A wave of fire comes towards her from the male's jaws, and Vadir spurts her own blast of static electricity to coat herself and sizzle away the flame with the same impunity that Dramyrth had done with her own breath. She's rising upwards like a golden eruption, her jaws open, gaping, ready to seize him, to dominate him....

Until, suddenly, he's not there anymore. The queen unleashes a roar of confusion and disgust as she twists in the air to see that he's now behind her, carried there by a lithe backflip. "!!!!!" radiates into Volterra's mind, and he can't help but smirk at Vadir's unholy fury. She always mocks him for his temper, yet here she is with steam practically coming out of her ears because her opponent is as slippery as a fish and as cunning as a cat. Despite herself, the gold is filled with a strange, albeit begrudging, admiration for Dramyrth's technique - rather than taking on the impossible task of besting her in a battle of raw strength, he uses his wits and his agility instead. He's taking things to his level, refusing to play her at her own game and instead trying to make her play at his. Clever, if irritating.

The fact is, though, that he is now running away, and Vadir takes this as a small victory. She huffs a wave of smoke into the sky, gliding down on lazy wingbeats just enough so that the air isn't as uncomfortably thin. She has no intention of chasing him; she just hovers where she is, her great bulk gleaming like a golden gem in the heavens. She is simply far too royal to chase; the higher ground (well, air) is now hers, and she's loathe to relinquish it. Let him run, let him flee, then let him come shooting back on his own time - if he wishes to be seen as equal, he'll need to come back close enough to lock claws with her, to let her test his strength and find it satisfactory. Sure, he can fly fast and can twist like a corkscrew through the skies, but that is not what Vadir's instincts are telling her to look for in a potential nest-mate.

The dragonmare bumps her nose against Volterra's, and he returns the gesture with vigour. The smell of her, the warmth of her, doesn't exactly help his already decadent thoughts, and he is forced to add an extra layer of steel to his mind to keep them out. As they walk, Amaris asks how his life is going; the beast is hardpressed to keep the grin from his face as he thinks of the distinct upturn in his fortunes of late. Not only does he have a herd to call his own, two fine dragons, strong magic and an unheard of strength upon the battlefield, he also has legions of children that he adores and dotes upon. Volterra will never be satisfied - he always strives for more - but he cannot deny that, at the moment, he is happy.

"Igen, it is." The Hungarian word for yes drifts off his tongue instinctively. "And you, Amaris? I confess that given the amount of time you were gone, I half-expected you to return with a foal at foot." The thought fills him with a surprising amount of jealousy - she is a dragonmare, and who else would be fit to mount her aside from him, dragonlord, warlord, golden-queen-bonded? None, so secretly he prays that she has no children, although none of these salacious thoughts show upon his face.