The dragons do not come here. They do not like the thoughts that devour their stallion's mind when he chooses to hunt here, because although they both know they are bonded to a highly sexual man, that doesn't mean they have to like it. They tolerate it when he stumbles upon a mare to take beneath him out in the wilderness, they sometimes even thrive on the raw domination of the act, but when Volterra comes actively seeking it, they recoil. Nor do they understand the primitive hungers that he possesses, because they simply don't share them. Neither of them have ever shown a desire to reproduce, and Volterra isn't even sure they can, given how much their physiology has altered to make them suitable companions for horses like himself. He has never asked, and they have never offered the information. They simply choose avoidance, leaving his mind open and devoid of their presence.

It has been so long. He swore that he would try to abstain from the errant creation of life, but that does not mean he has to abstain from women. As long as he ensures no children come of the trysts, he thinks he has every right to indulge the most basic desire. Given the nature of the Secret Grove, he is quite sure there will be a suitable broad around here for him to take, and he finds excitement quickly rising inside his veins and between his thighs. He can see a mare, smell a mare, and his path shifts towards her, the predator towards his prey....

Then he sees who it is, and his heart sinks. Any visible evidence of his ardour quickly rescinds, because there's not a chance of any action from this particular source, he's pretty damn sure of that.

He thinks of turning and leaving, resuming his search elsewhere, but something about Roskuld's actions make him pause. She's flat on the ground like a foal experiencing her first snow, she's got apple trickling down her chin, and she looks like the cat who got the cream. It reeks of urine, too, and the beast has to fight to stop his nostrils from eagerly snorting in the smell to ascertain her receptiveness. No, this one is off-limits. Even trying to bed another of Isopia's cousins would be enough to solidify his position in her bad books, he's sure. "Ros?" he says uncertainly, his lust momentarily forgotten. That had been the name she gave him during their first meeting, although he truthfully never pictured himself using it. "Are you hurt?" The way she's flopped on her side in the dirt makes him wonder if she's colicked, if she's in her death throes from a poison apple. Despite himself, he's concerned. She listened well to him, advised him, saw him at his worst. He owes it to her to help her if she's injured, although he doesn't know what use he'll be, given that he wouldn't know a healing herb if it bit him on the ass.