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?"