Moonspear war stalks proud

Snow crunches under foot as Drogon dutifully patrols the borders, his steps even and measured, leisurely. The Ansbjørn studies the neutral territory outside of Moonspear’s borders with a critical sweep of his glacial gaze, offering a glimpse skyward at the grey and bleak morning. He knows the sun has begun to rise: it’s still darker on one half of the sky and beyond that he’s always been an early riser but with the thick, heavy grey clouds obscuring it he cannot deduce it’s precise location in the sky. There’s a undeniable chill a …bite to the air that makes Drogon suspect it’s going to snow. He’s no meteorologist but it’s an easy enough deduction to make even for him; truth be told he’s not bothered by his conclusion of the day’s weather. The leijona is built to endure the harsh chill and conditions of winter. Drogon thinks of winter and briefly makes the connection that he’s nearly an adult, that with the coming of the new year he will join the adult ranks. He’s considered celebrating the milestone in some shape or form but he’s got no one to celebrate it with and strikes the thought from his mind.

Drogon gives pause then, steps halting abruptly as he sniffs around a tree trunk, nose twitching. His ears taper back against his skull in a languid movement, discerning that the scent is nothing to worry about after a few more seconds. For good measure he lifts his leg and marks the tree with a refresher just in case before he continues on with his patrol.

Though often meticulous when marking the borders, these are heavy with her scent. It is Drogon Hydra finds herself following at a rapid clip, her tail waving behind her as she draws nearer. In no time at all, the Beta sees him, and her pace quickens—she is quick to close the distance between them, and quicker still to attempt to hook one of his rear legs with her foreleg to unbalance him. Drogon has told her he knew of all sorts of fighting, including the sort that played dirty; her aim was to catch him off guard in this maneuver, her eyes flashing and a grin coming to her lips.

Drogon hears the light and swift steps of a quick approach but thinks nothing of it. Mistake. His disregard of it allows Hydra to hook her foreleg to his rear leg. By the time Drogon realizes what is happening his balance is thrown and he is colliding to the cold, hard earth. It is not an elegant fall. Drogon is tall but he is all hard, thick muscle and his fall is hard and rough. The impact jolts through him and he half growls, half rasps out “Fuck!” in shock as he rolls onto his back, taking his weight off the shoulder that smarts from absorbing the most and worst of the impact. “Y’know when I wanted to get swept off my feet, I didn’t mean literally.” Drogon (partially) jokes with his mentor as he lets his head fall back against the earth, testing out his shoulder. His plush pelage offers some cushioning but not enough and there is a soreness that radiates from the junction but nothing he deems serious. It will fade in a day or two, he deduces. “Well played. Very dirty.” He remarks impressed ( though Drogon isn’t sure that he’s ever come across a moment where he wasn’t impressed — and a bit awe-struck — by Hydra ) as he attempts to roll to his stomach and get to his feet.