Barrow Fields i am fire bleeding smoke

*shoves dro in here*

ever since his dream of lotte — impossibly lucid as it was — the ansbjørn did not return to moonspear. his path is unclear but adapting on the fly has always been how drogon's rolled. the uncertainty of it stimulates him, breathes excitement into his veins and reawakens the instincts he's relied on to survive since he'd wandered off from the safety of teaghlaigh's borders and was pup-snatched. instincts that numbed and dulled down during his time spent in moonspear's ranks.

drogon moves through the barrow fields, glacial gaze taking in the unfamiliar territory as he continues forth on impulse. though he is not sure that's where he wants to go: he's coastal bound on his current path and it seems as good a path as any to continue to pursue. ahead of him are two silhouettes — both canine — and the talvella's steps slow to a caution halt as he draws within a visual distance of them. he does not approach either of them as he makes the awkward tip of the triangle, rolling his weight as he studies the each in turn from the distance.