Moonstone Quarry L.O.V.E./E.V.O.L.

Drogon’s velveteen ears cup forth and then slick back to rest at half mast atop his skull as she repeats his name out loud, rolling the ‘r’ of his name. The tundrian is exactly one for conversation as of late — perhaps a side effect of his self-induced seclusion. Then again, what is he going to speak about? How he was kidnapped from the Enok Tundra and ripped from his parents when he’d barely been three months of age. That was over two months ago, rapidly nearing it’s third month. Or about Blackfeather Woods? Though if his reflections caught briefly from time to time in the surface of the water is barely recognizable to him anymore. He was a dusty cream puff when Nyx had taken him in and his fur has darkened rapidly since his departure from the Woods ( just as his limbs have ). He no longer fears retribution if he is stumbled across by a wolf of the Woods. He is a true thespian — though it occurs to him that as his fur transitions into it’s adult color that he will need to implore more tact and be a little less careless about whose ire he instigates as he doubts his fur will likely transition again ( at least until he is old and begins to grey ).

Drogon shifts his weight as she inquires if he “comes around here often” and he spares the quarry a second glance, studying it before his glacial glaze flickers back to her. “No,” He replies and then wonders exactly where his penchant for single worded answers has come from ( because both of his parents are very verbose ). “I don’t usually travel this far north.” There was no particular reason why, he realizes. He is unencumbered by the laws of a pack and free to roam where he wants, whenever he wants; and when the time comes, when winter presses against the Wilds and pressures Drogon to seek a pack to settle — if only for the winter — the tundrian realizes he will have a hard time giving up his freedom. He will have to, if he seeks acceptance. He will have to surrender his freedom and live by the laws of another. He will have to bend the knee; but like a lion he is not meant to be caged. He is meant to roam as king of himself.

“In actuality, I’m hoping we didn’t trap ourselves down here.” Surely, the path he took down could provide them with a …relatively safe way out ( as safe as any treacherous path could be, mind ). A soft chuckle rumbles in the soturi’s throat. It’s easier to keep talking, not as forced as he thought it might be. There is something about her that he inherently likes though he cannot put his paw on it. “What about you? Are you from around here?” The Wilds are vast and Drogon doesn’t even feel like he’s covered twenty five percent of it, yet, so it’s very possible she’s a native — and reminds himself that just because she’s the first wolf he’s stumbled across that has pink eyes literally means nothing.