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The Rotunda always reminds him of his youth. He is still young now, of course, not yet into his fourth year, but his childhood seems like a distant memory, an indistinct blur amongst the faded milestones of his past. He used to lurk here when he was a newborn, fascinated by the odd stone structure with its painted glass roof, hypnotised by the gentle waving of the trees that surround the flat platform. He'd fancy that he saw monsters lurking behind the pillars, and him and Vérzés - for Vadir was just a distant hope then - would dive ferociously onto whatever beast they pictured that day. Usually it was simply a shadow cast by the distant sun, but they'd think themselves mighty warriors and kings, blackened warlords and crimson deities. When he was a yearling and his hormones began to swell within his body, he'd mark the platform with his scent and claim it as his. He'd pretend he owned the forest itself, and that his harem and his soldiers marched at his back. How he'd loved to daydream whilst stood upon the age-old stone, looking out into a kingdom he believed was his! Returning now, older but perhaps not wiser, the leviathan feels a pleasant pang of nostalgia. He has two dragons riding on his back now, his trusty red and his fearsome gold, and his hard work on the battlefield has bulked him up to become almost exactly what his colt-self wanted to be. With the winter chill pressed close against his body, he stands by the Rotunda and thinks fondly of the days when he would have to look up to it, rather than leering down to it like the king he still wants to be. It quickly becomes apparent that he is not alone with his musings. Vadir is the first to notice, and gives a small huff in the direction of the young mare who stands by a frozen steam. Volterra does not recognise her, but the chilly Frostfall breeze brings with it the scent of Dragon's Throat on her fur, so he directs himself towards her with interest. She's young, just blossoming into her womanhood, and relatively short; there's something about the planes of her body that speak of good bloodlines, though, and the leviathan would be willing to guess that she is a relation of the once-mighty Wildfire. "You smell of the Throat," he rumbles as he draws to a halt a short distance away, Vérzés perched lazily on his back with Vadir circling above like a gleaming golden vulture. "I am Volterra, its Gladiator. I don't believe we've met." He offers what he hopes is a kind smile, but it's hard to twist such rugged features as his into any approximation of gentleness. |
@Aelin
[ you can't stray from what you are, you're the closest thing to hell i've seen so far ]
[ use of force/magic on him is permitted aside from death/maiming ]
