Deepwood Weald he is neither gentle nor kind

drogon prowls through the spindly trees that line the deepwood weald like a man discontent and full of pent up, relentless energy; and he is. he's bored. it took him months to realize it, to keep peering at the festering lack of adventure and excitement in his life until he understood his boredom was like an open, infected wound and was not bound to get better simply by ignoring it. sure, he had a pack to call home and he had a girlfriend and surely those were things to be grateful for but it also meant, without a doubt, that drogon had settled down. he's made himself complacent and stuffed himself into a cage to perform like a circus act to curry favor with his girlfriend's father ( whom so happened to also be his leader ) ...and drogon hated it. he was leijona ...a lion. lions were never meant to be caged. they were made to roam, to conquer. something needed to change and it was all a matter of what drogon was willing to sacrifice to free himself from the prison of his own making.

for the moment he focuses upon his chosen path within the weald, following it towards the heart of the territory, alert upon instinct but not without the lingering vestiges of distraction as he contemplates the hard choice that now lays bared before him. he knows that this 'married' life of 'yes sir, no sir' is not for him. he is a tundrian, a warrior. he is, at heart, what he could not tell others when they ask him who he is: a thespian, spinesplitter: a conquerer.

the morning is chilly and clouds drift over the descending moon to block what few of it's silvered beams break through the twisted canopy formed above by the tangled branches overhead, forcing drogon to slow his pace and pay a bit more attention to where he steps as the fog thickens and the green and red ferns threaten to tangle around his legs.