Stavanger Bay we are graveyards reaching, with haunted bones

weather: early morning about 7 am 52°F / 11°C clear

The early morning was chilly; made even more so by the beach as he prowls it’s white sand, stepping away from the tide as it stretches out to him like greedy, grasping fingers. He holds no doubt that the salt water is cold and he has not yet reached the point in the day where he would enjoy the cool-off; though he suspects it might not be a bad idea to bathe in the salty water ( once the day warmed up a bit more, of course ). This what he becomes, he thinks as his lips form a terse line and umbra dusted ears flutter back to rest loosely against the crown of his skull. A nomad. A vagrant. No, he thinks, a mercenary for hire that masks his natural and pleasant scent of amber, vanilla, woodsy musk with the sharp tang of pine or the salty brine of the sea. The freedom is liberating and Drogon enjoys being his own leader but there is another part of him that craves the stability that a pack can offer, and the socialization. Not that he’s very good at socializing: his tongue is as wicked and sharp as a newly forged blade and he is just as merciless and cruel.

He veers up the beach, picking up his pace when sand shifts to solid earth beneath his paws, shrugging into the copse of ash trees that dominate the bay. He searches for a clean water source to linger around until the world around him heats up and he deigns to return to the beach to cool off when he is apprehended by the pungent and metallic scent of blood and pitiful, tiny bleating: calls for a mother that Drogon knows is not coming back for it. It’s too injured to keep up with it and the mother and sibling’s scent is a few hours stale. Saliva pools in his mouth as he adjusts his course, shrugging through the underbrush, crouching in the shadows for a moment to assess. The fawn is injured and it’s sheer luck that it wasn’t already made into a meal by another predator.

Even if the soturi cared enough to feel pity for it ( he did not ) killing it was a kindness ( besides filling his belly ). He surges forward and though the fawn — it’s back leg twisted unnaturally and bleeding — attempted stubbornly to rise and run away from him was rendered immobile. It let out a single, weak bleat as Drogon seized it by the neck and bit down through flesh, clamping his jaws shut until it’s life siphoned from it’s body. Warm blood dribbled down his chin and his salmon pink tongue drew across his jowls to collect it as he released the fawn and circled his meal once before he sank his teeth into it’s soft belly and began to dine upon it. Thinking that this carcass could last him a few days if he rationed it carefully. He could hunt well enough to feed himself ( obviously )— at five months he was no longer helpless and as he neared his adult size was a gangly titan with broadening shoulders and last vestiges of baby pudge that melted away into hard muscle honed by his warrior training and long legs ( but his feet and head were still a little too big yet, tell-tale that he wasn't an adult as first, quick glimpse might give impression of ) — but it was rare he got so lucky as to have a meal of venison.