Hushed Willows my bones are headstones, darling

i'm probably going to try to use this for a tactician thread. :0

She does not criticize him — though he does not for a second doubt that it has crossed her mind — and for a brief moment Drogon is very sure she will take her leave. To his surprise the girl with a pelage of midnight does not take her leave. Instead, she studies him and in turn he sweeps his glacial gaze over her ( for it is only fair ) and offered her a beguiling twist of his lips upwards ever so slightly. “Trying to see how many passerbys I can fool into thinking I’m asleep,” His response is wry and his ghost of a smile turns into a sly smirk that could give the devil a run for his money. Handsome ( despite Drogon’s youth ) and oh-so wicked. That wasn’t truly why he was here: this were merely a stop along the way …though the way to where he wasn’t overly sure. He had no true destination. The tundrian is becoming a mercenary for hire but knows that he cannot keep leaving the nomadic life he’s taken to. He has until the end of fall and then the pressure to settle ( if only for the winter, at least ) will come down like the blade of a guillotine. He has time yet, and though it is a nagging worry at the back of his mind he does not worry too much yet.

“I feel like it’s pretty strategical in an ambush if you’ve got enemies,” He muses aloud. “lure them close and then when they are least expecting it: attack.” The tactician in him sees the advantage of it but thinks that is could only work once on a wolf and it better be executed with flawless precision because it was doubtful a gorilla warfare tactic such as that would work a second time on the same wolf. A warlord had to know how to fight, Drogon believes, but he also knows that they need to know how to command their legion in warfare. Fighting takes skill, yes, but it doesn’t exactly take intelligence.

Drogon grins then as his shoulders rise and fall in a lofty shrug. “I’m Drogon.” He offers her his name in introduction as he pushes himself to his paws, shaking out his coat slightly to rid it of the debris it picked up from the earthen floor and the long, weeping boughs of the willow tree he’d rested under.