The voice pierces his ears, stealing his attention from the sweet sensation of victory and the notion that he'd at least managed to prevent the mare inflicting a humiliating defeat on him. He can take no pleasure in another conquered opponent, though, not when his dragon is so badly injured. "You're fucking lucky he's breathing," the leviathan snarls, his skull-masked face twisted in disgust. The last tendrils of anger still thunder through his muscles, numbing the pain of his wounds and the chill of the frigid winter air that surrounds them with a snowstorm. The sweat is rapidly drying on his body, but he pays attention to none of these things as he stampedes forwards until he's at his dragon's side.

Vérzés lies prone, only the gentle rise and fall of his body telling the stallion that he's still alive. That, and he can still feel his bonded's consciousness in his mind, feeble and unaware but there. Volterra moves closer until he can press his muzzle to his dragon's warm crimson scales, panting heavily with exertion from the fight and the crippling fear that he'd felt upon seeing his bonded plummeting towards the ground. Vadir circles, lands besides Vérzés, protecting her ruby brother with her bulk and hissing savagely at both the antlered mare and her griffin companion.

Through the haze of different emotions, the Indomitable had almost forgotten what started all this. The mare thought he was Tyradon, and accused him of killing her children. Had Volterra's sire done something so abhorrent? He'd always known the man was racist, but racist enough to slaughter an innocent unicorn child? With another feral growl, Volterra uses one massive forehoof to knock the blackened skull-mask off his face, revealing the blood-caked, sweat-soaked ivory flesh beneath. He displays these markings to the pale mare, proving that there's no teardrop star there, only a half-white face. "I am not Tyradon," he barks, gesturing to his dragons. "Do either of those look green to you? Do my eyes look grey to you? Jesus, woman, if you are going to seek revenge on somebody, at least make sure you get the right man."

He's still livid, shaking with the force of his wrath. She could have killed his dragon, all over mistaken identity. But, he tells himself, she lost her children. If one of his offspring had been killed, wouldn't he move heaven and earth to find their murderer and enact revenge? Wouldn't he attack before he thought, if he saw someone who looked the slightest bit like the suspected criminal? It takes a herculean effort, but the stallion manages to make himself soften, calm his breathing and temper his rage. "My name is Volterra. Tyradon is my father...but I do not share his ways. Are you certain he killed your children?"