I was born with a broken heart

It still hasn't hit him that she's gone. It probably won't until he's got his family settled here, until their needs are attended to, until the Rift has been declared home and his dragon is back by his side. Volterra has always been a selfish, avaricious man, so the notion of putting other people before himself is a relatively new one - he'd only developed it upon ruling the Throat and realising that as Sultan, he had to care for them before he cared for him. It is something that has been advanced since landing in the Rift, because now he has an army of children and women to care for, a herd of his own making. He has to stay strong for them, even when he's dying inside. He has to be their pillar of support, even when there's nobody around to hold him up when he wants nothing more than to crumble into dust. That is how Volterra is dealing with Isopia's death. He's not letting himself think properly about it until he has put his affairs in order and made sure his family are safe and well, because it's more important that he be the breadwinner and strong family leader rather than the mourning, heartbroken shell of a man that he truly is. Volterra the warlord, Volterra the father, Volterra the Indomitable, are all masks that he's far more comfortable wearing, like facades to hide the truth - Volterra the broken. Keeping busy makes it easier. That's why he throws everything he has into looking for Vérzés, and finding the Tamlin who cut his daughter. That's why he finds himself on an island floating in the middle of nowhere, his body soaking and darkened with seawater after the long swim over here. There is no sign of the red dragon amongst these trees, either, but he is unwilling to return back to the mainland just yet. Searching for something to do - another distraction to keep his mind from wandering to his grief - he decides to test all of his magic, to ensure it has not been ruined by the Rift. After a long and painful transformation into a cerberus and back, and a swift summoning of a stone pillar, he ascertains that those two magics are still bonded to his soul. That only leaves his golems, and that brings an idea to his head. The goliath summons a golem with a simple flick of his mind, creating a small horse-shaped lump of sentient stone by his side. It's even smaller than his usual creations, only reaching to his feathered fetlocks, because he does not intend to use this golem for anything battle-related. At first all seems in order - until the pain starts. He's burning. "Fuck," he snarls, feeling his side erupt with a frisson of flaming torture. Vadir, floating nearby, rises into the trees with a horrified shriek upon seeing her bonded's flesh ripped asunder by a vein of fire identical to the ones upon his small golem. The agony is intense but brief; it fades as soon as he releases his hold on the magic, although he's gasping with the shock of it. Ah, so this magic didn't escape the Rift's menace, but Volterra finds it hard to care. Pain has never scared him, and this....this is his punishment. This is what he deserves, for letting her die. So he reaches to his golem, braces against the inevitable, and continues. He bids its back to bubble into small, feathered wings; his back splits with a trickle of molten agony, drawing a feral growl from his jaws. He makes its head grow four small horns; the back of his own skull burns with a blinding pain as fire tickles across it. He carves the rudimentary outline of a cloak across its shoulders; his withers begin to heat up until they're almost unbearable, a volcano in horseflesh. When he is done, there is scarcely a part of him that doesn't burn, but the Isopia-shaped golem at his feet is....it is as perfect as he could have hoped with his lacking control over the rock. It resembles her, from her skull marking to her cape, albeit a crude and diminutive version of her. Still, it is her, and it is a piece of her that he will always be able to carry with him. He smiles down at the Isopia-golem, nuzzling it softly with his nose before flopping weakly down next to it, his scorch-marked skin still livid with the marks of its creation. V O L T E R R A WHATEVER HAPPENED TO THE YOUNG MAN'S HEART? SWALLOWED BY PAIN AS HE SLOWLY FELL APART

image: naia-art


@Zèklè