None of that is to be worried about today, though. Today, the Indomitable's only desire is to graze and relax, his back turned against the arctic gusts as he tears at the lush grass beneath his feathered feet. It is early evening, with a beautiful orange sunset casting the top of the mountain into sharp relief against the crimson skies all around. The mammoth stallion's coat shines in the light of the dying sun, still glossy in the last few months before his winter fur will grow in and make him appear even bigger and hairier than usual. The vegetation here is particularly tasty and his teeth rip greedily at it as he wanders along, lost in thought and in the taste of the delicious greenery. He loves this place; not only was he born here, but this was where he and Isopia had their most pivotal meeting. Those memories are fond ones, even in light of everything that has happened since.

Without realising it, he's come to the exact same place that he and the Mountain engaged in the physical act of their mutual attraction. The leviathan looks up and around, huffing his forelock out of his eyes and sighing fondly as nostalgia washes over him before returning his head to the grass. He thinks of his body lifted by a massive dragon and taken on a flight against his will; he thinks of stone walls shielding two lovers forged like a statue of skin and pleasure. On his back, Vadir lounges like a great golden blanket; she's flipped upside-down to expose her paler underbelly to the remnants of the sunlight, occasionally twitching a leg as her dreams take her in their illusory grasp. Sprawled inelegantly on her bonded's broad spine, it would be easy to forget that she is a golden queen and a proud one at that, and that she'd shudder to think that anybody might see her in this utterly relaxed state.

Vérzés is splayed out near Volterra's massive feet, chewing on the remains of a rabbit. The trio are peacefulness personified, simply enjoying each other's company and allowing themselves to drop their regal, royal acts to engage in some much-needed downtime. The Sultan feels almost guilty that he could be sparring, recruiting, patrolling or training, but he tells himself that he needs a break as much as any man. He tells himself that he's chosen to take his break here because of the quality of the food, but in truth it's so he has a reason to think about that fateful day without the accompanying pang of guilt. Here, he's free to let his thoughts guide him, and they haul him gleefully back to that momentous, beautiful event.

Quickly trying to compose himself, Volterra schools his face into what he hopes is an expression of relaxed indifference rather than one that will bely his pulsing heart from the shock she gave him. Vadir, awoken by her bonded's movements, yawns luxuriously and looks furtively around for Babel as soon as she notices the Mountain's presence. He's not there, and her horned, scaled features frown with disappointment. Her stomach rumbles and she casts a cursory glance down at her red brother to see whether his catch is worth stealing from him, but finding it almost fully devoured, she takes to the wing to hunt for her own dinner. Vérzés finishes crunching the last couple of rabbit bones, then waves a cheery paw at Isopia before launching into the sky and disappearing as well.

It's almost like the pair have timed it to leave Volterra alone with Isopia, and he glares suspiciously after their retreating forms before turning his attention to the giantess. Just the sight of her settles his beating heart, before sending it back into a frenzy as he realises the last time they were both here. Those memories return tenfold, and it takes quite the effort to dismiss them and concentrate on the present rather than the past. "Kis hollo," comes his warm and hearty greeting. He, in contrast to her, takes great delight in addressing her once again. It reminds him of their older meetings, rather than the selection of awkward recent ones.

Her words register for the first time, and he tilts his head in surprise. A mountain, speaking? "I was also unaware that mountains could talk," he says, his interest evident. "What did it say?"

To take a magic, though? Something earned, cherished, used? Why, he wants to march to the Steppe and face up to this mountain on her behalf, reclaim her stolen magic and snap its peak off to present to her as a gift for good measure. He'd do exactly that if it was a living creature who'd stolen something of hers, not that he'd have to because she's more than capable of handing herself on the battlefield. Still, it seems only right and fitting that he would march into war for her, her colours taped to his flag, his blood spilled in her name.

A mountain, though? Mountains do not bleed. They don't usually talk, either, but the beast has learned to never underestimate Helovia's magical aura. "I would offer to go and reclaim your magic for you, but Mountains are my weakness, you see." He flashes her a small grin full of meaning, the double layers of his words obvious. Still, he is rather furious on her behalf - how dare a mountain, of all things, take something so precious from her? It's wrong, it's abhorrent. Perhaps they should consult with the Earth God, he who commands the land itself, as surely he can make the mountain give back what it took.

This is, of course, Volterra assuming that Isopia is as outraged as he is about what's been taken from her. He doesn't think for a second that maybe she wanted to lose the magic, because to be stripped of one's power in such a way is not something that the behemoth understands.

A small smile creeps across his face as Isopia's reaction to his comment. She is an intelligent woman, vastly more intelligent than he, but he's noticed over time that certain nuances are lost on her. It's endearing, and the stallion's fondness for her grows just a little notch higher. She flushes, as though flustered, then snatches her head quickly away; his smile turns to a frown, fearing that he's offended her. It would not be an exaggeration to say that Volterra - who is so rarely subtle and hardly ever considers the consequences of his actions - feels as though he's treading on eggshells around her now. He's so afraid of upsetting her and losing her all over again that he immediately begins to go over what he said, trying to work out which part might have hurt her so he can try to make amends.

It's warm. The comment bids one of his brows to lift, and his inner arrogance wonders if it's his proximity that is turning her into an equine inferno. He likes to think so; likes to believe that he still has that....not power over her, as such, but that ability to crack her stony exterior with primal peaks of want. It's quite possible, though, that she's merely remarking on the weather, even if Volterra thinks it's the cooler side of comfortable at the moment. He reminds himself not to try and second guess himself or believe that he does genuinely incite such reactions in the Mountain - doing so will only set him up for a crushing disappointment when she inevitably reveals that she was just referring to the weather.

Then, her cape falls to the floor. The leviathan does a double take; he's not seen her without that adornment since their earliest meetings, and he's so used to its presence that he hardly even notices it. Only now does he marvel at the fact that she always seems to be wearing it, and he wonders how she copes with it hindering her movements. He even struggles to move around in his armour, and only vast amounts of practice have stopped him being cumbersome and useless when he's wrapped in the red dragonhide. He's granted with a whole panorama of toned brown skin and lavish curves, of muscles and power and beauty...

Now it's him who feels rather hot under the collar, and he snorts loudly whilst shaking his head to rid his mind of the mental images that have just leapt into it. "You're...naked," he remarks, not realising until he's said the words how lame they sound. After all, they're all technically naked, and indeed it's more unusual to see somebody wearing an item of clothing rather than simply strutting around as God intended. Those images snowball inside his head, not helping the already sizzling concoction of smut that almost makes him blush - and making Volterra blush is a fine achievement indeed. He clears his throat and tries to look anywhere but at the bronzed planes of feminine beauty that joyously flex and move beneath his hungry gaze.

It's taken only one flash of naked skin to tell him that he isn't over her at all. In fact, he's never been more under her spell.

She stretches, unleashing dizzying amounts of gorgeous Isopia that his eyes can't help but snap to, and he wonders for a second if she's doing this on purpose. She might occasionally be oblivious to certain physical aspects of life, but surely she cannot fail to realise what she's doing to him. Her remark about it being freeing - coupled with those wings of hers dipping tantalisingly to her sides, as though pulling the curtains across in the aftermath of a decadent strip show - only helps to heighten his already considerable state of ardour, and he gives another snort of displeasure as he desperately tries to focus on anything but her.

She tilts her head oh-so-coquettishly, sending luxurious curves of mane down her neck. It has the desired effect - he just cannot tear his attention away from the way the dark strands nestle across every contour of her shoulders, or the way her movement exposes the delicate skin of her neck that is just ripe for salacious nips and tantalising nuzzles....Oh, bugger. He's caught like a fly in her web, and there's nothing he can do about it. Her behaviour, though, does strike him as kind of odd - her effect on him seems intentional, rather than an inadvertant side-effect of movements she would have made anyway. Beginning to cotton on, the beast raises a scarred eyebrow. "Kis hollo, O great Mountain....are you flirting?" There's amusement in his voice, but a deep layer of hope, too, and just that tiny uncontrollable frisson of lust. Try as he might to not get his hopes up, he simply cannot help it. He tells himself that he's reading too much into it, that it's just his innate masculinity and uncontrollable sex drive confusing his common sense, but it all seems to fit.

If she is flirting, then he's only too happy to reciprocate, even though the fear of rejection is enough to make him want to run away and hide with his tail between his legs. He'll play her at her own game; he takes just one step closer to try and bring their heated skin within inches of each other. Snatching at his magic, he erects a small plateau of earth beneath his feet, just enough to lift him up and negate the difference in their heights so he can look her in the eye (and demonstrate his mastery over the element associated with her esteemed father). He flexes each hard muscle pointedly, displaying the raw strength embroiled in every inch of his bulky body, and flashes her his most suave, womanising, panty-combusting grin.

But it also wouldn't be an understatement to say that Isopia gave him the best night of his life in this very spot, surrounded by walls of stone. Not just the act itself, but the intimacy, the closeness, the feeling of being wanted instead of just desired - they may seem similar in meaning, but they're worlds apart.

Kiss me. The command takes him by surprise, because he'd not thought her the sort to be so...demanding. It's surprisingly arousing, although he does his best to stop the physical signs of that from showing. He obliges; he isn't the sort to obey so easily, but this is more than just an order, it's a demand, a need, a want. His muzzle slips forward, seeking hot skin and malleable muscle, but he finds nothing but fresh air. A guttural growl of displeasure makes the ground beneath his feet shake with the force of it, and his ears flash momentarily backwards. His disappointment doesn't last for long, though, because she slips along his side with a grace that he often forgets he possesses, her body lowered as though to offer him the domination he craves.

She knows him far too well. A smile replaces the frown, curving across his face and making it glow like an open flame.

She curves behind him, and the warrior in him shudders at the notion of letting somebody freely access that area, that blind spot, that weakness. He has to fight not to whip around to face her, instead standing his ground upon his plateau of earth and using his other senses to detect her presence. He can hear her footsteps, and his body sizzles everytime she comes anywhere near it - she's off his shoulder now, her wing hovering over him. Unable to resist any longer, he takes a step backwards so he can be fully next to her, almost stumbling as his rear feet slip off the platform he's created. He re-erects it behind him to keep his height level with hers, although her stooped, almost submissive posture is not lost on him. It appeals to the most ancient and basic instinct, the most primitive and in-built sense of lust. One step to his side brings their heated flesh into contact, sending frissons of pleasure through every nerve ending.

She wants this, too. That's all he can think as he stands beside her, his breathing ragged, hitching with lust. She wants him as much as he wants her. It's a thrilling, delicious thought, but one he feels almost guilty about thinking. He shouldn't even be contemplating this, shouldn't even be entertaining the idea. Their problems started here in this very place, when their bodies forged their relationship into stone then allowed it to crumble away; they were never the same after it. Maybe that was because they became real after they slept together, adding fuel to the fire of Isopia's jealousy when she realised about his other children. Whatever the reason, the best night of his life quickly gave way to one of the worst days of his life - when he made her the dolls of them, and had her rejection spat like venom in his face.

Should we be doing this? he should be saying. Is this wise? Is this stupid? Are you sure? Are you ready? All those are things he should be saying, yet he does nothing but lift his lips to her ear, purposefully breathing hot air against her neck and cheek. He even gives the smallest of tantalising bites, trying to insert into it every one of those questions, needing to know the answers, needing her to let them continue along this road that they certainly should not be going down, but which he can't seem to turn away from.

That's all he manages to groan out as she snatches herself away, leaving him with nothing but cold air and the pulsing of his blood. The little voice in the back of his mind wonders whether this is her intention, her final punishment for every ounce of hurt he's inflicted on her - to give him the bluest of balls and then leave him hanging and empty in her wake. He smothers the thought, sure that the Mountain would not be so cruel, and also sure that she can't act quite this well.

No sooner has this unpleasant thought entered his head than Isopia disappates it with a lifting of her lips to his ear, making the groan turn to another amorous growl. Again, the words seem so unlike her, and all the more arousing for it. That little voice pipes up again, wondering if the mare has learned these new flirting techniques from another lover, another man deemed worthy enough to mount her. The thought makes red spots glow in front of the beast's eyes as jealousy and rage mingle into one and bubble through his entire body, stomping one massive forehoof as though to crush the head of this unknown man beneath the feathered bulk. He forces the voice aside, reminding himself that nobody else will touch his Isopia, that they wouldn't dare, and that his musings might be unreasonable but are no less real for that fact.

He wants her to be his and only his, at the same time that he shares his body around with anybody who catches his fancy. It's hypocritical, selfish and avaricious in the extreme, but the goliath is seemingly incapable of acknowledging this. All he knows is that the thought of another man touching the Mountain is enough to make his blood boil and his head spin, although thankfully the blast of anger is only temporary. He returns to the present, forces aside all other thoughts, and focuses on the scent of her, the sight of her, the touch of her.

Again he bends easily to her command, his eyes seeking to lock forcefully upon hers as he replies. "I want you." His voice is even deeper than it usually is, barely more than a growl, an animalistic noise that betrays the uncontrollable pulsings of desire that thrum through his entire body. "I want you more than I've ever wanted anything" It is not a lie - after all, Volterra does not and cannot lie. Right here, right now, he would forgo everything he owns just to have this night with Isopia. He'd leave his herd, his possessions, his magic, everything, just to be with this beautiful giantess right now. In the morning when the fire has left his blood he'll marvel at the stupidity of such a thought, and remind himself that no woman is worth giving up all of that for, but right now he's well and truly caught in her honey trap. He's a slave to her body, and that is quite a new experience for him.

The Indomitable rather likes this new Isopia, this wanton sex goddess with her demands and her tantalising touches. She knows what she's doing, she knows what she wants, and she knows how to drive him wild.

Her wings are a barrier between them, and reluctantly the stallion ceases his attempts to press closer. Even though it's almost painful to do so, he hauls his bulk another step backwards, tearing him away from her air, her touch, her smell. "Your turn." His sense of pride cannot let this be so one sided; him begging her, her keeping him at arm's length and teasing until she's through with him. No, they are equals as they've always been, and Volterra can give as good as he gets.

Will this make it even better when he is finally allowed to seize Isopia beneath him and ravish her as she's never been ravished before? Delayed gratification is not a thing that Volterra usually engages in, but on this occasion he thinks it will make the event even more euphoric.

She seems surprised at his movement backwards, although she surely can't know how much it's killing him to do so. Moving away from her feels like punching breath from his lungs for no reason; it feels like cutting off his nose to spite his face, yet his pride will not allow him to be toyed with so easily. Let her have a taste of her own medicine, let her release be as delayed as his so it will be all the better when it eventually arrives. It's not long before she's in front of him again, her caresses finding fevered flesh and fuelling the fire that rages inside him. He returns each touch with one of his own, frenzied and ravenous, not tender and unsure like last time. They've both trodden this road before, and this time it's the heated touches of familiarity instead of the delicate trepedation of the unknown.

Her hindquarters are in front of him before he knows it, and the inevitability of the situation finally strikes him. All his questions are pointless now - there's no reason to apply words such as are you sure when her body has already given him the answers. There's no need to vocalise any doubts, because her movements are enough to dispel them.

Those words, those blessed, glorious words, only solidify his belief that this is the right thing to do. They both want it; denying it would be a cruel and unusual form of torture. She's his. She has always been his, and in a way, he has always been hers. He does not reply, because words are not enough; he merely summons another platform of earth to lend him the necessary height, and allows his body to say what his mouth cannot.

_______________-

To answer his earlier musing; yes, the delay did help to enhance everything he felt. It's better than he'd thought possible - how can such sensations exist inside their mortal flesh? How can such ecstasy be gained through such a carnal, simplistic act? He slips from her back to place himself beside her, his touches languid and relaxed now as he nuzzles that broad shoulder and presses his sweating, steaming bulk against her winged side. There's so much he wants to say; please, do not let this end like it did last time. I'm not going to let you out of my sight now. This is it, this is us. This time, it's for keeps. But as ever, Volterra's words fail him, as he simply cannot articulate everything he wants to. Silence will need to be enough, and he can only hope that his body has communicated everything else.