But the God's next words go some way to assuaging that fear, and the black Sultan unleashes a small breath that he hadn't realised he'd been holding. He gives an eager nod at the God's remark that his emotions have mostly centred around his family, relief gripping him that this fact has been noticed and not ridiculed. The stallion had feared that the fact he only seemed to feel around his children could act as a detriment, but that does not seem to be the case. "Yes, I've noticed. I suppose this is because my children, more than anybody else bar my dragons, are important above and beyond my desire to be seen as emotionless and strong. I would do anything for them, and that is why I usually feel more easily around them." That is how he has defined the logic inside his mind.

A slightly troubled expression flits across his face, a deep sense of what he's learned during the course of this quest. "I have always thought that feeling unwanted emotions is a sign of weakness. I could not have been more wrong - true strength lies in the ability to feel those emotions whether you want to or not, and to survive them. All my life I've channeled anything I don't understand into anger, into lust, because they are emotions that I can control. Relinquishing that control was hard for me, especially when it came to feelings that hurt." His volcanic temper is a defense mechanism, in a way. Rather than face emotions that may cause him pain, he channels them into blind rage, something that he can grip onto and wield like a sword. Perhaps it could be defined as cowardly, although Volterra loathes any notion of that word being applied to him.

"Some, though, came fairly easily, such as pride. My son, Tyrath, and I were talking between ourselves when we were attacked by wolves. I moved to fend them off, but before I could act,Tyrath shifted into a great golden dragon. Oh, he was magnificent, and the way we worked together to defeat our attackers....It was like a flower opening in my chest, that's the only way I can describe it. For the first time I looked at a child of mine and saw not an accidental quirk of nature or something that needs to be defended and nurtured, but a powerful creature in its own right. I saw what he could become, and it was glorious." As he speaks, he realises he's smiling, an utter awestruck facial expression that he's not used to wearing. He will cherish that memory for the rest of his life, he knows it. "I felt as though I was glowing. I realised that I had sired this powerful, beautiful creature, and I've never been so proud about something I've created."

But then the skull-marked face darkens. He'd started with perhaps the only good emotion he'd felt - the others were all difficult for entirely different reasons. "The majority of others were far less enjoyable, like failure. I knew a mare was pregnant with my child, so I diligently followed her to ensure I'd be on hand for the birth. But...I missed it." His expression is anguished as he thinks of Valdis, poor, broken Valdis. "By the time I got there, my daughter was...she'd been maimed, Father Earth, her eyes torn out and her wings ruined. Some foul creature had attacked her whilst her mother was too weak from childbirth to protect her, and I wasn't there. If I'd have been faster, I could have saved her - but I wasn't. My beautiful girl was harmed because of me, and....it is the first time I have ever put my mind to a task and not managed to accomplish it. It was like a pit in my gut, a black hole of failure, and it is not something I readily wish to feel again." Who in their right mind would want to feel such a thing again?

"But the worst by far was...was grief." At this he's forced to look away, choked by the memories that assault him. The body that he thought was Vezér, shattered on the floor; the furnace of sorrow that burnt him to ashes. "I found a body that I thought was my daughter, mangled and murdered by her own mother. It hurt more than anything I've ever felt. It's like the world was suddenly sapped of its light, as though nothing existed anymore but this black hole of misery, this utter sense of hopelessness and all-consuming darkness. I was in an abyss with no way out, because my little girl was gone." His jaw has clenched so hard that his teeth ache; his mammoth hooves press hard into the soil as though Airlia's skull is crushed beneath them. "You...you know more than most what it is like to lose a child, Father Earth." He glances up towards the God, seeking to meet his gaze in a gesture of sympathy, of a sense of brotherhood between two bereaved fathers. "I was not thinking straight, and normally in such a scenario I would default to my favourite setting of blind rage, but...this went past that. I wasn't angry, I was so much more than that. Becoming angry would have demeaned it, made it impure. This was hatred, föld királya, true and utter hatred, and I did what I needed to do to avenge my daughter." He will not go into the details, although barely a sleep passes without bringing him a nightmare of Airlia's crushed, ruined face laughing at him, telling him time and time again that he failed his child.

"Then it transpired that the dead child was not my Vezér, and I was relieved, moreso than I can put into words. I began to regret what I'd done, wondered if I'd been hasty....but then I felt guilty about feeling these things, because even though it wasn't my child she killed, it was still somebody else's. There's still another father out there who has lost his daughter, and for that, her fate was deserved."

He realises he has rambled on far longer than intended, and he silences himself with a slightly self-conscious huff and a sheepish, humourless smile as he gazes upon his beloved God.