Moonstone Quarry hurt me? you can’t — i’ve got mounds of thick skin

@Drogon ♥

She should be too difficult to really see in the darkness. ^^

She told herself that going this far from home was unavoidable. She put an irritated flick into her step, pulled her lips into a thin line, and hunched her shoulders, contorting her chubby, rounded frame into a series of angry, jagged angles. By the time she [almost literally] stumbled upon the limestone quarry, Eirlys had all but convinced herself that she was out here against her will.

Mitted paws shuffled carefully along the unsteady surface, moving ever downward; as luck would have it, the vanilla-furred Fearghal had inherited her surefootedness from the Ansbjørn side of the family. The path she’d chosen led her into a wide spiral that narrowed slightly the deeper she went. “Like walking through the chambers of a n-nautilus,” she murmured, her voice crumbling at the amplification brought about by the walls of stone. Rounded ears tucked defensively against her head momentarily, but she was quick to regain the innate confidence that lay deep within the marrow of her bones. “Nuku, nuku, nurmilintu,” she sang to herself, just to prove how untroubled she was, the notes pitch perfect but the tone stripped bare of emotion or inflection.

She hopped the last few feet, and that’s about the time the Fearghal side of the family kicked in. Her paws slipped out from under her and left her in an unattractive faceplant with her ample rump in the air and her tail ramrod straight in the air like a bold exclamation point.

Once she recovered from her shock, Eirlys bounded to her feet. The excitement of being somewhere new and unexplored was enough to make her forget that she was pretending to be angry — all that wanderlust she tried so hard to stifle and still surged to the forefront and she instinctively moved deeper into the shadows, rooting around in the crystal pools with unfeigned interest.

♥♥♥♥!

Drogon got himself trapped. Well, perhaps that was not particularly accurate — he wasn’t trapped, not really, but he does not fancy the climb back up the treacherous limestone wall in the pitch darkness. He’s not entirely sure why he even came back here in the first place after the last time meeting Witchbaby and having to have her lead him back up the path. Drogon knows it will support his weight now and he’s not particularly afraid of heights — he can’t really be because of the towering spear he calls home and there’s a slight climb to reach his den which is a small crepuscular cave. No, he doesn’t mind heights at all so long as he knows his path won’t crumble beneath him. He lets out a huff — probably his tenth huff since the moonless night crept through the territory — as if huffing is going to make any difference. Now he’s beginning to remind himself of Vela, he thinks with a slight snort and frown, thinking if he huffs enough the universe might bend to his will. No one knows better than Drogon that, that is not how the universe works.

The sakaali is left to wonder the quarry now, wondering if it truly holds those moonstones like it is rumored and then wondering what it might look like if he brought a small moonstone back to Moonspear for Vela. Would it be taken as ‘I saw this and I thought you might like it because it’s pretty and you’re pretty and yep, that’s it’ or would it signify a commitment that he’s not ready to make? He barely knows her, after all, and though he thinks she’s pretty he also think she’s pretty annoying with her arrogance and her superiority complex and ‘my daddy this, and my daddy that’ as if the sun rose and set and the universe revolved around Charon.

As Drogon moves towards the heart of the quarry, still in search of moonstone but perhaps simply as something to add to his den as decoration, he hears footfalls. The wispy tendrils of his ‘mane’ at the back of his neck and his hackles bristle upon sheer instinct as he calls out, “Who’s there?” Demanding an answer in his gruff, whiskey steeped in smoke baritone. He can’t see shit other than a little bit in either direction and even then it is heavily shadowed. Drogon is going in essentially blind and he abruptly doesn’t like it.

“Who’s asking?” Eirlys bantered coyly in return, her lilting brogue cool and dreamy and utterly untroubled. Never mind that she didn’t actually belong here — she didn’t belong anywhere! Instinct told her that the glittering cave wasn’t the strange wolf’s home. It didn’t smell inhabited and it certainly didn’t seem like a typical den, and despite her lack of worldly knowledge the snowdrop knew enough to trust her nose. She liked the voice. It was familiar in a way she didn’t question. Having met few wolves that weren’t members of her immediate family, she assumed that everybody spoke with the same faintly rollicking rhythm that colored her own tongue.

Mindful of her personal safety, she retreated into a cleft of deeper shadow, simultaneously curious about the nature of the man she had encountered and fearful of the thrill of excitement that coursed through her blood. Wandering lost you your family, she chided herself, trying to sober up. She could feel herself smiling, the muscles of her chubby-cheeked face moving of their own accord, and she couldn’t seem to smooth them into the mask of solemnity she normally wore. What would Ceallach think? Her masked brother, so like their father in appearance, was probably already on the hunt for her. Guilt churned in her gut when she realized she didn’t want to be found.

It was this urge to remain anonymous that encouraged her to lie to the unseen inquisitor — something that the plain-speaking female was not typically wont to do. Her tongue twisted ineffectually in her mouth as she groped about for a suitable pseudonym, but in the end, “Eirlys,” she admitted. Unlike her mother, the snowdrop was clumsy at subterfuge. Words didn’t come easily to the girl who spoke only when spoken to, and usually by rote. How are you, fine, thank you, good morning, good morning… — but surely there were plenty of Eirlyses in the world, weren’t there?

sorry this is short! i got distracted writing this and lost majority of what i was going to write, lmao.

The other in the cave bantered with him in femme tone with a smooth accent and for a moment he is reminded of Vela and Drogon cannot help the roll of his eyes though he doubts his hidden companion could see it. “Someone interested,” He shoots back, lips curling into a smirk. “obviously.” He adds as if it goes without saying on a soft chuckle that rumbles pleasantly in his throat. It’s a bit alarming to the warrior how easily he banters with the stranger in the coveted darkness that engulfs them. It occurs to him that he should be much more weary especially given that he’s down one sense …but so too is she and that makes them on even footing regardless. Eirlys is the name she offers him. It tugs vaguely in the recesses of his mind as sounding familiar but he cannot place when nor where he’s heard it before. Likely in passing upon his travels, Drogon is sure. He thinks no further on it other than to put a name with the mysterious woman sharing the cave with him.

“Eirlys? It’s a pretty name.” Drogon comments nonchalantly, an attempt to be charmant. “I’m Drogon.” He offers in return though she had not asked for it.

He thought Eirlys was a pretty name? The snowdrop couldn’t help but be flattered; she hadn’t interacted with strangers enough to ever suspect he might just be saying it to be nice. She ought to have thanked him for the compliment, but she was so stunned by what he’d said that the chance passed her by and he was already speaking again. Oh, interested, was he? Why on earth did he think such information would be obvious to her? Eirlys wasn’t interesting. She was steady. Dependable. Definitely not given to sneaking off and hanging out in dark caves with wolves she didn’t know.

Ceallach was going to have a heart attack if she didn’t get home soon.

“Obvious, is it?” Eirlys laughed, a sound that started silvery and clear but warmed to a soft copper that colored her teasing rejoinder. “And just how is it supposed to be obvious to me, when we’ve only just met?” They couldn’t even see one another clearly — just vaguely wolfish shapes in a pitch black cavern. What did he really look like? The vague sameness she felt when she was with him was something she wanted to explore — but wasn’t curiosity just a bedfellow of wanderlust? Did she really want to delve that deeply into this? She schooled her face into a series of somber lines, even though he couldn’t see it, and adopted a serious tone as she tried to kick him out and push him away. “There’s nothing down here, you know,” she told him. There we go!

“You’re probably better off going somewhere more worth your time.”

Oh, did I mention? Eirlys was absolute rubbish at subtlety.

A low derisive snort passed from Drogon’s black, leathery nostrils and a roll of his eyes ( though she cannot see the action ) as her rejoinder hangs in the air between them. “Are most wolves content to share a dark cave with a stranger without being even a little bit interested in their unseen companion?” He’s curious and has never been a beast to stifle his thirst for knowledge even though it has came back in retaliation a fair amount of times. Information was powerful and thus it was dangerous and Drogon has come to expect poisonous barbs just as much as truth. At her attempt to get him out of the cave Drogon cannot help but snicker. Her attempt to get rid of him only makes him want to stay more — never mind the fact that he’s not overly sure he can find the exit ( it occurs to him that if he doesn’t, at least, give it an attempt at some point that he might die in here ). There is a swell of defiance beneath his breast, familiar and warm. Once a delinquent always a delinquent. “You don’t actually expect me to just take your word for it, do you?” Drogon replies with a second, derisive snort. “If that’s the case then why don’t you leave?” He inquires more sharply then he intended to.

Well, he had a point.

His derision, good-natured though it may have been, made her feel awkward, uncomfortable, and very, very young. Helplessly, frankly, “I don’t know,” Eirlys murmured, an applicable answer to all three of the male’s questions. She was on vastly unsteady ground, and she wasn’t charismatic enough to play it off or bluff her way through. “I’ve — I’ve never shared a dark cave with a stranger. I’ve never been here before,” she admitted. “I just wanted to go someplace new.”

“Do you really want me to leave?” she asked, wincing at how wistful the words sounded.

her question is wistful as it travels through the dark from betwixt her lips to his ears. he gave his head a shake, well aware that she could not see the action — which was probably good because it was not necessarily in response but in poorly veiled exasperation. first, she wanted him to leave and now she was sounding wistful at the possibility that he wanted her gone? girls were so damn confusing. there is a 'what the hell?' furrow to the lion's brow that he is glad she can't see because he suspects she'd have taken offense to it. he can't see her and doesn't know her from eve but from what little bit he has to thus drawn on it was the assumption he made nevertheless. "let me get this straight," drogon begins not entirely able to conceal his sobering annoyance. "first you wanted me to leave, tried to convince me there's nothing here, and then sound all sad when i suggest you leave?" he lets out a low snort in the darkness. well...so much for being tactful. "make up my mind already, woman." he teases her though there is a curl of his lip in something that resembles remorse as he awaits her reaction.

The thread of heated steel in the stranger’s voice sent a strange thrill down Eirlys’ spine. Were they going to fight? She’d never been in a fight before, but strangely, she was beginning to like the idea. The resentment she harbored from her mother’s death and her father’s abandonment, her littermates’ disappearances and the stormborn pack’s disbandment — the irritation she felt that she, Ceallach, and Hemlock were always going somewhere but somehow always seemed like they were standing still — it all bubbled up until she was seething for no real reason. Her own lips curled, but her pleochroic eyes were wide and fearful as her ungainly frame hovered somewhere between aggressive and intimidated. Thankfully, Drogon wouldn’t be able to see her graceless spectacle.

Eirlys hesitated — a little too long, as was her wont. To apologize and make nice, or to sass Drogon to a point of further frustration? Why did the latter option sound so appealing?

I won’t apologize!

Tossing her head with a hefty helping of Lotte’s spiritedness, “I wouldn’t be sad if you left,” she teased. Aware that she was waffling between two very different personas, she buried her true feelings on the matter and bulldozed forward with all the grace and suavity of a blindfolded bull in a china shop. “Make up your own mind, herra — as for me, I’m going deeper in.”

Summoning all the gumption she had, she moved toward his voice, intent on stalking past him with a modicum of Hemlock and Lotte’s feminine wile to explore the quarry further on her own.

there was no withholding the incredulous half snort, half snicker that left drogon's black, leathery nostrils in an effortless but heavy expel of air. his eyes roll though the gesture goes unacknowledged in the oppressing darkness. he does not fail to notice the tease in her voice but even so she's done about three — make that four, he mentally corrects himself as she announces that she's heading deeper in the cave — complete one-eighties since they've been in one another's presence. "i don't believe you," he all but purls in response to her flippant and teasing statement about not missing him if he left. his counter response is brazen and confident as it hangs in the air between them, daring her to protest, daring her to make him believe that she truly wants him gone ( though it's hard to find the exit when he can't even see his own nose in front of his face ). there's a charged chemistry between them; drogon can feel it in the air, feel it as it causes the wispy tendrils of his winter mane at his nape prickle and rise. and she's immediately frustrating to him in a way that reminds him of vela — it is different in it's own way but similiar. it draws him in like a moth to a flame. these brazen women who challenge him ( because honestly if there's no challenge drogon will inevitably lose interest ).

the anticipation builds as she stalks closer to him, her footfalls drawing her nearer and subconsciously drogon's muscles pull taunt in preparation for ...something. it is palpable now. the electricity, the anticipation. for a second after he processes that she's used tundrian his world is still and the heat of the chemistry he feels between them goes ice cold like the frozen land of the ansbjørns as he draws in a ragged breath and holds it and then with a sudden rush of heat it returns, slamming into him like a brick wall as he allows the air to spill from his lungs. he forgets, in the wake of what is possibly the most important discovery in his life thus far, that she had announced she was heading further in the cave, he forgot the retort he had ready: something about 'i thought you said there wasn't anything here'. in that moment none of her contradictions matter despite that they pile onto one another. "you speak tundrian?" he does not ask but demands rather pithily. she is close now and in a brief moment of idleness wonders if he were to extend his muzzle in her direction if she was yet close enough to touch and idly wonder morphed into a bespoken desire to do so though he tempers it as best he can. her enigma has just become more intricate and drogon's left with the reluctant acknowledgement that he's even more bewildered and allured by her.

“I don’t believe you,” the male purred, all confidence and machismo, and Eirlys merely smiled, shrugging a shoulder he couldn’t see. She was as aware of the odd chemistry between them as he seemed to be, and for a moment the cave was utterly still as the estranged twain held one breath, cleaved between two warring pairs of lungs. Rather than bantering back, he asked her something that didn’t make sense at first. “Tietysti,” she responded simply, her already piqued curiosity set ablaze. Her fur brushed his as she sidled past, moving into what appeared to be a narrow hallway whose walls were chill to the touch. Were they made of ice? She believed so, but without being able to see, she could only imagine. She rubbed her cheek against the wall, flews pulling back as she tested it gingerly with the curve of her fang. Not ice, she reflected, licking the ironsalt of the rock from her lips. “Everyone I know speaks tundrian,” she continued, her voice echoing enticingly as she moved further down the corridor. Okay, so that wasn’t precisely true.

Drogon didn’t know that, though.

“Oletko tulossa?” she asked sweetly, swapping to Common with a smattering of Quicksilver Hollow’s brogue, “Or do you have a curfew I’m interfering with, a dhuine uasail?”

of course, she responds so briskly, so matter-of-factly that drogon is left suspended in a purgatory of uncertainty. he didn't think tundrian was all that common ...or at least he'd been able to speak it rather freely without other's knowing what he's saying. at least, this is what he assumes as no one ever answers or typically has some sort of puzzled expression upon their face. he's been teaching vela some words and phrases because she seems curious and interested in his 'native' tongue and there is something enticing and rebellious about the idea of being able to have a truly private conversation between himself and the freckled moonspear princess and drogon's always been a delinquent. "onko näin?" drogon inquires, pressing his tongue against the backs of his teeth. "i've been hanging out with the wrong crowd then." he muses with a low chuckle, blue-black pelage bristling with electricity that races through his nerves as she brushes past him. it lingers when she is past and he shivers from the lingering sensation not exactly sure what was happening but not finding it unpleasant.

"tietysti." drogon responds matter-of-factly. as if he's insulted that she's even questioning his sense of adventure. he's not, not truly. he's only teasing and lets out a snort accompanied by an unseen roll of his eyes when she inquires about a curfew. "no curfew," he responds as he follows after her, mindful of the length of his steps. he doesn't want to bump into her especially because he doubts she can see the path very well. there was no telling what awaited them in the depths of the cave. "and even if there was i have qualms about breaking it." it sounds cocky but it's also true, regardless, though that's not to say that drogon isn't aware that he's trying to show off. he's definitely aware that he's absolutely trying to show off and impress his unseen companion; her conflicting nature with him makes her hard to read and thus only makes him feel more inclined to continue on his mission to impress.

“Maybe you should hang out with my crowd,” Eirlys laughed, not at all expecting that the stranger would ever take her up on the offer. She tossed a grin he couldn’t see over her shoulder, but it snuck into her voice like a caress as she teased him. “Good,” she said, alluding to one of Lotte’s stories without really thinking about it. “I mean, I wouldn’t want you to turn into a pumpkin after midnight, princess,” she quipped. Her tail flicked saucily to match her amusement, and in the darkness it was hard to tell whether she was hitting Drogon or their surroundings — but impossibly, she saw light up ahead. “Drogon,” she whispered, her pace slowing. “N-Näetkö tuon?” Her voice trembled, but her body was drawn taut with excitement, not fear.

Nose to the ground and shoulder to the wall, Eirlys felt her way along carefully — and when she bumped into a stalagmite that was nearly as tall as she was, her heart jumped uneasily. Taking a minute to compose herself, she stopped moving and simply blew out a huff of a breath. “This is so fucking cool,” she exulted in a shaky whisper, having inherited her father’s expletives as well as his accent. She leaned against the spike in the ground to catch her breath.

"that'd be a shame," drogon concludes in reference to turning into a pumpkin after midnight but adds, because he's vain and cannot actually help himself: "but i'd be the best looking pumpkin around." he quips, pompously. as she can't see him, his appearance and whether she finds it as aesthetic as he does is unclear but that's of little matter to the ansbjørn. he's never been one to give much thought to what other people thought about him ...except when he did. caring about the opinions of others was far too exhausting to do it ore than was absolutely necessary and thus, in general, drogon stuck with not caring in general.

her tail beat against him and he lets out a low, playful huff. it doesn't actually hurt — at least not for any longer than a few seconds that it smarts after initial contact — but he feels the urge to subtly tease her about it nevertheless. he doesn't verbally answer her but follows as she heads towards the light that glows in the depths of the cave. as she leans against a stalagmite he brushes alongside her, glacial gaze focused upon the glow from above. it reminded him of a jeweled night sky, a miniature galaxy right here in the depths of this cave. the leijona makes an appreciative noise in the back of his throat and studies the bejeweled cavern ceiling.

Companionably now, the snowdrop turned her head to regard the wolf who stood beside her in the light — and gasped. Tall and long-limbed, with a warrior’s heavily muscled physique, he was the spitting image of äiti — but his eyes were identical copies of her own. They did not match each other in height, and she was undeniably softer — more suitable for the bleachers than the boxing ring — but the sense of sameness lingered. She was cream and toffee where he was slate and gray, and her mask was spade-shaped while his whole head was black, but the colorpoint markings and white mittens were just like hers. She feared she could not breathe and merely stared at him inelegantly with her mouth gaping open like a fish.

She could already hear Ceallach accusing her of looking for siblings in every wolf she met, and immediately she put such silly notions aside. Roarke was her twin — and erroneously [it had been so long since she had seen her Uncle Dagfinn] she believed that he and Lotte had been identical. That twins were always identical. If this was truly Roarke, he would have looked like her — and she could not bear hanging her hopes on a copycat. Mumbling some excuse, she threaded past him and fled, and by the time she reached home again she would have done so in such a frenzied state that she would have run herself ragged with exhaustion. Nearly a full day later when she finally crashed into sleep, she would remember this whole night as a tormenting, vividly real dream.