"Hatchling."

Vadir's voice is cold and clear in the hellion's mind; it is the queen's frigid croon, the self-assued purr of the golden royalty.

Which one? the stallion asks her, lifting his colossal head from where he has been idly biting at the dried scabs on his right foreleg from his fight with Seanan.

"Oldest. Son of She-Bitch." The gold's voice turns decidedly unpleasant as she sends him an image of Sikeax. It is unlikely she will every forgive Sikeax for the humiliation the mare subjected her to, and the edges of the image are tainted with red-blood-rage. Volterra smothers an amused smirk, and demands that Vadir send him an image of Zhu himself; the dragon duly obeys, and the beast's mind is filled with pictures of his oldest son, rolling in the sand of the Flats. Vadir circles high, high above the antlered youth as she sends her bonded the images, so Volterra can hardly make out particulars of the boy's features - he appears to be just a blackened dot down below, blurred by the rain.

The giant loses no time in shaking his muscles into life and launching into an earth-shaking canter across the moist sand, whilst the rain smacks against his taut hide and the thunder rumbles in tandem with his heavy hoofbeats. Vadir flies back to him, circles, and pelts like a golden bullet alongside him; Vérzés is nowhere to be seen, having remained in the forest to hunt. The queen delights in having her bonded all to herself, and is somewhat disgruntled that he seems intent on seeking out his son. Perhaps she would not have shared Zhu's location with the mammoth black stallion had she known he would immediately move to hunt down the colt.

It feels good to run. Volterra is not overly fond of wide open spaces like the Flats, and spends the majority of his time in the mountains and forests; yet there's something thrilling about feeling his gargantuan body purr through the gears as he charges through the featureless expanse of sand and grey sky. His canter soon blends smoothly into a gallop, his thick neck bending and flexing with the rhythm of his stride, Vadir easily keeping pace with sharp beats of her massive leathery wings. His breath comes in sharp huffs but he hardly feels tired, revelling in his increased stamina born of constant battles; he's sure he was never this fast, either, and euphoria burns through him at the knowledge that his training is working. The storm echoes above him and the rain pelts into his eyes, running in rivulets down the contours of his white face. He feels free, he feels elated, he feels alive.

Soon, he can make out the blurry black figure of Zhu on the ground, and he allows his stride to slow into a high-stepping trot and then a walk. He stretches his neck, feeling cascades of tangled black mane tickle against his skin; he's sweating, but he feels like he could go again, and again. Closer and closer he ambles towards his son, expecting to see the young, gangly-legged boy whom he'd last interacted with many months ago. Imagine his surprise when, instead, he sees a man. A stallion, grown and muscled; there's no longer smooth nothingness between those thighs, instead there's the means of creating grandchildren. Jesus, had he missed so much time? His son...looks like he could be his brother.

So deep is the behemoth's shock that he doesn't even notice Vadir land heavily on his back - something he usually does notice, because the gold is so huge and heavy that her weight is quite formidable when it's resting against his spine. "Zhu," comes the goliath's thunderous voice. "You've...grown." He looks the lad up and down, and approval brings a spark to those crimson eyes of his; he sees strength, he sees potential. His son has grown well.

As though in protest at his absence, the storm screams its rebuke and flings rain hard into his face; he wishes he had thought to wear Gashad's skull, in order to protect his eyes from the droplets, but he only wears that mask on the field of battle these days. Vadir huffs and turns so the rain beats against her back, but Volterra cannot turn away from his son. He simply stands, monolithic beast against the elements, a mass of soaking flesh and hard, chiselled lines.

Zhu immediately addresses him in Hungarian, and it pleases the goliath that his eldest has remembered his teachings. He swiftly forces his own tongue to seek those guttural words that he once thought would remain exclusive to himself, his mother and sister - but how could he not pass down the knowledge to his own children? With this language, they can communicate in secret even when they stand in plain sight. "Ön nőttek is." The highest of compliments from a man like Volterra, who possesses exacting standards when it comes to what his children should look like. But just to be sure, he begins to circle his oldest child like a predator sizing up a particularly tasty morsel of prey. His mammoth footsteps crunch the compact sand as he admires the boy-turned-man; the body is sturdy, strong, the limbs stout and feathered enough to be appealing, the horns queer but deadly all the same. The lack of a distinctive skulled face is disappointing, but does not damn the youth to inadequacy. He is powerful, well-built, and only about a hand shorter than his sire. He is exactly what Volterra thinks a son of his should be.

The seed that quickened in Sikeax's womb was a good one.

He inquires as to Vérzés whereabouts, and the behemoth replies swiftly once he has completed his circling. "Vadászat." Vadir huffs coldly at mention of her red brother, and her golden tail sweeps lazily across her bonded's spine.

Then the boy asks - no, demands - to know where Sikeax and Tyrath are, and with a grim sense of twisted pleasure Volterra realises Zhu is probably expecting him to confess that he doesn't know. Ah, his son has missed much! He has missed his sire maturing from reckless youngster into responsible father, a father who steps back to allow his children chance at power, who attends the births even if he has to do it via his dragons, and who protects his offspring from the efforts of predators and teaches them the sharp rasps of his hidden language. He does not always succeed in his attempts at fatherhood, but dammit, he's trying. Like he did not step onto the battlefield experienced and hardened, he does not step into fatherhood automatically knowing what to do. It is a learning curve, but one he has embraced - he has come a long way from the young stallion who spluttered, apoplectic, upon realising he had sired a child.

"Mindketten élnek Throat együtt egy másik öccse Astarot és egy lány nevezett Valdis. Gyakran meglátogasson a semleges földeket, de kívánom, hogy menjen a Throat néhány nap hamarosan látni őket. Azt várjuk, hogy jöjjön velem, amikor én." He is sure Sikeax will want to see her son; she must surely have been as concerned about his disappearance as Volterra himself was.

Narrowing his eyes against the driving rain, the brute looks directly at his firstborn. "Hol voltál? Kerestem Helovia az Ön számára." This is not a lie. After Zhu failed to come to the family meeting, Volterra began to hunt for him as he has hunted for Sabre - arduously, often, but sadly without success. He is keen to know whether his luck was simply out, or whether perhaps Zhu has set feathered foot onto the unknown lands outside Helovia's borders.