Go, he tells the dragons. They do not need to ask twice what he means, and immediately launch themselves onto their leathery wings. A pleasant downdraft of cool air causes the titanic warlord to close his eyes blissfully as his companions take off, and he contemplates whether it would be demeaning to such magnificent creatures to ask them to fly close around him whilst he grazes in order to keep him cool in the scorching Dragon's Throat summer. Now is not the time for such musings, though, because his dragons are barrelling across the sea towards the envoy on the other side like gleaming missiles of red and gold. Volterra stands ready, legs braced, ears pricked, waiting for his companions to send him images so he knows how to react to the source of the cry. An invading force may require dealing with, or perhaps it's a lone vagabond looking for a home.

The dragons soon send him the images he's requested as they circle above the source of the cry; one large man and a handful of others, and their postures do not speak of an invading force. Volterra is slightly disappointed - will he ever get to bloody his hooves in a proper war? It seems safe to assume that they are here for diplomatic reasons, not nefarious ones, so with a thick grunt Volterra sets off across his sands. His muscles ripple beneath skin that shines with patches of sweat from the incessant sun, but there's no hint of fatigue in his body as he strides towards the cliffs at the end of his home. He reaches the edge of the Throat's soil, feels the key tucked inside his mane twitch slightly - suddenly his shoulders erupt in wings of flame and he's flying. For a man who confesses to be rather afraid of heights, the Throat's chosen mode of transport is not ideal, but Volterra's grown used to the queer sensation of flight and he just does his level best to not look down as he speeds through the sky.

He touches down with a heavy thud on the other side, his fiery wings disappearing as soon as his massive hooves hit the ground. Glancing up, the beast sees the gathered envoy properly - at their head is Tembovu, the man whose son he had returned safely home during his time as Gladiator. The Elephant is the king of the Edge, and whilst Volterra has not had any real dealings with the brown-hued unicorn, he knows a man in power when he sees one. "Elephant King," he rumbles in greeting, his voice a thick, masculine earthquake. His crimson gaze turns to Tembovu's accompanying Edge residents, offering them nods before returning his attention to the Elephant. "Volterra the Indomitable, Sultan of the Dragon's Throat. We haven't properly met, save for the incident with your son." There's an amused glint in his ruby eyes and in the twist of his mouth; he is no stranger to errant sons, after all.

He falls silent, quirking a quizzical brow in a silent question as to the reason for the visit of this little group. If it is for diplomatic reasons, then the giant will wait for Ampere before making any decisions - he glances to the sky, expecting it to be filled with blue at any moment. For now it is filled with red and gold alone, his dragons continuing to circle lazily overhead.