The earthen giant is heralded with a rumble, and Volterra finally finds the strength to lift his aching head. The black beast respects very few others, given his exacting standards about how those in power should behave, and he displays such respect even less often; Father Earth, however, is a clear exception. Volterra's skull dips in a nod of greeting, an almost humble acknowledgement of the sheer size and power of the God he has sworn his allegiance to.

The great deity has passed that power down to his daughter, too. Through the tiny tendril of bond that Vadir allows the stallion to keep, he feels an ebbing of cold hatred.

But now the Earth God is here, Volterra feels suddenly extremely small and extremely stupid. What right does he have to simply call a God to him for a chat? He hasn't completed his quest, he isn't asking for anything - will Father Earth think him a time-waster? The beast is unaware that the Gods might actually enjoy being summoned just to talk, instead of pandering to the shameless greed of the Helovian populace. No, Volterra assumes his presence is an inconvenience to the great God, and he has half a mind to simply leave before he is smited like an annoying fly dismissed with the swing of a tail.

He only resists because the God's voice does not sound angry or irritated, and he reminds himself that Father Earth has always appeared to be the most grounded of the Gods (no pun intended). It is perhaps unusual for one with as fiesty a temper as Volterra to have allied himself with the most level-headed, gentlest and kindest of the four Gods, but it is not like the giant deity is a benevolent pushover. He could crush mountains with a careless twist of a hoof, drop boulders like snowflakes onto the heads of dissenting rebels, carve the earth into fissures to consume the corpses of his vanquished foes. He commands respect with his enormous size and presence, and emits an aura of power and shameless might; that is why Volterra favours him, and why he chooses to wield his magic rather than anybody else's.

But that is not why he feels the way he does about Isopia. That is all because of her, not her esteemed sire. Still, the two are now instrinsically linked inside his mind, and when he looks at the God he can't help but see the marginally less colossal lines of his daughter. In those kind green eyes, he sees gold. He knows that great body can command the earth he stands on, bid it to rise and slam into his ribs with the force of a freight train.

He knows that earth can smash into his heart, too.

You seem...unwell. The brute tries to sigh, but it hurts too much. "I..." Volterra has never been the most wordy of beasts, but now he truly feels devoid of anything to say. Vadir sulks heavily on his back, so he cannot look to her for inspiration, and her red brother is even worse with words than Volterra is. "I have been better." How much should he say? How much does the God already know - surely he is omniscient?

"I am sure you sicken of the petty problems of mortals," he rumbles, his voice still tender and softer than usual due to the pain of his ribs and the ache in his heart. "But do you have time just to...talk?" He feels small, stupid, like a sickly child asking his father to humour him with a mock spar or adventure. Asking a God to talk to him...His uncertainty shows vividly on his face as he half-expects Father Earth to shoo him.