He is making quite the habit of this recruiting business. Hardly a day goes by when he doesn't find himself treading the now-familiar path down to the Threshold, his face set into a mask of determination and his eyes hardened to rubies with the force of his concentration. His one soliltary success so far is enough to spur him on to greater triumphs, and there is an almost battle-like fervour around him as he peruses around the homeless rogues.

Unlike battle, however, the leviathan certainly wouldn't say that he enjoys recruiting. There is something deeply demoralising about marauding around the Threshold in search of fresh meat to feed the same old spiel to, something utterly deplorable about requiring somebody to make such a massive decision on the basis of one herdmember's words. Having been born in Helovia, Volterra has never had to face the unenviable dilemma of which herd to join based on how well their representatives sell it to him, so his actions and words are entirely of his own creation. In a way, he sees his ability to recruit as a barometer of success almost as much as his prowess on the battlefield is - if he can fill the Throat's ranks with eager new faces, then it proves he is not simply a war-hungry soldier incapable of functioning away from spars. It shows that, when his time comes, he will be able to lead a herd to glory, in the mundane tasks as well as the thrilling ones.

That is why, again and again, he puts himself through the hassle of recruiting. He has it down to a fine art now; first he will demand his dragons take themselves elsewhere, so as not to scare off any potential new members. They always stay close, so that they can appear at the slightest tilt of his mind - if he detects that the horse he's talking to isn't of a weak constitution and needs a little bit more persuasion, two terrifying scaled beasts could be just the push they require. With his dragons gone, he alters his path towards the great clumps of trees, and begins the metronome-esque swinging of his head until he sees a likely candidate.

Today is no different, and the well-judged turning of his skull soon provides success. Not one, but two pegasi stand in the Threshold, a stallion and a mare judging by Volterra's initial overview. The male is doused in varying shades of blue, but the woman is a multicolour delight. The behemoth fights to stop his eyes from roving approvingly over her; that is not the way to endear himself to this duo. Instead he passes a cursory glance over both of them before prowling closer, his massive frame sliding easily to a halt in front of them. He just catches the end of the mare's words - there's a mention of gelding in there that threatens to make Volterra's eyes water - and he raises his eyebrows quizzically. He does not comment, however, instead choosing to plough ahead with his attempts to recruit them. "Welcome to Helovia." he rumbles, looking between brother and sister (or so he assumes). "Might I surmise that you are both looking for a home?"

The blue man immediately spreads his wings as though to shield his sister from view, and Volterra smiles a lazy wolf's smile. Perhaps his reputation precedes him, but the blue needn't worry. Recruitment and making a name for himself within the herd are, for the moment, more important than taking mares beneath him - it is delayed gratification, because when he is a king he will be peeling the women off like scabs. Forsaking one now for an endless line of them in later life....a worthy deal.

He remarks that Helovia is a boring name, and the leviathan lifts a brow. A sarcastic retort buds to the tip of his tongue, along the lines of oh, did you come from a land called Endless Hot Mares And Bloody Battles, then? but he manages to restrain himself. Self-control is not the goliath's forte, yet so strong is his resolve to bloat the Throat's ranks that it has even helped him to reign in his explosive temper.

For now, anyway.

The stallion speaks again, this time in an odd, harsh language that makes the leviathan's eyes prick forwards with interest. This is the first time he has seen another horse with the ability to speak a second tongue - it certainly isn't Hungarian, but it is deeply interesting to the mammoth man that there are other bi-linguists here. But before the beast can respond, there's an almighty thud as a large pegasus descends from the heavens to land nearby, and Volterra's eyes scan him with evident interest. The vulture's own eyes, however, seem to be stuck on the pretty little mare. Whereas Volterra had engulfed his lust in a vice and refused to let his salacious gaze wander, this male seems to have no such restraint. If the Gladiator was a betting man, he would think that the winged one had bedded this mare in the past; they seem to have the easy rapport of former lovers.

There are un-horned ones in Helovia. Like the Debwani—but large, and un-striped. Volterra's interest is thoroughly piqued, now. "You have never met an equine before?" he asks, addressing the blue stallion and mare. That is most unusual. He thinks of his father, of the tales he's heard from his mother - that Tyradon believed in ultimate equine supremacy, that he ruled his own racist warlord herd out in the wilderness. To meet a pair who seem to have never seen an equine before is quite an oddity for the blackened giant.

It is the mare who finally addresses him; she introduces herself and her brother, and the leviathan dips his proud head in a greeting. "A pleasure, Saartjie. My name is Volterra, and I am the Gladiator of one of the herds here, known as the Dragon's Throat." He stops here; there is little point offering a home again, as he'd appear impatient by repeating himself. He will simply have to bide his time, and wait for a possible opening in the discussion between three seemingly old friends.

A lesser man might have seen that the cause is probably lost - that the pair will travel home with the winged Edgian - but Volterra is not the sort to give up. Impossible task or not, he will not leave until he has done everything in his power to sell his home to them.