They begin to walk, and the beast's legs seem to just remember how to alter his stride to fit her own. The ear nearest to Isopia remains pivoted towards her to catch her words, whilst the opposite one alternates between pointing forwards and to the side, a habit he's recently picked up on whilst patrolling the Throat's borders to give him advanced warning of any potential threats. Whilst living as an outcast he'd been guilty of tunnel vision, of blundering blindly forwards safe in the knowledge that no predator could get the better of him if he didn't want it to. Now he's Sultan, though, he needs to remain focused at all times, because whilst predators may give him a wide berth, they do not afford the same luxury to the herd's foals or weaker members. The dragons normally do their part, but right now Vadir is too busy pretending to ignore what's going on beneath her, and Vérzés is too busy grinning like a Cheshire cat to be a great deal of help.

The Mountain explains that she doesn't think the mortals are being offered the full story, and Volterra's frown deepens. "It is a mystery, indeed. To me, it seems that either the Goddess must have known Kisamoa's intentions and joined him regardless, or she too was duped by him. Both options are equally alarming." What's worse - genuine or chosen ignorance?

Isopia's conviction that we all lie earns a brief, absentminded shake of the head from Volterra. "Not all of us...at least not intentionally." The words slip free without his bidding, barely louder than a whisper. The Indomitable has always abhorred lying, and, indeed, is quite terrible at it, yet hadn't he lied by omission by not telling the Mountain about his other lovers and children? Of course, he'd only found out about the existence of the children shortly before they slept together and it hadn't seemed like the ideal time to broach the topic, but that's little excuse.

His head snaps around to stare at her as she considers the fact that their hatred towards Kaos may be unfounded. Volterra's about to disagree strongly - he's guilty of seeing the world in black and white, either you're evil or you're not, ignoring the shades of grey despite the fact he lives in those hues. He is the perfect example of a man capable of great deeds but also cruel ones, a man versed in the art of war but who can also hold a woman close to his massive chest and make the world around them vanish until they're the only two left. The same hooves that can cleave skulls in half have been lifted gently so his children can poke around underneath them and tug playfully on the thick feathers; dismissing the shades of grey, then, dismisses the very notion of Volterra himself. Yet giving Kaos the benefit of the doubt....after what he'd done, it seems rather unfair.

But, he reminds himself, isn't Kaos the result of the slayed Rift Gods? "Every part of me wants to hate him. He earned our trust then threw it back in our faces; I'd have almost preferred it if he'd have simply marched in and rained fire upon us, rather than masquerading as our friend before revealing himself as our enemy. But I can't help thinking that Kaos only exists because we slaughtered the Rift Gods - he is the physical manifestation of our sins come back to haunt us." He shakes his great head and sighs. "It will become clearer once Kaos makes his next move, I'm sure. At least, I hope so....I prefer my opponents to be obvious." A small, humourless snort is given.

He, too, thinks it unlikely that the Moon Goddess was fooled so easily by Kaos. Volterra confesses to not knowing a great deal about the only female deity, which is a damned shame given his general love of marekind and inadvertent fetish for women in power, but he's gathered enough about her to deduce that she seems to be an intelligent sort. She certainly doesn't seem as though she could be ensnared into Kaos' trap as easily as the vast majority of Helovians had been.

That leaves the second and possibly most alarming option - that she was fully aware of Kaos' intentions and helped him anyway. Volterra supposes that she has a history of going against the rest of the Gods, thinking of the stories he's been told of her little murder spree that resulted in the conception of the Mountain next to him. Ironic, isn't it, that he has an unknown, secretive dark Goddess to thank for the creation of possibly the most important influence on his life?

"Time will tell indeed," comes his reply, not having anything else to add to what the giantess has already said. The closer they get to the Falls, the more the beast finds himself unable to think of anything else but Isopia next to him and the weight of their history that seems to be resting heavily upon his shoulders. The Falls smells different, now. Back when she'd lead him here the first time, it had smelled of warmth and protection, of power and family and earthen strength. Now, it just smells empty. Desolate, barren, although just as beautiful as it had been that day when the yearling Volterra followed Isopia through the undergrowth and felt his first odd frisson of something in her presence.

Automatically, the Indomitable slips behind her, as he'd done that day. It seems only right to defer to her and to follow her lead as she takes him towards this important inner sanctum of hers - he's not, of course, banking on her suddenly stopping. He gives a startled grunt, unable to stop himself from probably walking straight into her (magnificent) backside. "Sorry," is his rumbled apology, shifting to the side and out of her way....not before he's granted with a series of mental images from the last time he was behind her. As he hurriedly moves before any more images can produce a visible effect on his body, he can't help but wonder whether she's remembering the same thing.

He glances over to her, quickly ridding his mind of such debauchery. Now is not the time to dwell on such things - it's time to focus fully on the child they're going to see. "Is something wrong?" he questions, wondering if returning to this place has been harder than she'd anticipated.

Her words cause that gaping, Isopia-shaped chasm in his chest to grow even wider, and he inclines his head in silent understanding. Volterra is no mind-reader, but he'd be willing to bet most of his possessions on the fact that she's thinking about their past and all the things they've been through together. How could she not, when they're staring at the place where one of their most important early meetings happened? It was in Isopia's clearing that Volterra first realised he felt more towards the giantess than just platonic amiability, and when he first felt the adolescent pangs of lust that grew tangled with something deeper and infinitely more meaningful. The same might not apply to her, but....how could she not feel something upon looking at this place? Especially now it holds the added pain of being the burial ground for their child.

Tentatively, the stallion reaches out his muzzle and tries to touch it gently to her shoulder. It's aimed to reassure, to tell her that he understands, but Volterra is unsure whether he can convey so much with a simple touch. The old Isopia would surely have understood what he was trying to silently say, yet the new Isopia might just think that he's trying to take advantage of her nostalgia in order to cop a feel. He hopes not; the touch is meant to transcend sexuality, although that's hard to portray when everything about Volterra screams salacious intent. So he withdraws his muzzle hoping that he's not cause her to think anything untoward, and follows her beckons with an eager, if nervous, stride.

He follows her, feeling the thorns snag at his feathered feet and thick black flesh just like they had during his first time here. Back then, there'd been a lot less of him for the thorns to grab hold of - he'd been a broad, bulky yearling, but now he's fully-grown and brawny from his chosen lifestyle of battle. The brambles seem to know that he's in a hurry to follow the Mountain, and snatch against his skin all the more. He pins his ears and barges through, trying to ignore the multiple, stinging cuts engraved into him. It's as though the clearing itself is telling him to leave; earthen magic, perhaps, or just a painful coincidence?

Finally, he breaks through the thicket and into the clearing itself. His eyes are immediately drawn to the mound of stones, which pulse gently with something he assumes is magic. On top of it - and his heart lurches - is the statue that he'd made for them both. "You kept it," he murmurs, his voice far softer than seems possible for one of his size. It means more to him than he can put into words that she'd kept his creation - when she'd flown off with it, he'd assumed that she had crushed it beneath her hooves in a voodoo ceremony, or cast it into the sea in the depths of her despair. Instead, she'd kept it...and that surely means something. Doesn't it?

He doesn't remember it being so brightly red, though, and frowns at it. It looks like blood, yet what blood could last so long? Deciding he'd rather not know the answer, Volterra follows her deeper into the clearing, his eyes never leaving the small grave. His ears flick towards the mare as she speaks, informing him that she'd given birth right here. The beast tries not to think of an alternative reality in which he'd have been beside her during the long, painful labour, and where he'd have watched with happy, awestruck eyes as their son took his first tentative steps upon Helovian soil. There would have been a delightful irony to watching something they'd created frolic joyously around the clearing where they'd once created something else, a hot-tub made of rock and stone. Their son would have gazed upon both of his parents and felt safe, knowing that he was loved, adored, protected. Wanted. The only stones in the centre of the clearing would have been placed there for the boy to play upon, not laid down to mark his grave.

Volterra's eyes are suddenly stinging, and he blinks hard. He averts his gaze from both Isopia and the pile of stones, but he can't stop his mind from focusing on that beautiful other world. If he'd have been honest, upfront...if he'd have found out about his other children sooner and raised them properly as he does now...then that alternative world could have been reality. As it is, there's nothing under that mound of rocks but rotting bones, and there's nothing to tie Isopia and Volterra together aside from shared memories that one of them hardly even remembers properly.

The giant sighs, his sadness there for all to see. He wears his heart on his sleeve, and there's little use hiding how he feels. He ambles towards the mound of stones, sniffing around it as though he'll be able to smell his son upon them, all the time trying not to unleash the tears that burn behind his eyes. "Aludj jól, a kis király," he murmurs to the stones in his mother tongue, soft enough that he's not sure whether Isopia will be able to hear. There's a sober silence upon the clearing, a sombre weight, almost. His dragons are utterly silent, mourning alongside him and offering their mental strength to him as he gazes at his child's final resting place.

He moves away, then, back towards the Mountain. His face is schooled into a mask, but there's still sorrow in those haunting ruby eyes. "It's probably a stupid question, I don't even know why I'm asking, but...did you name him?" It feels even stupider as he says it - why would a mother who'd purposefully aborted her child then name the dead fetus? But he needs to know - needs the security of knowing that, perhaps, his boy was granted a name, that one great vestige of life, before he was committed to the cold ground in death.

When he'd thought Vezér was dead, the beast's utter hatred of her would-be killer had overwhelmed everything else. It had helped him channel his grief into action, by killing Airlia and claiming vengeance for the murdered girl with the strength of his body and loathing in his heart. Of course Vezér hadn't actually been dead, but Volterra remembers those emotions clearly, with such clarity that they could have happened yesterday.

This time is different. He's got nothing to channel his emotions into, because the death of this child is down to a number of different factors rather than just one villainous bitch of a mare like last time. Without the ability to do something, Volterra feels helpless, and there's no way he can dam the tide of grief that pours upon him. There's no hatred or anger for him to lose himself in - there's only the gaping abyss of sorrow, and there's no escaping it. Sadness clouds his face as he stares at the grave, his thoughts lost in the image of his son.

Kókkino thanátou. It almost sounds like a name he'd have conjured up in his language, and when Isopia explains it he can't help but look to Vérzés because of the connection between them. As names go it's rather odd, yet seems to fit, somehow. The giantess continues, explaining the boy's colouring. Dark, with his father's eyes but something similar to his mother's magic. The beast's stomach feels as though it twists, and his head bows with the weight of the grief pressed upon it. "He is with the stars now," Volterra murmurs. In truth, the beast is cynical - he believes that death is the end, that there's no afterlife or ability for the dead to watch over their living loved ones. He can't bring himself to think that his son is accompanied by nothing but darkness, though, so comforts himself instead with the image that he's among the stars, beaming proudly at the reunion of his parents.

Isopia looks at him, and he looks back. He steps to the side, his massive head seeking to rest softly, sadly upon her withers, an embrace of shared mourning. Whether she will accept the touch remains to be seen, but Volterra wants the comfort of her warmth as much as he's keen to offer it with his own.

He isn't surprised when Isopia questions him. She is a clever woman, and he's sure that she thinks it something akin to naive stupidity to believe in an afterlife. "No," comes his reply, swift and brutally honest. "But I want to. I want to believe he's in a better place, that he's happy." He gives her a sidelong glance. In truth, the alternative is deeply disturbing. What if it does just turn black? What if you just...cease to exist? Volterra rarely contemplates death, and when he does he's more concerned about inflicting it than suffering it, but he would be lying if he said that he didn't sometimes wonder... He does not fear it, but he is in no hurry to find out for himself what happens after. "Don't you?" For a rational, logical mare like the Mountain, she probably believes in the simple facts - that your body feeds others, and that's all there is to it. That's an admirable way to look at it, if a tad daunting.

She does not return his touch, but nor does she reject it. That is enough, for now. Once upon a time Volterra would have read into her lack of a returning gesture, but he knows how new this must be for her. It's new for him, too - it's been so long since they touched intentionally, not the inadvertent brushing of skin that comes from walking close together. Even during their fight, their physical contact was minimal. The last time they truly allowed their sensitive muzzles to roam across each other's flesh was that day in the meadow, and the memories return afresh to bombard Volterra's mind. With a ferocity that surprises even him, he forces them aside. Now is really, really not the time for that. Not when the result of the last time they did that lies rotting in the ground a few feet away, a stark reminder that impulsions like these should be resisted else untold suffering will be caused.

That's hard for a man like Volterra, though, and it always has been. He lives off his rash decisions, exists in the heat of the moment and all the pleasure it brings. Spontaneity is a big part of his life, but age and maturity has taught him that sometimes he must fight against his selfish instincts and do what is right rather than what feels good. Now is one of those times. Now, as much as he wants to let the touch linger, to try and fill the Mountain's mind with the same thoughts that currently plague his own, he doesn't. He gently withdraws his muzzle, although he keeps his bulk close enough to her that he can still feel the heat of her body.

Her apology surprises him, and it takes him a couple of seconds to compose himself and think of a suitable reply. This is the first time they've spoken about this, and again Volterra thinks that this is a pivotal moment between them. How he responds could prove either beneficial or catastrophic to their relationship, and that's why he considers his reply carefully. "I understand," he rumbles, and he does. There was never the right time, what with everything that happened after their son's conception. The beast shifts, then, turning to face her directly and seeking to look her straight in the eye. He is about to be open and completely honest, kill or cure, and the vast white expanse of his face and crimson clearness of his eyes should hopefully reassure her that no lie will leave his lips.

"Kis hollo, I am sorry too. Not for bedding the other women, because that would be saying that I regret the existence of my children, and I certainly do not. I should, however, have been more open with you about my activities, and should also have been far more responsible for the foals I'd sired." The stallion had sort of assumed that he'd given Isopia a clear enough idea of his attitude to monogamy during that conversation they'd had a Hubris' hatching, when he'd admitted the lusts in his body and his comparison of them to hunger. "You must understand, though, that to me sex is as natural a function as eating, drinking, breathing. That is not to say that I do not value it, but I do not see it as something that should be restricted. As you know, I do not believe in monogamy, but polygamy only works when a man can adequately care for the mothers and raise the children properly. I will admit that I did not do that correctly, although that's a mistake I've worked hard to remedy. His voice is always level, calm, kind, almost soothing. Volterra will not grovel, beg for forgiveness or admit fault where he believes there is none to be had, but he is man enough to own up to his mistakes and admit them freely. He has worked hard to amend them, and he only hopes that Isopia will appreciate his honesty rather than condemning him for it.

"That brings me back to you. Kis hollo, never think for a moment that you are not special to me. I...do not possess the words to explain how special you are to me. You will never be just one of a number, and nor would our son have been." The boy would not have been favoured above the others, but he'd have been loved more than he could ever understand. He'd have been cherished, valued, protected, raised by adoring and powerful parents and groomed to greatness. "Ön a szívem, kis hollo." You are my heart, little raven.

One of Volterra's greatest flaws is the fact there's an innate selfishness running through his blood. Combined with his greed, it creates a man that thinks he can bend the world to his will and reap whatever he likes from it. It creates a man that thinks he can have a harem of women and as long as he chooses one favourite, she and the others will be alright with that, will be content with their lot in life. He is a man that thinks giving Isopia his heart is enough, even though his body is shared around the many broads that he calls his.

It never crosses his mind that she won't be okay with that. In his simplistic, primitive brain, he thinks that as long as he shows her that she's favoured above all the others, she will happily accept that and force aside her desire to be the one and only. He thinks that, clever woman that she is, she will understand the natural order of things - that a stallion has a harem, that monogamy is as unnatural to him as growing a set of fins instead of hooves. Wishful thinking, yes. Utterly selfish, definitely.

But that is what Volterra is. He isn't perfect - he's as far from perfect as it's possible to be. He's also, in his own way, rather gullible, so when Isopia proclaims that she understands, his face breaks out into a great, happy smile of relief. The beast is not a liar, and thus he's utterly hopeless at detecting it in other people. He takes the Mountain's words at face value, and he finds the tension in his muscles seeping away like water cascading down a rock. He shifts closer, wanting to press his body to her again, to hold that warm skin of hers against his own and feel the familiar shape of her. They are older now, yes. Wiser? Perhaps not Volterra, although he tries to be. He's learned from his mistakes, but that doesn't mean he's not prone to making more.

Her question concerns him, and he blinks several times as he contemplates how best to answer. She might be shocked and revolted at his current total, yet there's no way he's going to lie - he just isn't capable. "Nine," he rumbles. He tries to make his voice sound sheepish, almost ashamed, but it simply sounds proud. Not because he has so many, but because he loves each and every one like they're his only one, and dotes on them unconditionally. "There's Kid and Sabre, my twins. Zhu, who is a man in his own right now, and Astarot, one of my healers in the Throat. There's Tyrath - he can shift into a dragon, you know." He beams at Isopia, hoping that this common ground between her and Tyrath will make her dislike the boy less because of his status as Aithniel's son. The smile doesn't quite reach his eyes, which remain rather anxious as he contemplates the Mountain's reaction.

"Then there's Valdis," and here his face clouds slightly, his ears darting momentarily backwards as he thinks of his little crippled girl. "She was attacked shortly after her birth, and badly maimed. I won't hear a word said against her, though." His voice is fierce, as though daring anybody to call his precious Valdis a cripple or a weakling. "Vezér and Victorina too. Both of their mothers are dead...raising them alone is challenging, but I do my best." Then he looks over to the grave, his voice softening, his expression folding with sorrow. "And there's Kókkino thanátou, loved as much as the others."