Fairspell Meadow crowns sit heavy on the hearts of heroes

Drogon’s anticipation rose to a icy crescendo as the sound of footfalls grew nearer and the scent of Blackfeather Woods grows stronger. The tundrian’s heart pounds like the steady beat of a war drum in his chest hoping that Wraen had not been lying to him about his ‘supposed’ Glamour ( not that Drogon believes in it in quite the same sense as he believes Wraen does ) just because she thought he was handsome. He knows due to the color change his fur had gone through as he’d aged that he looks nothing like the pale cream puff Nyx had taken in: he’s not recognizable by sight and he hopes not by scent either. It’s been many moons since he’s been anywhere near Blackfeather Woods and he doubts that they’d even remember his scent, either. As the ember nearly collides with the soturi there is a brief tug of recognition in Drogon’s mind on sight alone but it goes no further than that. The hackles along the dark kahl’s spine bristle at first contact but they quickly smooth as the ember takes a step back. He knows the ember kissed boy before him is the pale boy’s brother but Drogon had never officially met him during his brief stay among the Blackfeather wolves, nor did he know his name.

The older boy makes mention that he had not seen Drogon there and the tundrian offers a lofty roll of his shoulders and a beguiling grin. Drogon rather thinks he stands out like a sore thumb even in the cover of the dried and dead grasses: a stark blue-black with silvery-blue mane but perhaps, he allows, the other boy just wasn’t paying much attention. Drogon’s salmon pink tongue draws across his lips and he offers the ember colored boy an amiable wag of his tail, dispelling some of the snow from the stalks of tall grasses that have bowed with the weight as his tail swipes at them. The snow rains down upon the tundrian and he gives his coat a slight shake to dispel the wayward snow that has not yet melted upon the tendrils of his pelage.

“You come out here to hunt, too?” Drogon inquires conversationally, gesturing in the direction of the scent trail he’d been absently tracking. Admittedly, it’s a bit further than he thinks the wolves of Moonspear are willing to go for a pack hunt but at least it’s an option, he thinks ( and also works as a good cover in case he needed it to be ).