His bite finds its mark, and he silently berates himself as it causes far more damage than he'd intended - her tail whistles past his face as she darts forwards, and he takes it as a subtle hint that the battle is over. Her defeat is absolute, his victory assured, and yet it doesn't give him his usual spasm of delight at another success on the battlefield.

Instead, the cold pit of guilt in his stomach tightens further at the sight of her; bruised, battered, crushed beneath the heavy blows of a man far more experienced on the field of battle than her. A man who, perhaps, should have gone easy on her - but again he reminds himself that this is the best way for her to learn. Had he pulled his punches, landed only the faintest of blows, she might have gained unfounded confidence, and then had an unpleasant surprise when she faced a real opponent. Instead, she has learned that battle is not the idealistic playground of girls, nor is it usually a place for honour. It is a place of blood, sweat and tears; of pain, of suffering, of being better than the animal opposite you.

No, it's for the best that he taught her firmly, the same way he teaches his children. But now the fight is over, and they are no longer enemies - she is just a badly injured mare trapped in the forest, and it is his duty to aid her. "Enough," comes his rough baritone, the first time he's spoken during the entire fight. "You fought well, but you are badly injured. Do you have a herd, so I can escort you to their healer?"

She does not speak, and his brow furrows with concern. Has he perhaps beaten her so thoroughly that she has lost her voice? The beast has never encountered a member of their species who could not talk, and whilst he is a very physical man who displays many of his emotions through body language, he nonetheless finds the absence of words quite jarring. How will he find out about the depths of her wounds, and whether she has a herd, unless she tells him?

This poses an interesting conundrum to the stallion, and he half-wonders if he wouldn't have been better off simply abandoning her to her fate in the aftermath of their battle. Alas, what conscience he has will not allow him to do that. She rubs her bloodied face on her leg, and with a dispassionate eye the goliath notices that she has cuts as well as bruises. They need washing, to make sure they do not get infected. "You should get to some water, to clean your wounds. Come, I will walk with you to the nearest pool." He moves towards her - slowly, carefully, as though approaching a frightened wild animal - and the golem trots along behind him, casting its warm glow across the trees. He draws beside the young mare and offers a muscular shoulder for her to lean on if she so desires, as he had done to Orithia after their fight. He seems to be making a habit of this, beating an opponent thoroughly then helping them get healed afterwards. He might be a monster on the battlefield, but off it he sees no reason to compound the suffering of his foes when they've done nothing except answer his call for an opponent.

If it was a challenge, with something other than pride on the line, it would be a different story. But that is not the case.

He begins to walk slowly, hoping that she is either leaning against him or following close behind. "Can you not talk?" he asks, expecting her to answer with a shake of the head if this is indeed the case. It's probably a rather insensitive question, but tact is not the Gladiator's strong suit.

She shuns his offer of a shoulder, and he raises an eyebrow. Rather than being offended by her rejection, the beast is actually filled with admiration for her - she wants to walk alone, unhelped, despite her injuries and the pain that is undoubtedly coursing through her nerves. He gives a small huff of agreement, then continues to walk alone. He lurks close to her still, however, as there could be any amount of predators marauding between the trees just waiting to pounce upon a defenceless mare; he has put her into this state, so it is his duty to be her guardian until they get to safety.

The golem's fiery glow allows him to see her face as he asks about her voice. It tells him everything she needs to know, and he feels a small pang of guilt for his insensitivity. "Oh." What does one say to such a revelation? That's inconvenient? That must be hard? However do you cope? It's not like she will be able to answer any of those questions, even if he does ask them. Although the goliath shuns pity as being one of those weak emotions that lesser men feel, he cannot help the small pang of it that creeps unbidden through his psyche. How must it feel to be trapped in eternal silence, unable to communicate what you want to? Of course, their species relies heavily on body language - small cues taken from the tiniest twitch of a muscle or flicker of an ear - but there is no replacement for the simplicity of speech.

She gestures towards the golem, and he takes that as an invitation to talk about it. Guided by his mind, the little rock creature runs in a circle around one of his stout forelegs, illuminating his underside with a livid orange glow. "It is one of my magical abilities. I can create them in any shape and a variety of sizes, although I cannot really control what they do. They seem to act on my impulses rather than my direct instructions - in battle, they will simply attack the nearest target." He has only used them once, because he almost feels as though utilising them in battle is cheating. They are strong and can pack a heavy blow, so it is like a two against one battle when they are used.

In a true challenge, however, with real consequences, he will have no such qualms.

They are nearly to the water now, and the stallion gestures with his muzzle towards it. The golem trots off to stand alongside it, casting its light across the still surface to allow the mare to see where she's going.

He watches her into the water; he hadn't intended on joining her but, in a fit of chivalry, he can't help but worry that she might weaken whilst submerged. He cannot allow her to drown, so he steps into the water too until it laps against his underbelly. It is surprisingly cold, nipping at his flesh with all the aggression of a winter snowstorm, and he's reminded that it is not going to be summer for much longer. The blessed chill of autumn and winter beckon; his two favourite seasons. His muscles suppress a shiver at the coolness of the water, and he instead revels in the sensation against the tender skin of his groin and the insides of his legs. The sparse amount of blood from the mare's attacks washes off into the pool, revealing sliced flesh that stings and smarts as the water enters it.

The beast chances a glance across to her, and sees her drinking her fill of the chilled pool. He does the same, slaking his thirst in several long gulps of fresh water. He is quite unsure of what to say, or whether he should even be speaking given her inability to. If he keeps talking at her, is it just a tactless reminder of what she cannot do? Again, he marvels at her ability to survive without that one very important ability.

One thing has occured to him, though. Can he, in good conscience, leave her alone here? He is assuming she does not have a herd - he cannot smell one on her, and he's sure she would have indicated with body language if she had a home. "You shouldn't roam out here whilst you're injured, csendes madár," he rumbles. Without meaning to, Hungarian slips from his lips; he has a penchant for naming things in his alternative language, and quiet bird seems quite apt for this little thing. Having spent so much of his life as an outcast, Volterra knows that being badly injured is not a good thing. Without a herd to protect her whilst she heals, she could be predated or attacked by another of their kind.

So, tentative, he speaks again. "I am a member of one of Helovia's herds, the Dragon's Throat. Would you...be interested in joining us, at least until you heal?" It is not an offer he expects her to accept, but he makes it anyway.

The silence hangs between them, not that the leviathan had expected any differently given her apparent inability to speak. He searches for a gesture, a nod or a shake of the head, an affirmative flick of the ear or a negative jerk of the tail. Nothing is forthcoming, and he begins to feel oddly vulnerable. It is as though offering this relative stranger a place in his home - and doing so outside the regulated recruitment land - has carved a segment from his soul and laid it out bare.

It is a bizarre, unwarranted emotion, and Volterra does his best to stifle it.

The shake of her head is unsurprising, if disappointing; he feels the familiar clenching of cold hands around his heart, and feels the proud arch of his neck deflate slightly. He says nothing; there is nothing to say. The conscience he didn't know he had is burning beneath the surface, forbidding him from simply leaving in the aftermath of his rejected offer. That, plus a misplaced sense of fatherly sympathy towards the mare he'd brutally defeated, prevent him just slipping away through the shadows and leaving her to her own devices.

She flares her wings, as though to prove that she is still capable - he understands the meaning, and understands that their meeting is drawing to its natural conclusion. "If you're sure." His handsome brow twists into a frown, but it is momentary; he slips backwards from the water to give her space to take off, assuming that pegasi cannot rise directly upwards. "Until next we meet, then." Still he remains, though, to watch her take her leave, with his powerful hindquarters blending with the dark shadows as the dark night cascades around him.