Moonspear do not be afraid to destroy

The morning carries with it a slight chill but it largely goes unnoticed by the tundrian. Winter is definitely on it’s way — something that he feels deep in the marrow of his bones. He’s never experienced autumn before but he finds that thus far: he enjoys it. He enjoys the cooler temperatures, the colors: deep crimsons, burnt oranges, golds and ruddy browns, the smells and is briefly distracted from his self given mission as he marvels over what autumn has thus far offered the Teekons.

Drogon seeks out @Hydra and as he focuses and follows the trail that he thinks belongs to her. He does not forget about the other two and can only hope that he pursues the right sister’s scent trail. It would be nothing short of embarrassing to address the wrong sister, especially considering there were three of them and they all looked identical: even down to the little notch in their ears …and without knowing their personalities gives him little to go off. He knows Hydra is Beta and he knows she is Master Warrior and it gives him enough to be clever and deduce where she he thinks he will best find her; and while serving his selfish needs it almost makes him useful because he can patrol and search for Hydra at the same time without compromising the other.

It was fortunate for her that she and her sisters were so identical, down to their scent. Perhaps they might have individual scents, if not for the fact that they were consistently alongside one another. Except, (potentially) unfortunately for Drogon, this instant. Hydra stalked the male, her learned stealth quite exceptional on these particular ridges. Were it anywhere else for her abode she would not be so expert, but she had prowled every inch of this place since a child. She kept low to the earth, and if ever there was a moment Drogon seemed to sense her Hydra was as much a stone as any rock on this place. She was alert to his every movement, and aware that she must be who he sought. Hydra also was pleased to see him here, of all the places he could be—she appreciated the extra strength he already offered.

There is an occasional pinprickle upon his maned neck, the soft bristle of nape hairs as if he can feel the eyes of The Cerberus he seeks upon him; but there are many things that dwell in the woods at the bottom of the titan spear that stands sentinel above them. Wolves and other assortments of creatures alike. He gives pause a few times, quieting his breath and thoughts as his ears pivot atop his skull, straining to hear anything out of the ordinary, thinking that perhaps someone or something watches him from outside the territory; yet his nose lifts and he draws in the scents that mingle in the air and there is nothing but the pack scent of Moonspear and individual scents that he cannot yet put name to. In time, he will learn them all, he’s determined. For good measure, the tundrian glimpses behind him and yet when he sees nothing he lets out a low huff ( patience has never ben his strong suit ) and pushes onwards, not entirely shrugging off the continued sensation but trying to focus upon his patrol and following Hydra’s trail in the hopes it might yield result — as he is completely aware that she is the shadow given flesh that stalks him, the source of that persistent feeling of being watched.

Surely he sensed something—his actions proved that much—but not so much that he stopped what he did to address it. Still, from this distance she observed the way he moved. She could see his impatience—in every anxious twist of his ear or turn of his head, Hydra felt it. Hydra was not so impatient as he. She knew that good things came to those who waited, and in battle such a thing was especially true she had learned. 

Knowing that if such a sensation mounted any more than it did he would truly come to know he was being followed, Hydra closed the short distance between them, rushing forward to attempt to nip at his hock once before she arrived beside him. Settling in well? She inquired, her eyes sharp and assessing.

Drogon is a creature that gives into his whims, and fuels his impatience by seeking the gratification for it almost as immediately as he feels it creep into his chest. A habit that, surely, will need corrected. He’s spent a long time on his own and this shows. Two months isn’t so long but it’s long enough and to him it’s certainly felt like a lifetime in it’s own way. The sound of footfalls rushing towards him gives away that his suspicions were right: that the pinprick at the nape of his neck hadn’t been for nothing. A glimpse over a broad shoulder shows that it’s definitely one of The Cerberus and he can only hope that it’s Moonspear’s warrior princess. The nip at his hock causes a low rumble ( the non-threatening kind, of course ) to linger in his throat and a flush of heat to burn in his cheeks ( he’s never been so glad for fur ) as a shit eating grin splits his muzzle. Yet, ever the thespian he switches to serious business Drogon at her question as she joins him at his side. He hesitates for only a moment: wondering if he’s meant to slow down to give her the lead — providing she’s Hydra, of course — because the truth was Drogon was not sure what sort of protocol he was meant to adhere to in the Beta’s presence. “Well, I think.” Drogon responds with a soft chuckle; but as he’s never actually settled anywhere before and thus he has nothing to compare the act of settling into Moonspear with there is an edge of indecision upon his tone. Blackfeather Woods didn’t technically count and even then he’d never fully integrated himself, never actually settled before and everything, accordingly, feels new.

She watched his body language and acted in accordance to her own great pride; her head lifted a measure, though her plume remained relatively lax. Hydra was aware of her station, and this would not be a mystery to any. But at the very least she had earned this place (she felt). At his response, Hydra turned thoughtful. You have not been here very long—I think you will do well here, so long as you pull your weight, which she knew he could; if she did not think him capable of that, she would never have invited him here. Hydra did not have the time of day for those that could not. She thought of the one wolf within Moonspear that had not even attempted to meet her, despite Hydra's own fruitless search. That one, Hydra decided, she did not have time for.

Do you feel rested? She asked next, ears flicking atop her head. Even if he did not, it would not matter—she would teach him to fight through the exhaustion, if only because she wondered if it would become necessary now that the wolves that smelled of blood and feather had attacked so close to their home. The one wolf they had fought against had attacked Rannoch without reason, and so she could not see why they would not. Drogon knew of them—perhaps they had a vendetta against him. She never had asked why he had left, but really she did not need to. What a horrible stench they produced—only a maniac could endure it for Alltime.

Drogon does not confirm that he will pull his weight: he’s never been a believer of words. It’s the action that stands behind the words that he is interested in. Words are too hollow, it’s too easy to lie with words. To say one thing from betwixt teeth but mean something entirely different. Thus, he will prove to her and Moonspear that he will pull his weight by doing his share: of patrolling, of hunting. Of whatever they wanted or needed of him. He wanted to prove himself. He wanted to impress. He wanted …he wanted to better himself and not just physically ( because he knows he’s rude and unruly ). To be challenged. He does not answer her next question right away: he contemplates it. It’s been a long time since he’s slept with wolves nearby and the answer was: no. He slept fitfully, hyperaware of the other wolves in the pack territory. Though he’d found a spacious enough den he claimed for himself he’d felt claustrophobic in it’s depths: trapped. As a lone wolf: these were all things he had to be hyperaware of, had to consider. If he didn’t: if he didn’t conceal himself but give himself an exit, if he was ignorant to the sounds around him it could mean a surprise attack or worse yet, his death. “Not really,” Drogon admits. It would be several days yet until he could fully sleep “peacefully”. “I’ve been alone for some time…my den feels like a death trap and knowing there are others in the territory subconsciously makes me weary despite that I know we are packmates.” It will pass, Drogon is confident, once he has assimilated himself to pack life. Despite these truths: things he feels compelled to admit to her though he doesn’t understand why ( opening up about it makes him vulnerable, he believes ) he keeps pushing on. He is tundrian and he will endure.

Hydra listened to him, interested. He was not yet at peace here; this she could understand, him being new. But Moonspear was filled with good folk. Though he may never be safe from she and her sisters antics, even when he slept, he would not live in terror here; it was a good home, with good wolves. She was entirely bias in her opinion, but she could not understand any who would not come to love it. Those that did not forced themselves on the outside, and did not remain. It was their own fault. 

What was it like? she asked, and after a beat, elaborated: being a lone wolf, I mean. She could not imagine he was a lone wolf by choice; he was young, young enough to require the assistance of pack at least but old enough to have survived a short period of time alone. Hydra did not think that the life of a lone wolf was a good one. Even if he said as much to her, she could not imagine it to be so—but this life, with her pack, was one she had always known and always loved.

Comfort does not come right away — not in a new and unfamiliar place and situation. He’s not always been a lone wolf, of course, but it wasn’t as if he hadn’t needed to develop those cautions when in Blackfeather Woods because he hadn’t allowed himself to relax there either. Not because the sandy marked boy had scared him but because he disagreed with everything that they were and stood for. There was no honor in killing without motive, in hiding behind gods to excuse actions, to use poisons and secrecy — but these things are just Drogon’s own opinions on the matter. His ear twitches as they walk the patrol as she asks him another question: this time regarding what being a lone wolf was like. He draws in a breath, glacial gaze sliding to the free territory outside of Moonspear’s borders, vigilant even as they hold conversation. There was no simple, starkly black and white answer to that question; it was loaded and heavy and conflicting.

“It’s freedom but that is a small boon in the face of what it actually is. It’s incredibly lonely. It’s going hungry because you didn’t catch a meal, it’s constant danger and fitful sleep or else you run the risk of becoming something bigger’s lunch. At first, I’d loved it.” Of course he would revel in the thrill, in the constant danger because Drogon thought his youth and mercenary trade made him invincible, because he was all too happy to break the chains of law that had previously bound him. Being a lone wolf had hardened his resolve, had made him strong but he’d realized that it wasn’t all the glamour it appeared to have because no one ever thinks of all the risks. The risk of death of injury, the risk of going hungry and starving to death — he’d done alright after he’d left Blackfeather Woods but if not for Cascada, a few strokes of luck and hunting partners he knew he’d be a lot worse for wear then he was currently. “but no one ever tells you that, no one ever thinks about those things.” They were social creatures by nature, designed to live and operate in packs, after all.

Idly, Drogon wonders when his outlook on it had changed and if that part of him that had been childishly rebellious was beginning to mature. He thinks so, but it’s still too early to be sure. He has a history of bolting at the first sign of anything real for him, of putting roots and growing affection, after all; but it'd be really nice to know that he's willing to lower that guard and ...stay. To see what planting roots and allowing himself to flourish might hold for him. It's unfamiliar territory, vastly unknown and mildly terrifying for him but he's grown tired of running from things that could be incredibly good for him if he'd only give it a chance.

As he informed her of what it was to be a lone wolf, Hydra found herself unsurprised. These things she had been warned about in passing. There was no glory in being alone, for whatever your reasons. She had no interest in it herself. As far as freedom went, Hydra felt plenty free here even as a pack wolf. She pondered what his life had been like before his coming here that he might crave that. As far as no one ever thinking of these things, Hydra tilted her head. I do, she responded, her voice not at all condescending as she corrected him, though maybe it is just because I've faced dangers as a pack wolf to know that life would be far more difficult if I were to be alone. I'm given freedom here, as much as can be given for a pack wolf—I think you won't feel restrained, here, though... I don't know what your life was like before, she admitted.

She looked to him then, though without expectancy. Whether or not he was willing to share his life of "before" with her was up to him; she had no desire to force him to. Though she did expect to hear of what he knew of the Woods, she had not been certain how long his stay with them had been for it to have any bearing on his desire for freedom. But perhaps it had. Since he had shared much with her, she deigned to tell him, I have been here all my life. Not once have I desired to leave, though I know as some wolves grow up it's natural for them to want to disperse. My time with Moonspear isn't over... I don't know that it will ever end. At present, she would be content to stay here for the rest of her life; she had ascended in the ranks and her ambition did not yet reach so far that she desired to stand where her mother stood. If ever that day came, she would leave before she challenged her; her mother had her utmost respect, as did her father.

giant monologue incoming. xD

She corrects his assumption that no one thinks about all the risks, all the cons to being a lone wolf but her voice lacks condescending rebuke. She speaks of the dangers she has faced as a pack wolf and seeks to assure him that she doesn’t think he’ll feel restrained here. Drogon believes her. It’s just re-adjusting to pack life, and adjusting to Moonspear — so very different from Blackfeather Woods — that present challenge. He’s been a bit too feral for too long, ignorant of how a pack actually works …but he’s doing alright, so far ( from his point of view, anyway ) and that's something. Hydra continues on that she has lived here her whole life and speaks with an iron clad resolve that she will not leave, possibly not ever. Drogon is impressed — even more so than he already was by her. He wonders if he will ever know that kind of devotion and loyalty some day, if he is capable of it. Thus far, his track record isn’t the greatest and though he could summon any excuse under the sun the truth didn’t get any more simple: he’d been a runner. Though he could no longer tell whether he’d been running from something or towards something; and now that he is grounded he seeks to keep busy, afraid that if he does not occupy himself that the urge to bolt might overtake him again. He knows it has to stop. He cannot live his life on the run, he does not wish for that to be his future. He wants stability, he wants to matter and for others to matter to him. Maybe even a mate and kids someday, down the line. Most importantly, he wants a place where he belongs, a pack he can say with pride that he belongs to and wolves that he would give his life to protect if it became necessary.

“I’m from a place in the far north called Enok Tundra, and one day, I was probably no older than two or three months of age, I wandered out of the borders and into a neighboring territory. I got lost.” Because for the longest of time his sense of direction was awful and, of course, he’d been too young to have been near the borders let alone across them. “I was young and stupid. I lived like a rebellious prince but I knew better.” He wasn’t blaming his parents for it: he had known better, as he’d told her. He’d known better but he was stupid and had done it anyway thinking that he was safe. “A stranger came across me, promised to take me home when I told him I was from the pack that bordered the neutral territory. He lied. He brought me here and left me in a territory that borders Blackfeather Woods. I waited for him to return but he never did and if Nyx would not have found me and taken me under her wing I would have died of starvation.” He gives pause here to assess her for a moment before he continues on.

“That’s how I joined Blackfeather Woods. Owing a life debt, one that until I’d learned the truth of them had every intention of repaying and I wasn’t the only cub she’d collected. There was another boy, Neo. I’m not sure where he was from but we didn’t get along. He was at least civil for Nyx’s sake but I didn’t care. He was competition and he was going to get in my way.” He flashes a cheeky grin then and rolls his left shoulder in a lofty, partial shrug. “If I remember correctly the first time I met Neo was the first time I met the boy that attacked Rannoch. I didn’t get along with him either. Acting superior to me when we were on equal footing, both cubs that held the same rank. I suppose in that respects him and I were similiar. He told me that day that I didn't belong, that I was just an experiment for him and his siblings …whatever that was supposed to mean.” Even now the vague threats simmer his blood. “In Enok Tundra if you made threats, sought to make enemies you better be prepared to deliver on them. We are wolves bred for war but we are honorable.” Honor made all the difference, in his mind. “They value their secrets and they think their fortress of blood and corpses and their caves will protect them. Think they’re the big bad and that none will touch them. They’re arrogant in that regard. I’m surprised they didn’t send anyone after me to kill me given how prickly they are about keeping everything in the pack.” Perhaps because they think that any that manage to slip through their cracks will be too afraid to bring them war, to use their knowledge against them — at least, this is what Drogon hopes is the case; but, he is a true thespian because he has the distinct advantage of anonymity. Not just in name but also appearance. He looks completely different than he’d looked when Nyx had taken him in. There isn’t a drop of snowy, cream-puff fur in sight these days. It’s a punch in the gut when he peers at his reflection in a water’s surface though: he looks just like his mother.

“I adventured a lot after their true nature was revealed to me and one morning I left on an adventure and never went back. I travelled a bit with a few lone wolves here and there and for a smaller time with a pack trying to form but eventually I struck out on my own time and time again.” During his time as a lone wolf he’d been good at finding companions but never at keeping them. “And then you and your sister found me.” She knew the rest from there. Drogon isn’t sure what compels him to tell her everything, isn’t sure what it is about Hydra that makes him desire to tear down his carefully crafted walls, to want her to see all sides of him: even the part of him that is broken from the trauma he’d suffered as a child ( of his own accord, to an extent of course, but that does not mean it has not broken and rebuilt him all the same ).

Enok Tundra. Hydra had not heard of the place. She wondered if it was outside of the Wilds, a place Hydra never sought to go. There was no reason to—it was so far out of range from home, a place she would always return to. To travel beyond the reaches of the valleys here would yield nothing for Moonspear. But it had happened to him when young. Hydra reflected on this a moment—there had been many times when she had attempted to run away, though Floki and her parents had always prevented it. Her mother and father were both wisened to childish antics, even as first time parents. The stranger he spoke of was a liar, he said, and brought him to Blackfeather Woods. Blackfeather Woods. She now had the correct name to the place. 

She wondered if that liar had any ties to the woods. 

The next name she recognized. Nyx. She had been kind to Rannoch, too, when visiting his borders... Perhaps Nyx was a good woman, then, truly. 

He speaks of his life in Blackfeather Woods. That he would have been treated as some sort of experiment. "Neo", she hears, and it bears no meaning to her. His arrogance was something she found herself snorting at; he sounded as foolish as the boy that had once been here, that was long gone now. Hopefully dead, came a passing thought, before he left her mind completely. When he paused, and mentioned secrets, Hydra asked with ample interest: Secrets... did you learn any of theirs? Now wouldn't that be interesting! 

As his story came to an end, Hydra mulled it over in silence. You are a survivor. All of your life, you have survived, she reflects, blinking at the horizon as she lowered her muzzle to sniff at the earth. In noting that the territory here needed to be marked again, she did so. Well, now it is time you live. With the safety of Moonspear you will do more than survive. Here, you can thrive, she glanced to him. As for the threats of those boys, well, the one has proven himself to be a lunatic. If he comes around here again, he is not long for this world, and though she is not Tundrian, and not bred for war, it is quite evident her words are said with a dark weight to them. Hydra has killed before; she knew she would kill again.

Drogon finds himself back-pedaling at Hydra’s snort as he boasts of his heritage. It doesn’t occur to him that there’s a fine line between arrogance and confidence ( nor that it’s ever so easy to blur it ); but it occurs to him that she doesn’t seem overly impressed and he wilts a bit, his ears slicking back against his skull in contemplation. The tundrian does not agonize over it, nor does he spend a very long time analyzing it. He makes a note to tune down his boasting ( especially when he has yet to prove that there’s at least some merit to them ) and moves on from it. “It’s not so easy to define: what is secret and what isn’t for them. But when I left Potema, the woman your father spoke of, was the Priestess. Her brother Damien held the title of Dark Master and that Nyx was his Speaker and that there was something between them,” He prattles, wondering if this is even relevant information to her. “They have a network of tunnels that allows them to move undetected should enemies invade their Woods.” He tells her, figuring that if they are for war that it would definitely be useful information to hold.

His glacial gaze goes to the neutral territories just outside Moonspear’s borders as Hydra reflects upon his story, deeming him a survivor. Yes, he thinks, a very accurate way of summing him up simply: survivor. His ears twitch and his expression turns contemplative as she insinuates that while surviving is ensuring one is alive it is not actually living. Drogon’s never really thought of it that way but that goes without saying as he’s never known anything else. “I’m not afraid of them. Or their threats.” Drogon interjects quickly, not wanting her to think he was afraid of Neo or Vaati; because he honestly wasn’t. He was afraid of things that he shouldn’t have been: of letting others get close, and very much vice versa; and it hadn’t been fear that had driven him from Blackfeather Woods. It had been a …disagreement upon way of life and Drogon’s unwillingness to be a tool, a stepping stone for someone else. Drogon makes a low noise of approval in his throat as Hydra states that if he comes around Moonspear again he would not be long for the world. Drogon believes her. She doesn’t strike him as the kind to make hollow promises and he admires that.

Had Hydra known he thought that it was he she thought of as she emitted such a noise, she would be swift to correct him. It was solely due to her preference of him that she could think beyond his own arrogance, though she knew it existed—no, in that moment, she thought of his former packmate (and her own, though she did not know it). As Drogon spoke of their ranks she had to hold back from rolling her eyes. Dark Master, she repeats, her emphasis enough of an eye-roll as it so happened anyway, before continuing, What sort of ranks are those? She knew of their classic hierarchy; Speaker, Priestess... what the hell even was that? Your Nyx... Rannoch knew of her. Speaker—does that mean, ambassador? It all made little sense to her, but Speaker at least sounded translatable. She had no clue if she was off base, on it, or even close to it. That network of tunnels, bit—that sounded important. It is funny they want to be undetected when others are in their territory, she said with a snicker, is the element of surprise all that they have on their side, then? She was genuinely curious of that. Hydra wanted her enemies to know she was coming. And no doubt they would. Even from afar, they might sense it; the stranger that had attacked her friend would feel it in his bones. 

Over time, her anger with that boy was building. The wound she had left was enough for now; he had not killed her friend, though he had been close. But if he did show his face again around these parts, Hydra would not rest until he died. He must know that, if he did not lurk... but she would continue to scout to ensure that he did not. 

As far as Drogon's words, she nods to him. Good. There is nothing to fear. But it would be unwise not to be careful, nonetheless, she said, thoughtful, remembering how the wolf reveled in the pain. He seemed at first to have an utter disregard for his own life. He attacked as though nothing mattered but for the one kill, she looked upward. he did not succeed, he hadn't the skill, and in the end his life did matter—though I wonder if it was because he gained nothing himself, were Hydra any less sane, she might understand perfectly the motive, the aim, the reasoning. She was a savage hellhound herself, after all. But she always did have a true and legitimate reason, a rational one, when it came to killing. It was all to protect and serve. 

And she felt the culling of that wolf would do just that. 

I will kill him if I see him again, Hydra looked to Drogon, now. I detest the existence of a man such as him. Her muzzle wrinkled. This was what happened when she was crossed, even inadvertantly. He had laid his fangs across her friend, and Hydra could not abide by this.

“Kind of. They’re sort of more like a …commander? They give the commands of the Gods, I guess.” Drogon didn’t know it all in and out: he’d only been there for a month, perhaps more. It’d been enough time to gleam some information, at least. It likely didn’t help that Drogon wanted to roll his own eyes every-time someone mentioned a “god” because he simply couldn’t make himself believe in something that he couldn’t physically see and touch. “They kept a lot of secrets even from their own pack. There was something called the Dark Brotherhood and unless you’re in that super secret boyband club you were essentially kept in the dark on a lot of things.” Drogon’s cannot help his own snicker. His analytical mind can already see how that could work against them. Who wants to take up arms and fight ( or die ) for a leadership that withholds information from the bulk of their people? Blackfeather’s time in glory has come and it has gone and it’s time they realize they are far from the big bad they desperately try to convince themselves that they are. Time has moved on from them and their relevance has long since fled in the tundrian’s mind. When Drogon’d been with them: they’d barely been hanging on, on the cusp of extinction. “Yes. They are acclaimed masters of secrets and whispers. The element of surprise would seem to be all they have.” Yet, Drogon is hesitant to say that with absolute certainty because as a warrior he knows that it’s important not to underestimate your enemy and he’s already told her that there was much that was kept from him. “Even if it’s true it doesn’t mean that they will not fight like men with nothing left to lose.” And those were the most dangerous.

Drogon’s ears pivoted atop his skull and he let out a contemplative noise in his throat as Hydra replayed the other boy’s fighting tendency to him. “Ironic, how arrogance would have appeared to fuel his recklessness when it appeared he was winning only to revert to cowardice when he stood no chance of it, when his consequence came face to face with him.” Was preservation of one’s own life a cowardice? Depends upon what time the tundrian was asked it. It was the basis of all instincts: survival, after all. Sometimes, Drogon thinks: it is good to swallow pride and arrogance in order of survival. Still, he would judge the other boy’s flight as cowardice: escaping the consequences of his reckless actions. “The question is: would he have learned from his encounter with the mighty Cerberus,” He offers Hydra what he hopes is a charming smile. “or would he attack again with the same arrogance and reckless abandon?” Without a confrontation of his own it would be hard for Drogon to work that out with confidence. It toes the dangerous line between overestimating and underestimating. He desires to be tactician but wonders how deep under cover he would have to go to learn his enemy in and out. He has the element of complete anonymity on his side, after all. He looks nothing like the cream puff child that Nyx had taken in. He could do it, if he is careful. If he is clever. He is the nightingale’s son, after all, and she played her roles so well.

“I look nothing like the frightened child that Nyx had taken in. My fur has changed colors with age. I don’t even sound the same anymore, do not go by the same name that I had then,” Oh! But he is excited by the prospect of it, his blood laced with the ghosting of adrenaline. “He’s too much of a wildcard. I detested him so I did not meet with him a second time. That was my error. What is that saying? Keep your friends close but your enemies closer? I could do it. I could learn how he operates, what drives him, find out if he’s learned anything or if his arrogance and superiority will still drive him. I can’t hope to be a good tactician if I do not get my paws dirty.” It was borderline spy, in actuality: but he couldn’t strategize without something concrete to go on, as far as he’s concerned; and he’s willing. Willing to risk a face to face encounter ( if not going deeper than that ) if it means he can get her the information that she and Cerberus needs to take him down. Still, he spoke for the benefit of getting her opinion on the matter, on the idea regardless of if he would like her answer or not. She is his Beta, after all and in the end Drogon will respect what she and her parents have to say on the prospect.

Hydra wondered what the appeal of being in such a pack that had things kept from the general public that were its members. Perhaps all its wolves were mad. As to that, Drogon might know... So why join it? She wondered. She was not asking Drogon why he joined it—he had already been told. But she wondered what its appeal was. People want to be a part of that boyband? Her muzzle wrinkled. Hydra couldn't imagine why.

What he said next, Hydra hmm'd at. At first it seemed he wouldn't stop, even if he died. But he wanted to gain something from it. Perhaps he would only die if he was able to get a kill in himself. When he saw that wasn't going to happen, he seemed to reconsider, that was when he fled. To hear her sisters and herself referred to as the Cerebrus was somehow fitting—her father had told her all about this constellation, though she had never related it to herself and her sisters... until now. She was charmed more by the words than the smile, and offered him a broad grin of her own, quite pleased with the comparison he had drawn. It depends on his sense of self-preservation, she decided then. He would not survive them a second time, if he came to this place.

Hydra pondered at his next set of words. He appeared different? How was this so? A name change was simple enough, though Hydra had only ever wore the names of her mirror images. She became them with ease—they were her perfect glass slippers. It was an interesting thought, one that her sisters and herself were more than willing to try themselves, but for far more peaceful reasons (they had considered each getting to know Nikai at Easthollow, and visiting Alya when she lived there). After a thoughtful moment of silence, Hydra says, if it comes down to it, that sounds like an idea I would like to see played out, it would be good practice for Drogon, she determined, and potentially good intel for the Cerberus. Did he desire to strike them down for their interference? ...It mattered not. I am content to know that he can be killed. At the end of the day, the stranger was just a boy.

“Evidently,” Drogon responds gruffly, though he understands that it might have been a rhetorical question. “When I was there, though, their numbers were very low.” Of course, there has been much time between when he was apart of Blackfeather Woods and the present and pack’s numbers ebb and flow with the seasons. “He’s arrogant and thinks he’s superior. At the end: that will be his downfall.” In truth though, Drogon himself can easily be considered arrogant and though he has a quick want to deny that he’s anything like the platinum and sand colored boy he cannot help but draw the similarities while they stare at him so blatantly in the face. Yet, admitting that in some respects the tundrian and the would-be murderer are similar also works to a measure of advantage. It gives Drogon the edge to recognize weakness …because it’s his own weakness. Confidence is not a bad thing because one cannot go around with the belief that they’re going to lose but arrogance is a different beast all together and there’s a very fine line that separates the two. It’s a start for the tactician but it’s not enough. It’s not enough to win them the victory. They need to know more and he’s willing to take the risk to get them that information, partially because it would be extremely satisfactory to Drogon and partially because he seeks to impress Hydra.

“I would be glad to do it.” He feels a bit redundant saying that, especially as he was the one to suggest it but he’s glad that she approves. Drogon’s ears twitch as she mentions that she is just content that he can be killed, and he contemplates that everything has a time to die and no one is above it: not the elderly, not the sick, not the healthy and not the young. Everything will turn to dust. “His time will come.” Perhaps it would not be soon but eventually; and if they were not the judges that he would have to face for his crimes then the dead certainly would be, of that Drogon is sure.

Low numbers. Good to know. But she thought back on other things he had said. Network of tunnels... Drogon, she said, thoughtful, did you learn how to navigate those tunnels...? Such information could prove invaluable to her should they need it. But Hydra had no desire to go there. But if they needed to be eradicated...

editing a small conclusion on this. :-)

Drogon considers Hydra’s inquiry when she asks if he’s learned to navigate the network of tunnels. “At first I was warned away from them by my …guardian, but Potema, she showed them to me. I spent some time exploring them but not a whole lot,” He admits, thinking that it hadn’t been long after that meeting that he’d left. “I could probably find my way though.” He assures her. He’s fairly good at remembering the layouts of land. Admittedly, more practice would have been preferred ( likely for both of them ) but it wasn’t like he’d ever left there with the intention of one day using the small bit of information he’d gleaned from them against them; but obviously the tundrian has no qualms about it now that the opportunity has presented itself to him. That makes him treacherous but he feels no guilt over it, regardless. It was simply the nature of the beast and the platinum and sand colored boy that had been so eager to make an enemy of the Ansbjørn would get what he wanted: an enemy.

The pair talked a bit more about it before they ventured their separate ways upon the borders.