He watches the woman bathe with the expert eye of one used to witnessing such sights; his eye runs freely, unabashed, over the svelte chestnut curves and water-dampened wings. She is rather scrawnier than the broads who usually tickle his fancy; he likes size, girth, power. Not necessarily height, because women similar in height or even larger than him make him feel somewhat emasculated (except for Isopia, but he firmly forbids that train of thought from progressing any further), but in strength - he is a connoisseur of battle-mares, women who can hold their own on the field of war. This one looks as though one good kick might crumple her.

But he is nothing if not a man, a rather simple creature who occasionally (okay, often) forsakes sound judgement in favour of pleasurable impulse. She is still female, and she is still quite ravishing with her golden fur and her slender, doll-like figure. Volterra may have a preferred 'type', but he is certainly not adverse to venturing away from said type when other pickings are lean - rather like a lion who prefers to feast soley on finest zebra having to opt for meerkat in times of famine.

That's probably an analogy best kept to himself, although it does bring a grin of self-satisfied amusement to his jaw.

The obsidian monolith is alone as he moves forwards, his dragons having forsaken him in favour of diving into the sea to pilfer it of its fish. They are both quite partial to fish, and as Volterra rarely ventures to the beach (he vastly prefers the shrouded shadows of the forest), they are a rare delicacy. Soon, he's sunk up to his heavily feathered fetlocks in seawater, the cool and salty liquid easing all the aches and pains of his recent battles. "Allow me to reassure you that you are quite clean," rumbles the giant, having observed her vigorous washing. There is a vagabond's sparkle in his eye and a wolf's smile on his lips as he speaks; this is a game he is quite used to playing.

The words that leave the winged mare's lips imply that Volterra is not chasing a lost cause here, and that knowledge lends power to a resolve that had otherwise been rather watery. Arrogant he may be, but not so much so that he expects every woman he meets to want to fall into bed with him. He judges his audience, gauges his chances, and delegates his resources accordingly. The giant would not waste valuable time chasing a broad who quite clearly had no interest in his sort of interaction. He will never claim to be the most intelligent of beasts, but when there's a sweet release on the horizon he can be remarkably intuitive.

"Happily." His voice is a growl, lowered to visceral levels by the desire that grows hot and heavy in his veins. It hasn't exactly been a while since the last set of thighs he conquered, yet he is hardpressed to contain the all-too-familiar sensation of carnal desire bubbling up beneath his flesh, seizing him like a vice. One day, he vows, one day he will own these emotions and dominate them, instead of being a simple tool in their thrall. He's been saying that for months, yet his determination is still absolute that he'll simply have his fun when he's young, then mature into a worthy king when he finally takes a herd. He likes that little timescale he's set himself - it means his conscience doesn't object to him hunting for women like a starving man searches for a warm meal, as long as he bears the responsibilities of what his fruity loins create and as long as he's aware that this will need to stop once he has a crown upon his head.

But he's getting rather ahead of himself here, isn't he? This particular conquest isn't even a certainty yet. It looks promising, yes, but the young stallion knows better than to count his chickens before they've hatched.

"Oh, wait - you missed a bit." The water ripples around his powerful limbs as he strides boldly forwards - if she isn't keen, he'll no doubt receive a kick for his troubles, but there's no such thing as pleasure without a little pain on the way to it. A hedonist like Volterra can't worry about something like that. The rump that she dangles just out of his reach is his target, and he seeks to plant a sharp bite directly upon it; his tongue darts from between his teeth to try and tickle across the flesh in front of it, as though removing a stain in the most tantalising way possible.

She asks if he has it all, remarks that she's not that dirty; her tones inspire faith in the blackened goliath, faith that another conquest could soon be headed this way. He often wonders whether he should be worried about his insatiable sexual appetite - are all stallions like this from the moment their balls descend and they cease to be colts, or is it just him? Is he...broken? No, he reasons, this cannot be. No man with any kind of heat in his belly could possibly resist the allure of the female of the species, with their warmth and their scents and their curves...

Maybe he is wrong, maybe he is broken, maybe he should be concerned that he would rather give up food than mares if he had to choose, but he simply cannot bring himself to give any semblance of a damn when he knows how good it can feel. How good it will feel when he lands this particular catch, when he takes her beneath him and indulges each wanton need that takes his fancy.

If this is what it's like to be wrong, then he sure as hell doesn't want to be right.

"I think I have - oh, wait." As if suddenly drawn in by a piece of dirt that's caught his eye, the giant attempts another hard bite upon her withers, this time, loins throbbing excitedly at the prospect of her reaction. Her lips slip to his ear and he allows the contact freely, his crimson eyes darkening several shades at her words, her wicked, wicked words.

He likes this one. She might be rather scrawnier than he generally cares to go for, but her wit is attractive enough to mask her flaws, and she seems to understand this game well enough.

"I am Volterra. And you?" The forefront of his mind is taken up with the notion of having a name to put to a face, but in the very back of his brain there lingers an alternative reason - so that if she falls pregnant, he will be able to know who she is and track her down with greater ease. Of course, he does not like to think of this prospect when all he cares about is easing the ache in his balls, but it is a distinct possibility when his seed is so eager to quicken in the wombs of his conquests. He will know his children, each and every one. They will know him, too; their father, their creator, their teacher, their king.

Her chest presses him and he pushes back with gusto, each hardened muscle thrumming with tension. He is growing hasty - the need is almost overwhelming. He must have her and soon.

He does indeed grasp the meaning behind her words, and his jaws lapse into a ravenous wolf's grin. "A fair point." The water sloshes loosely around his thick legs as he advances further upon her, like a lion growing ever closer to its prey - he pays half a mind to the logistics of the situation, whether his hindlegs and her hips will object to bearing his weight in the water, whether the footing beneath the lashing waves is adequate for this kind of activity; but he finds himself unable to care about technicalities when he knows that he would cross a burning abyss to claim his release. The small matter of some water is not going to stop him.

Her name is seized, filed away, although it takes some effort to memorise it when she's peppering his hot flesh with nips that send his senses into overdrive. His idle musings/worries about the logistics of copulation in the water are happily eased as she leads him away from the ocean and onto the sand. He follows eagerly, like a puppy at her heels. Come, she says. "I intend to," he replies, voice heavy with wickedness. "And so will you." Ah, quite a promise he makes! A selfish and greedy brute he might be, but he rather believes that his women must be satisfied as well, else what incentive do they have to keep returning to his bed?

So he follows her, and so he takes her with animalistic delight; and so their bodies are united, twisted together in a primal dance of pleasure, forged like a writhing statue of flesh and sweat. Afterwards, when the itch is scratched (for now; it won't be long before he needs sating once again) he slips from her and moves beside her, as he always does. He sees no flaw in paying the mare some attention after the act, and his jaws seek to lazily groom her withers with far less force than the bites he'd previously peppered her with.