She realises who it is, then, and despite himself a small smile creeps into the corner of his mouth as she refers to him as that 'Terra guy and fixes him with her blurry-looking gaze. Her ensuing stumbling over his newly-acquired title makes the slight smile turn into a full blown smirk, his eyebrows lifting in bewildered amusement. "That 'Terra guy will do just fine," he rumbles with a small chuckle. He can't help but think that titles in general are a tad pretentious, and he rarely introduces himself by his own unless he's trying to prove a point. As a result, he certainly wouldn't expect anybody else to have to say it, either, although being referred to by the name does send delightful ego-inflating shivers down his spine.

The ungodly sound that leaves her mouth in the aftermath of her mangled attempt at his title makes his ears pin slightly and his entire body lurch backwards as though to flee from the air-smashing cacophony. It's the sort of sound that he imagines a donkey would make if it was being sodomized with a stinging nettle, but he quickly realises it's a laugh - a drunken laugh. The smirk disappears to be replaced with the frown of concern as the beast looks at the apples that she's surrounded by - he's heard of using plants and fermented fruits for recreational purposes, but he's never seen it in action before. Two and two begin to click together in his mind, and he eyeballs the large pile of apples with interest.

Cheek’sh clearly tryna poison my ass bu’ it’s’cool, y’know. He doesn't know who 'Cheek' is, but he's fairly certain now that her affliction is not poison. She shuffles out of the way and offers up the warm patch she's left behind, and Volterra can't help it - he's tempted. Sure, he's still horny as fuck, but there doesn't seem to be much chance of relieving that particular itch anytime soon. Why not sate his natural curiosity instead? Because despite himself, this woman intrigues him. Their previous conversation is largely a pain-induced blur, but enough of it stands out to make him want to know more about this mysterious Isopia-friend, this Sparklight. Her being high on dodgy apples might actually help the conversation flow, and dammit, he's got nothing better to do now that there seems to be no available mares nearby.

So with a distinct air of in for a penny, in for a pound, the leviathan lowers himself down beside her, taking great care to place his massive body daintily rather than dropping down with an unceremonious thud like he normally would. Can't forget his manners in front of the lady! Arranging his large limbs beneath him until they're comfortable, the stallion releases a satisfied huff and fixes his gaze back onto the mare as she reiterates his own musings that he's got nothing better to do. "Well, I was on the hunt for some eligible women to pleasure, but freezing my balls off in a piss-soaked clearing with a giant pile of dodgy apples sounds far more fun." The sarcasm is good-natured, and he flashes Roskuld a cheeky grin as he leans forwards to sniff one of the apples. Hmmm....should he?

You c’n tell me all ‘bout why the hell they call you the Unfuckwithable these days. Again his scarred eyebrow raises. "The Unfuckwithable....damn, why didn't I think of that?" He gives her an amused look, whilst secretly filing the word away to use in the future. "If this conversation is going to get as deep and meaningful as our last one did, then I think I'm going to have to have some of your special apples to help me through it." The comment is a flippant one, the man's usual style of deflecting an emotional moment with a humorous one; he can't reveal how deeply their previous conversation affected him, how admitting so much to her had made him feel naked, how he wishes he could make her forget so that none but him know his shame. No, it's far easier to pretend the discussion didn't bother him, rather than let her know how much it did bother him.

He eyes the apples warily. He isn't entirely sure he wants to turn into what Roskuld currently is - a blathering lump of slobber and slurred words - but he can't help but think it looks kind of fun. For a man for whom self-control is a prison, for whom the smothering of emotions and desires is a constant battle, letting his inhibitions go for a bit might be just the tonic he needs. It doesn't take him long to decide. He reaches forwards and snatches an apple from the pile, chomping it down in two bites and feeling the queer-tasting juice stinging his throat. It's an....acquired taste, and the behemoth snorts and huffs as he tries to contemplate whether he likes it or not.

Fuck it, he does. So he reaches for another.

And another.