Deepwood Weald you will never be satisfied

@Drogon

The Wield offers her a glimpse into what could have been had she not been born again unto Themiscrya. She feels a queer sense of familiarity amongst the skeletal birch and pine that stand painfully straight and narrow. It is a place frequented by the fae and their sprightly Court; of the seasonal spirits, and the old, ancient spirits, that were mortal once—perhaps.

She is not ignorant of the tales and history of the folk, nor is she adverse to the idea of beings devoted to the places her Mothers cannot touch. For here, deep within the misty woodland, the Sea cannot reach. Though the Moon (in her benevolence and generosity) does share her light with the lesser mythos of the world so that they, too, might understand the blessings brought unto them by the Mothers. 

It is these thoughts that keep her company as she wanders the reaches in search of truths. Could the Wield give her insight that the Mothers had so far failed to offer? She wasn't certain. Her hazel eyes darted left as the silence was disturbed by a grouse who suddenly took wing as the bedraggled she-wolf wandered too close to the nest. She bared her teeth but didn't utter a sound—there was no point in chastizing the dimwitted fowl.

She changed course abruptly and headed off towards a shallow depression in the hopes of finding fresh water to slake her thirst.

Drogon’d been tracking a elk herd that had led him and then lost him in the Weald. Knowing that the herd had been heading towards the Coast gives Drogon some idea of where they might end up: after all there is little on the coast for them lest they could live off of sand and seawater. He had no actual interest in earning the hunter trade — he’s content with putting his energy and focus towards warrior and tactician — but hunting is almost like fighting and requires it’s own sets of finesse and tactics. Winter would be upon them soon, he can deduce from the changing colors of the leaves, the chill in the air that promises of something colder still. Drogon looks forward to winter: both because it will be his first winter and a new experience for him but also because he is tundrian and he is undeniably built for winter just as throughly as he is built for war. His thick fur coat and bulk of hardened muscles will no doubt work very well in his favor come the coldest and harshest months of the year. It helps that he’s joined now with Moonspear and has been able to gain back the weight that being a lone wolf had kept off of him. While he hadn’t been malnourished he can feel a difference already though it’s been but a week at most. There isn’t a shortage of food, after all, and that helps.

Glacial gaze calculates a path through the fern covered wood that looks like blood spilled upon the emerald green of the other ferns. The light that filters through the tangled, spindly limbs of the towering trees of the Weald is almost like fog. Almost but not quite. It’s a dark place, this Weald and in some aspect reminds him of another dark wood he is familiar with. His pace is slow as he comes across a fresh scent trail though this is disappointingly not the herd he’d lost it’s, instead, of another wolf. He pursues it, if only because it might be possible that the woman has seen his herd; and as Drogon comes upon her his steps slow and cease all together, letting out a low chuff to formally announce his presence to her in the hopes of avoiding ( accidentally ) startling her.

The soft trickle of water is the only indication of the stream that she happens across. It is barely wider than she is tall, shallow, and clogged with all manner of detrius. But she manages to find an area suitable to dip her tongue into and does just that, ignorant of the stranger approaching her from the south. Akantha takes some measure of comfort from the water that quenches her throat, and revitalizes her admittedly low reserves. She isn't used to feeling so hollow; so without. 

A rustle of parting ferns, followed promptly by a soft chuff, heralded the arrival of another. She cursed silently at being so wholly unaware of his approach. Akantha cast her gaze sideways to locate the wolf, and her heart skipped. A frost-collared male—young, but not infantile, and clearly confident in his abilities (lest he would not have approached her, a ghastly thorn witch, so boldly). Her ears swivel forward while she lifts her muzzle from the water, and points it his direction and settles her gaze on his own. 

Her mouth twists into a frown, and her tail twitched with apprehension. "I have no food if that's what you seek." she said. He looked healthy, but she wasn't a trusting creature by nature.

Drogon watches as she acknowledges his presence, her muzzle lifting from the water she’d been drinking from upon his arrival. She is of a medium height but robust in her build, agouti color of cedar and black with scars littering her forearms muzzle. The tundrian thinks — for the briefest of moments — that she looks as if she’s been through a war; and then further wonders how he would look to her if she knew he was aiming for warrior: unscathed and untouched by the echoes of marred flesh. Probably like the green boy that he was. He does not stare long at her scars, averting his eyes and allowing his glacial gaze to settle upon her in general, not focusing on any particular part. Drogon’s ears swivel atop his skull as he watches her frown and the apprehensive twitch of her tail seconds before her lips part to tell him that she has no food. He own lips tug into a pensive frown.

Even if she did he wasn’t about to steal it. For all of his juvenile delinquent-ness he’d never once considered stealing food from another lone wolf. Though that was the nature of the beast and if push came to shove Drogon was enough of an asshole to do it, for sure, but it wasn’t anything he’d ever thought of. Wouldn’t have ever been anything he would plan in advance ( though it occurs to him that perhaps she hadn’t necessarily implied stealing anything and was simply stating the facts: she had no food, period and that he just jumped to the worse possible conclusion ). Drogon gives his head a slight shake, his lips parting to speak “I’m not hungry.” which was true. He’d eaten a filling breakfast before he’d left Moonspear — a delightful con of being a pack wolf: he never had to worry about where his next meal was going to come from and if it would even come at all.

“I was tracking an elk herd before they took refuge in the Weald and I lost them,” He explains, salmon pink tongue drawing across his jowls. “It’s a rather small herd: three cows and one bull. You haven’t seen or scented them by any chance, have you?” Clearly, his tracking skills need further improvement but as they are not his primary focus at the moment trade wise they’ve taken an ( unfortunate ) back-burner. Drogon puts forth his inquiry but he won't be terribly fussed if he's lost the herd for the moment: no doubt they will crop back up or another would migrate close to Moonspear's territory and take it's place.