Bramblepoint born and bred and forged from flames

for @Titmouse! ♥

Drogon steels his shoulders against the chill of the grey morning he can feel nipping at his nose, though he is not inherently all that cold. His winter pelage is plush and thicker now than it had been in the summer months in preparation for the harsher months of winter. Already, he’s witnessed his first snow and though the novelty of discovering and experiencing something new for the first time has worn off he finds that thus far he enjoys winter immensely ( though that could stand to change when winter swings to the Wilds in full and unbridled force ). He is tundrian like the nightingale that had bore him into the world. Drogon set out from Moonspear’s borders earlier in the morning, a few hours before the sun had begun to rise in the horizon and even now it’s only half over the edge of the earth Drogon notes as he spares the golden-orange sphere a glimpse where it appears to be immobile in the far off horizon. So, still early morning then, the Ansbjørn deduces. Once more, he finds himself at Bramblepoint though this time he has the intention of scouring it for any lingering ungulates. His chief focus is still on earning his warrior specialty and then his mastery and then tactician but he has considered hunter a secondary trade. Something to at least think about while he works towards his primary goals; and he remembers all the fruit that had been here when he’d ran into Howl.

Much of the fruit should be decaying and the Bramblepoint’s fruit bearers dying until spring, Drogon has learned from watching other trees and other assorted plants wilt and go into what he likes to refer to: wintersleep in his mind ( he doesn’t know there’s an actual word for that yet ). Still, he is assaulted by the sweet — perhaps even sickingly sweet — scent of assorted fruits and berries as he shrugs into the thorny underbrush, pausing as he clears it to pluck the few thorns that tangled in his fur free. Abruptly, he’s reminded of why he’s not overly fond of this territory as he spits out a thorn with a disgruntled rumble in his throat. Still, it seemed a good place to start to look for any straggling herds or lone ungulates so he had to little choice but to suck it up buttercup and deal with it.

Sorry for the wait on this! RL work and also IC limbo caused a delay.

Titmouse was finally back among his family, and he had sworn to stick with them forever. Forever was a long time. He had been hasty to make the claim, although the full weight of it had yet to sink in. He wasn't afraid to slip away from the territory either; his promise hadn't been so literal, and besides, Tit really wanted to retrace his steps. He wanted to remember exactly what happened when he'd gotten lost.

So, as he wandered and explored, he found his way back to the Bramblewood. He doesn't recognize much of it, although the boy does pass by the nook in the trees where Towhee had found him that first time. He avoids it, feeling a sense of dread coursing his veins at the mere thought of his sister. The detour then took him towards a strange path. It wasn't much, but the boy felt as if he'd been here before, beneath a giant oak tree and surrounded by the various clusters of birch; they all looked different now in the autumn, but there was enough.

Just beyond the oak, Tit followed a bend between the trees - a game trail maybe - and in the process he widened that trail. If this was the path he had taken, he must've been much smaller. As he shot out the other side of the path he was met with bright sunlight, the scent of distant flowers (the meadow! He remembered that much), and some kind of giant silver bear thing, who is lurking within a copse of southern trees. Titmouse lets out a small gutteral sound in his shock, and then ducks behind one of the many bramble bushes that give the place its name.

no need to apologize! ♥

Drogon is preoccupied with tugging another thorn loose from his fur where it has gotten tangled in his fur — reminding himself that he’s not coming through this territory again. He’s got no real need to traverse through the bramblepoint and is only here on speculation that it might still manage to attract herds. The tundra’s expression darks as he tugs the last, defiant thorn free and spits it to the ground, grumbling an unintelligible slew of curse words under his breath that are a mixture of tundrian and common. At least he has thick fur to protect him from the worst of the thorns ( for the most part! ) and he can’t imagine that too many ungulates would fancy having thorns prick into their flesh. Unless, it occurs to him, they are of a less thick variation than he and found an alternate way into the Bramplepoint while avoiding the thorny underbrush. As Drogon’s already braved the worst of it to actually get towards the territory’s heart where the meadow lie in waiting he deduces that it’s worth investigating.

Just as he’s about to step in that direction in search of both potential food source for Moonspear and to find an alternative route in he stops abruptly, the muscles in his body tensing and pulling taunt as he hears a small guttural noise and hears the dry rustle of a bramble bush close-by. His hackles rise and bristle along his spine, his lip curling back from his teeth as his ears slick smoothly back against his skull. He doesn’t, initially, think that whomever is near-by is a threat given that he presumes they are hiding from him but all the same the soturi knows better than to trust blindly and let his guard down. “Who’s there?” Drogon demands, glacial gaze sweeping his immediate surroundings slowly for any sort of movement of the bramble bushes that strikes him as out of the ordinary.

The boy wonders if he is destined for bad things. If his luck has always been this shitty, or if he had somehow earned himself a curse. Not that Tit knew exactly what a curse entailed... But he was certainly facing-off against enough negative energy to indicate something was wrong with his life. Here he was, confident and happy again (for the most part), wandering in a mostly familiar forest, and bam! He's not alone. There's a freaking bear following him. 

Who's there? Called a voice; the rumble of it makes Titmouse duck harder against the soil, and the brambles quake. He is frozen in place by the memory of the giant monster from before - standing on its hinds, its head easily bigger than his still tiny, mostly-puppy self, ready to swat him like a fly! Tit knew he had a choice to make here: he could continue to cower like a child, or he could stand up and face this menace like a warrior.

Another fact came to light - almost by accident really - while Tit tried to think of something witty to scream in the bear's face when he rose up. First his ears poked over the hedge of bramble, then his eyes, but by the time he felt confident enough to sneak a glimpse of the 'bear' he knew the truth - and then he saw the wolf. 'Bears cannot talk,' he had concluded. 'Titmouse, you are no warrior. You're just an idiot.' All the same, this wolf was big, and that dense array of metallic fur was off-putting indeed.

He lunged out from his hiding place at that point and shot the stranger a hard look, scrutinizing him hastily, but was ready to bolt if his assumptions were wrong. Sure, this wasn't a bear (oh god, he was so glad it wasn't a bear this time), but he still didn't know whot he heck this was.

Drogon watches as, eventually, ears poke up over the bramble bushes followed then by a pair of eyes. Of the canine sort …but evidently as it stands, Drogon has never known any sort of big predator to hide ( but then again he hasn’t ever truly encountered too much other than wolves which was mostly just a stroke of dumb luck ). The tundrian’s muscles tense and pull taunt as the other launches himself out of the bramble bushes. Drogon’s hackles bristle, his lips ready to curl back at any given moment that he thinks it’s necessary. Black, leathery nostrils flare as the other boy gives him a hard stare: a stare that the tundrian is all too happy to return, his glacial gaze hardening into chips of ice. “Look, I have no interest in hurting you,” or whatever it is you think I’m going to do, Drogon speaks and adds mentally. He thinks it goes without saying and therefore sees no reason to verbally add it. A frightened wolf is enough to be cautious of all their own. Fear is just as strong as anger: both can cause unpredictable episodes of lashing out and Drogon isn’t necessarily looking for a fight. Mind, he wouldn’t back down if a challenge was issued ( of course not, his pride would never allow such a thing ) but he doesn’t exactly go out of his way in search of brawls anymore, either. He’s calming down the older ( and hopefully wiser ) he becomes and he knows the value of when it is worth a street brawl ( admittedly there are times when he just needs a good street brawl, to expel his pent up energy ) and when it’s smarter to swallow the bitter pill that is his pride and walk away if verbal communication cannot placate a situation. It’s all apart of being a good tactician and a smart warrior, he’s learning.

Tit didn't want to get eaten. More importantly, he didn't want word of his cowardice to spread outside of the caldera; he would have to be strong, noble, in-your-face, and the best freakin' warrior he could be! Except that the dude caught sight of him and blatantly zapped all of Titmouse's thoughts from his head. He didn't want to eat him? On one hand Titmouse was super happy (because obviously not a bear was also not hungry), but on the other... How was he supposed to be big and strong and scary if nobody would fight him?

The next best option presented itself as he slunk from his hiding place, stiff-legged and determined. Good! He shouted despite not really needing to (probably just to stop the wavering of his own voice, the dweeb), I thought you were a bear, he admitted without remorse, and I was waiting to ambush you if you were. But I see you're just... Y'know, not one, so... I guess I'll just get out of here.

He began to stride around the bramble bushes, partially towards the silver creature but mostly back the way he'd initially arrived, and then with a machiavellian flourish he proclaimed: You foiled my plans! I am the great Screech Redhawk, Bear-Flayer of the wilds! I think as compensation you should find me a new target. There was zero chance this guy would pull a bear out of thin air, so Tit just left it at that, hoping he had mentally praticed that introduction enough to be an awe-inspiring performance (the truth: it wasn't).

Drogon watched as the other boy slunk from his hiding place and shouted ‘Good’ into the otherwise quiet territory causing Drogon’s ears to swivel to the side of his head, slick back to rest at half mast and then rise, attentive with an errant twitch in a matter of a few seconds as he tries to discern why there is need to shout. Drogon’s hearing is of an excellent form and for a moment the Ansbjørn does his best not to look affronted but it’s short-lived when the other boy admits that he thought he ( Drogon ) was a bear. The tundrian can’t help the small laugh that suddenly bubbles up his throat and bursts from betwixt his lips without preamble. “I’ve never been called a bear before.” He admits with an amiable wag of his tail to show that he meant no offense by his laugh. No, he’d always been the lion, even as a small child. The lion of the tundra the lion of teaghlaigh. “Waiting to ambush me, huh?” Drogon doesn’t entirely believe it but he’s not trying to patronize the other boy and rolls his broad shoulders in a lofty shrug.

The other boy begins to leave and then with a flourish turns and proclaims that he’s Screech Redhawk; a bear-flayer …and then demanded compensation for not being a bear. Drogon snickers softly to himself. Drogon doesn’t do well with demands. Or, well, any sort of authority really ( truly, it was a miracle that he’s done as well as he has in Moonspear ). Through the cloak of civilization Drogon’s still feral and he’s still a juvenile delinquent. He probably always would be the James Dean rebel without a cause bad-boy that smoked in the boy’s bathrooms at school. “You want me to find you a bear?” Drogon inquired with a quirk of a brow and heavy skepticism to his deep smoky timbre, wondering if this kid had some kind of death wish going on. All Drogon knew was that he’d been pretty lucky to avoid run-in’s with bears and he wanted to very much keep that streak going. He sure as hell wasn’t going to go poking around for any bears to antagonize just so this kid could show how tough he is.

“I’ll tell you what Screech, how ‘bout you and I have a friendly spar?” Drogon places the offer out before the other male, inviting a challenge with the devilish curl of his lips and haughty shift of his weight.

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Sorry this is so late and so short!! Did you wanna dice roll stuff quickly?

The thought of actually finding and fighting a bear was mortifying; but Titmouse was playing a part, and he couldn't let that show. Thus when the other wolf offered to spar with him instead, he was all for it. A spar - wait, really? He sounded surprised but quickly corrected himself Heck yes! But -- but don't go all psycho on me when you lose, mmkay? 

The chances of Tit winning were slim to none. He had some training to fall back on but there wasn't much hope he could contend with someone as big and freaky looking like this. Tit paced back, sizing up his competition without any clear plan in mind for how to begin. He merely hoped he didn't look so stupid by the end of it.

i started the dice roll here. since tit got a full hit on the first roll i figured he should be the one to initiate the attack so drogon can dodge, lol. you can roll for the second round or if you choose whether tit gets an additional full hit or dodge for his merc trade i can do the rest of the rolls quickly so we know the outcome ahead of time. it doesn't matter to me! :-)

The other boy didn’t say anything in regards to Drogon’s rhetorical question about the bear which was relieving — because believe it or not Drogon valued his life more than that — but evidently appeared to be all for the spar. Good. Spars were something Drogon was more than happy to offer. Win or lose it would help him to improve either way and he could always use the practice. “Really.” Drogon replied though his reply came after the other boy’s statement about not going psycho when he ( Drogon ) lost. “As long as you promise not to gloat if you win.” There was nothing worse than a sore winner ( well besides maybe a sore loser but they were kind of equal ). Drogon sizes Screech up with a sweep of his glacial gaze and positions his body in preparation of their spar. “Alright Bear-Flayer,” Drogon grins coyly at the older boy. “Show me what you’ve got.” The soturi encourages with a playful lash of his tail against his hocks, his body bowing down in mock play as each muscle pulls taunt, letting Screech make the first move. Drogon was bulkier and therefore this meant he was slower: his best tactic was to implore patience and let his opponent come to him.

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