Gilded Bay starved for the taste of your mouth against mine

The morning sun is a smudge of fiery orange against the crust of the earth in the distance as the tundrian pauses to glimpse over his shoulder at it. He does this every so often so that he can best determine the rough time of the day but the why eludes him. It’s not as if he has anywhere pressing to be, or anything he should be doing instead. His days are spent training, wandering and ( sometimes unintentionally ) antagonizing whichever unfortunate soul that comes his way. Drogon’s already hunted for the morning, his belly sated and full by the rather plump groundhog he’d cornered but he can feel the seeds of boredom taking root. He could wander all day and night and still never find what he’s seeking — and likely because he has no concrete idea what it is. He only knows that he’s never settled, that there is always this itch beneath his skin. Sparring helps, helps to take that edge off but in the aftermath of a spar as his adrenaline recedes and the thrill of battle ebbs away it slowly trickles back like the tide after a sea storm. That is the way it has always been. In all the chaos and rage and loneliness that plagues the lion he finds peace and calm in the calamity of battle. He is battleborn and the tundrian cannot ignore the call of the war drums in his veins. Perhaps he cannot because he is tundrian. Perhaps he does not simply because enjoys sparring and fighting.

Drogon glimpses up at the thick, short spires that rise towards the heavens on either side of him, like a gate into a fortress as he passes through them, shrugging through thick tangles of underbrush and branches. He clears the last, defiant bit of greenery that strives to keep him out and solid earth gives away to sand yet still cool from the night. The white sand is dotted with small, shallow pools that he peers into errantly as he passes them absently studying the critters trapped within them wondering how many of them would become lunch to seagulls throughout the day. Despite his distaste for sand he ventures to the sea periodically to bathe in it though he is vain enough to abhor the sticky feel that is left upon his pelage for weeks after his sea baths but it masks his scent and any scents he might unintentionally collect. He doubts that any Blackfeather Woods wolves would be able to recognize him upon sight and voice alone, he isn’t even sure they care enough to send anyone after him. It’s been a month or so since he left them but as Drogon knows just enough to not be willing to put it past them.

The ocean water is cold as it rushes up the shore to greet him and laps greedily against his legs and underbelly. His muscles pull taunt and he hesitates for a second. The morning air is chilled but not too cold that he does not think it will not warm up as the day goes on but it is enough to cause him to pause and realize he would rather face a hundred wounds than dive into a frigid sea. You are tundrian. You are born with ice in your blood, little lion boy. He takes a breath and lunges into the water, diving beneath it’s surface ( much like the ripping off a bandaid is better than taking it off slowly ), feeling it surge and churn around him as he kicks to breach the surface. He breaks the surface and sucks in a greedy gasp of air, letting out a noise around clenched teeth that chatter lightly as he wades through the surf and back onto the dry beach. Talk about a wake up call from hell. He gives his coat a hearty shake to dispel the excess water and stops in the sunniest part of the beach so he might unthaw as his coat dries.