Fear is a powerful emotion; it is able to move even the most stoic of souls to weep, and yet, it can also harden even the weakest of souls when need be.

Volodar was no stranger to fear- indeed, it had been by his side, like an unwanted familiar, since the first time he'd seen battle, all those years ago. It was there, calling him aside, as he, Bob, and Alexios first met a group who referred to themselves as "The Menagerie of Bastards". It whispered in his ear has he lay, bleeding out, on the ground where Scylla had resided moments before. Even now, fear was holding his hand, as he stood, looking at the churning waters of the River Styx.

He'd learned, of course, to hide his fear. After all, he was Volodar, The Tongue of Zeus! He'd led countless campaigns in his time, his lightning breath carving a path before him better than any mere sword could! ...Or, at least, he had been, until a local seer convinced him to lead his men on a suicide mission- He'd been the only one to walk away that day.

No one saw him removing his armor, but they certainly all heard as the chain mail was dropped carelessly to the ground. Volodar hardly noticed their stares- his mind focused on his squadrons- both the men he'd once led, and now the Menagerie that he followed. He'd always told himself that his squadron, more than any man or God, was worth his life. It was almost a fitting end, if he met the same fate as he'd seen twice now, and...per chance he'd be reunited with his former platoon.

On the other hand, he'd seen two more people survive, and if the legends were true, they were nigh invincible now! He couldn't help but imagine leading through the fray once again, this time knowing that nothing could even hope to hurt him. The resilience of a god, with only a fraction of the arrogance... Inwardly, he laughed at the idea of using abilities that likened him to a God against the Gods, following one group of "Bastards" to face another.

He didn't have many words to offer, as he walked to the Rivers' edge. Even if he did, his throat had been cut during the suicide mission, rendering speech quite difficult. What he did have to say, or rather, to request, was that if he perished, the others were to beat the Tyrant King of the Gods until there was nothing left. It only made sense, after all, that if the Tongue of Zeus died, the rest of him should die as well, however impossible as it would be to do so.

He did pause for one small note though, in the middle of his speech, and approached Xanna Weatherby, handing her a small bowl. He'd been meaning to return it, and to thank her for the soup it once held, but things had been hectic, as they always were with this group.

As he stood before the River, his fear was quick to remind him that the odds were even for both extremes. Sure, invincibility was nice, but was the threat of oblivion worth it? The last he'd ever know of Polyhymnia was her anguished scream, and Rosalind, her fiery hair. What would be the last of him? Blue scales, now dulled with age and regret, almost to grey? Eyes, lined with the dark bags of countless haunted, sleepless nights? His last words, voice raspy and broken?

...Or would he even be remembered? He'd denounced his faith, after the suicide mission, when he'd marched all the way from the battlefield to the house of the seer and beat him to death. Now he was in the underworld already- no point to bury him, or pray to any of the Gods for him, and this group said they would leave again in short time. No one would mourn his passing once this group had returned home.

And yet, despite his fear begging him to turn back, he stepped into the river. Perhaps some part hoped he'd perish; He wasn't an honorable dragon. No, he'd lost his honor when he couldn't die with the rest of his men, and though he'd spent many years trying to regain it....now, he realized, at some point, he'd given up hope of doing so. At the very least, he told himself, if he were to die, dishonored and hopeless, he would not die a slave to his fear.

He closed his eyes, possibly for the last time, and let himself fall, face first, into the River Styx.

As soon as he did, he understood why Polyhymnia screamed as she did- sharp, agonizing pain began to rip through his body and soul. It was as if stone bricks were crushing him, razor-sharp wire slicing him into pieces, and the Hell-Hounds were tearing his soul into scraps, all in the same seemingly eternal instant. He wanted to scream, truly, but the moment he opened his mouth the cursed water flowed in, choking him. With the burning pain both inside and out, his limbs became unresponsive, and though he tried to thrash, to escape, to even just come up for air, he couldn't. Instead, Volodar slowly sank into the river, and, just as agonizingly slowly, sank into unconsciousness.

...Yet, he found that he didn't sleep. It was as if...well, he didn't quite know how to put it, but he was no longer aware of the pain that had driven him to the brink of sanity only moments ago. In fact, he slowly realized, he wasn't aware of any sensation, or anything at all, really.

He knew what this meant. He'd perished, surely, and soon his soul would wash up in front of the judges to determine where he'd spend his afterlife. If he'd still had lungs, he'd have laughed- as much as some part of him did probably want this, the rest of him had wanted so badly to survive, to overcome, to step back out of the River so that he may fight with the others another day!

And yet, this was it. Even now he could feel the river pulling his spirit away. His last thoughts were of those who he'd been fighting for all this time.

His first thoughts were of Alexios and Bob- The three of them had known each other before meeting the Menagerie, when Volodar took up arms with a small legion of Spartans.
There was Torsun, the first to know Volodar as the Tongue of Zeus, thankfully not striking him down there...he'd never had the chance to ask why this group was so unhappy with Zeus, but it seemed so trivial now.
Then Vondaro, who, after an incident involving a handful of bandits and an invisibility spell, had accidentally started a new religion.
Beatrice, with her beautiful, innovative melodies- he still chuckled thinking about the Mambo incident.
The nameless Thief who walked with them, and had saved his life with a much-needed potion as they fought the Sirens.

Even the people who'd joined after he had, like Xanna and Babbianca, and those who'd been lost, like Madslag, Polyhymnia, and Rosalind... Even the ones who he'd never met; from what he'd been told, there was a Were-Bear and a Drunk Dionysian who'd been a part of the group once...

This party, that had fought for so long, coming so far... Volodar didn't want to leave them.

He began to struggle, as best as he could, against the flow of the River.

Volodar was many things, yes. A disgraced soldier, a dragon driven by rage to take another life, a terrible shot with his crossbow...but, in the eyes of whatever Gods still watched him as he cursed their names, he would not be a coward, and today, he would overcome Death itself.



On the edge of the river, the others grew worried. When anyone else bathed in the river, it became apparent in a matter of moments whether or not they'd survived, but they'd not seen scale or spirit of Volodar in a few minutes now.

As the time stretched on, hope began to die amongst the group- no one wanted to say it, but it was apparent that Volodar hadn't been as fortunate as some of the others had been...Reluctantly, as if doing so made the situation more real, they began to gather his things for a burial, alongside what few items remained of Polyhymnia and Rosalind.

As the last item was picked up, his prized scimitar, the group heard a sudden gasp for air a short ways down the river- every one of them looked on in shock, as Volodar scrambled out of the river, with all the same grace of a man who'd just downed an entire barrel of low quality wine. The dragon who came out of the water was a sight, compared to the one who'd gone in- His scales were no longer dull, practically glowing a vibrant sapphire, he stood erect, eyes sharp, and mind sharper. This was a soldier in his prime, ready to take on an entire army single-handedly if need be. The only thing that had died was his fear, conquered by the bond he had made with the Menagerie of Bastards.

Volodar gave a soft sigh of relief, before stopping, noticing something. Slowly, as if he was afraid he might be wrong, he raised one hand up to his throat- as he gingerly touched it, he realized the scar that had lined it for so many years, carved into his vocal chords, was gone. He began to chuckle, which devolved quickly into raucous, excited laughter, even his voice a far cry to the dry, aged rasp that had hurt him to use. His voice, like the rest of him, seemed to be in its absolute prime, able to rally an army, as it had so many years ago.

He moved purposefully towards the group, quickly taking back his equipment. Only after he was dressed again did he address them.

"Now then," He stated, the spark of life in every word, "I think we have a few Gods we need to pay a visit."