tangles of his mane where he keeps it hidden, the rough stone given to him by the Earth God becomes one tiny, infinitesimal bit smoother.

He scans the dragon with greedy eyes. Small, but it'll grow. He thinks of how large Isopia gets when she transforms - oh, yes, there is definite potential here. "Excellent," rumbles the titan, his tail lashing approvingly against his hocks. "That is quite the talent you have there, Tyrath. Is this the first time you've transformed?" He cocks an idle ear, his expression level despite the cacophony of emotions that rage inside.

Tyrath speaks of a humming in his blood, and the giant nods sagely. He remembers a very similar sensation the first time he discovered his own magic - ironically, whilst saving his dragon from a fiery death. "You must ensure you transform often, so that you have complete control over your dragon form. By the time you are old enough to battle, you will have mastery of your magic, which will be a great advantage over your foes." Those foes won't be expecting a green young stallion to suddenly burst into a dragon in front of him - oh, Volterra is already dreaming of his son as a warlord! He is already picturing Tyrath upon a throne, ruling a herd alongside Volterra's own, their alliance firm and their power unmatched! Of course, lots could change this vision of perfection, but it's a start, and one the beast clings to gleefully.

The boy asks of dragons, and the stallion's ruby gaze glows happily. This meeting with his most recent offspring is far more than he could ever have hoped for. They have killed together, he has found out that the colt can transform into a dragon, and it seems the boy shares his interest in the scaled species, too. Whichever particular seed found its way into Aithniel's womb to bid Tyrath into existence, Volterra rather wishes he could thank it, because it did a bloody good job. "I could, but it is rather a large topic - what would you like to know?" Red and gold eagerly listen in, awaiting a discussion on their species.

He hardly notices Tyrath's transformation from dragon back into colt, so eager is he to impart his wisdom. Volterra will never claim to be the most intelligent of creatures; he is no font of knowledge, no bastion of wit and guile. But dragons, he knows. Ask him about dragons, and he'll sure as hell be able to answer, and answer with passion. Tyrath's bombardment of questions does not irritate him, as it might another horse. No, he revels in it, bathes in it. Keep them coming, kiddo. "There are many different colours, ranked in a tiered system. Dragons have a hierarchy, you see, based upon the colour of their scales, and this colour directly correlates to their size. The smallest and weakest are the blacks and the whites - they are looked down upon in dragon society, and considered vastly inferior." Vadir gives a snort of agreement. Why, it would offend her even to look upon a white or a black, and she stifles a shudder at the very notion. Vérzés simply huffs - he does not pay a great deal of attention to colour hierarchy, and shirks it when he can. The fact he is not royal in scale does not make him believe he is any less royal in blood, or any weaker than his metallic brethren. This, indeed, is the main bone of contention between himself and his golden sister, who demands his utmost submission - submission he is unwilling to provide to her.

"In the next tier up, you will find the vast majority of dragons, the most common colours. The reds, the blues, the greens...I have little doubt there are others, too, but they're the only ones I have seen with my own eyes." He glances across to his own red, who swells proudly. "Finally, you have the royals. Bronze, silver...and gold." Vadir croons and flares her massive wings, releasing a blast of flame for good measure. "Royals are the largest of all dragons, and golds are the biggest of all. Vadir is a golden queen; because, to answer your next question, in dragon society females are considered superior to males." At this, he allows a little contempt to creep into his voice. His one quarrel with dragons is that they consider females to be superior, which he quite disagrees with. Vadir gives an outraged gargle and swings her tail dangerously, her feral eyes gleaming.

"Now, I was always under the impression that golds could only be female - because as females are considered superior, the largest size and most revered scale colour was exclusive to them. However, not long ago I stumbled upon a mare who had bonded to a golden male, so it appears that all we thought we knew about dragons is, in fact, wrong." The behemoth's features crease into a frown. This knowledge had perturbed him greatly, shaking everything he thought he knew about the great scaled ones. "I am sure this male will not grow to a size equal to female golds, but it is still an interesting development. Perhaps, as time passes, dragons have reconsidered their gender hierarchy, and have decided that equality is better than female superiority. It would be interesting to see if golden males exist in the wild, or if it is perhaps their bonds with us that have made our companions reconsider their biology and change something so intrinsic to them." He muses over this for a moment, his head filled with Vadir's opinions on the subject. Needless to say, she is confident that no male will ever rival her, although the existence of golden males does at least allow her to consider one day mating with one - the only way she will ever find a suitor to almost match her.

"The red's name is Vérzés. In the language I speak - which I will teach you - his name means bleeding. Alas, I thought it apt when I was a boy not much older than you are now, although now I wonder if I couldn't have thought of something better." His voice is tinged with amusement, but Vérzés isn't concerned; he likes his name, the only one he has ever known. "I met him when, as I say, I was a colt not much older than yourself. It is quite by chance that I obtained his egg - I was wandering in the forest one day when I stumbled upon a dying wild dragon. She had been attacked by another wild dragon, and most of her eggs were shattered. Wild dragons are a sight to behold, Tyrath, countless times larger than you or I, and I felt it my duty to stand with her as she died to ensure no creature attempted to feast on her whilst she was weak. A dragon deserves a more dignified death than that." He has never told this to anybody before - the memory tastes good on his tongue. It is the one time he has really shown empathy, and it worked. "As the life left her, she unfolded her wings and presented me with her one remaining egg." Of course, it could just have been a natural movement from her death throes, but the leviathan likes to think it was because she saw strength and genuine love for dragonkind in him; an ideal suitor for her last remaining egg.

"The gold is called Vadir, which has no meaning to my knowledge, although I suspect I may have plucked it from the tales I was told as a foal. I found her egg shortly after my second birthday. She, like Vérzés, is the child of a wild dragon, this time a great gold. Oh, I have never seen anything as large as this wild queen! But she was being hounded by a pack of starving wolves who wanted her eggs, and even her fire and sheer size couldn't deter them - she was weakened by the harsh winter, and they were relentless in their hunger. I aided her, and between us we managed to slay and chase the wolf pack, although she flew away with what she could gather of her eggs. She left some behind, though, including Vadir's." He remembers his greed, his elation, at finding the egg - he remembers Nymeria, and their argument. Nothing could taint the memory of that day, though; the giant falls silent, to see if his son has further questions. He rather hopes so - he is enjoying this.