Deepwood Weald he is neither gentle nor kind

drogon prowls through the spindly trees that line the deepwood weald like a man discontent and full of pent up, relentless energy; and he is. he's bored. it took him months to realize it, to keep peering at the festering lack of adventure and excitement in his life until he understood his boredom was like an open, infected wound and was not bound to get better simply by ignoring it. sure, he had a pack to call home and he had a girlfriend and surely those were things to be grateful for but it also meant, without a doubt, that drogon had settled down. he's made himself complacent and stuffed himself into a cage to perform like a circus act to curry favor with his girlfriend's father ( whom so happened to also be his leader ) ...and drogon hated it. he was leijona ...a lion. lions were never meant to be caged. they were made to roam, to conquer. something needed to change and it was all a matter of what drogon was willing to sacrifice to free himself from the prison of his own making.

for the moment he focuses upon his chosen path within the weald, following it towards the heart of the territory, alert upon instinct but not without the lingering vestiges of distraction as he contemplates the hard choice that now lays bared before him. he knows that this 'married' life of 'yes sir, no sir' is not for him. he is a tundrian, a warrior. he is, at heart, what he could not tell others when they ask him who he is: a thespian, spinesplitter: a conquerer.

the morning is chilly and clouds drift over the descending moon to block what few of it's silvered beams break through the twisted canopy formed above by the tangled branches overhead, forcing drogon to slow his pace and pay a bit more attention to where he steps as the fog thickens and the green and red ferns threaten to tangle around his legs.

The mountain was quiet, at least, quiet as it could be with young pups about. It had been a while since Gannet had seen anyone, and he felt himself slipping back into the pattern he had gotten into in Redhawk Caldera - sticking to the fringes it pack life, patrolling, but not going out of his way to check in. It wasn't that he didn't wish to... he just felt he had little need.

Today he happened to bump into someone while outside of the territory though. Now that he had been a time or two without fallout, he figured it was ok to do so a bit, and took advantage of the leeway.

He didn't know the man he spotted, but did know him to be from the mountain. He hesitated before reaching out; the fog had almost obscured him and maybe he didn't wish for company.

Curiosity won out, however, as it often does. "Where are you going?" He asked, his voice carrying across the mist to hopefully be heard by the other. If he didn't want company, fine. But if he did, Gannet would like to perhaps know him.

thanks for joining!

the choice, the pros and cons as he weighs them out in his mind are a heavy burden, like a crown set heavy upon his head. life was full of hard choices and if he desired to ever see his ambitions come to fruition he knew sacrifices would need to be made. it was apart of life. drogon understood as well as any seasoned beast that life was tough and so, too, were the decisions that led down certain paths. he is a young adult in body but in mind, in soul he exceeds his years of life by a long shot. it was a curse but it was his curse. the fog conceals and distorts the sound of approaching footfalls, confusing him as to which way he's being approached from. drogon's pace slows instinctively, ears alert atop his skull despite that he knows he cannot fully trust his eyes and ears in the thick of the fog.

he draws in a deep breath, dissecting the scents. the musty scent of the woodland's floor, rotting plants and warm aromas of scurrying woodland beasties. he is able to deduce that someone from moonspear is nearby, closing in rather quickly and for a moment he wonders if charon has followed him; only to cast the ridiculous notion aside. he isn't worth that much attention to the alpha which, drogon considers in and of itself might be a blessing. a pale figure with black paws emerges from the writhing fog and poses a question. drogon doesn't recognize him — whoever he is to moonspear he wasn't anyone drogon had introduced himself to. "no where in particular," the ansbjørn replies in his raspy baritone, like whiskey steeped in smoke. a half truth. the decision still lays bare before him and he's not decided either way yet; so he's not actually heading anywhere. not back to moonspear but not exactly away from it either. for the moment, he's simply stretching his legs in a near-by territory. "you?" drogon returns the question.

Drogon spoke, and the rasp to the tone resonated with the boy somewhat, though he couldn't say why. He had been hoping perhaps the other had an interesting destination to impart, but really he was just glad he was willing to pause and say that much.

"Nowhere either," he responded, smiling a little at the repetition. It was true; he hadn't really set out with much in mind today. He generally didn't. "Just looking." The surrounding area held a lot, and Gannet needed to start learning it now that he was on his feet and fully mobile again. "Who're you?" He knew he was Moonspear, so at least that much was good. But a name would be nice.

drogon let out a small noise of acknowledgement when the other moonspear wolf returned that he had no particular destination in mind either. drogon watches as a small smile tugged at the edges of the other male's lips but drogon — whom had the social graces of a jackal at best — did not return it. nevertheless, in this moment both wanderers they were alike as destination-less wanderers. except drogon was contemplating cutting ties with moonspear, a move on the chess board that might easily be seen as treasonous by charon and co; and he was heavily considering that it was a sacrifice he was very willing to pay. but, he did not trust this information with the man before him. drogon isn't even sure he trusts that information with vela whom had always been more loyal to charon than she was anyone else. if there was one thing drogon was an expert at: it was ghosting.

"drogon. drogon ansbjørn." he responds moments before he draws his salmon pink tongue across his jowls and casts his glacial gaze to the thick fog that surrounds them. "yours?" he returns in a abrupt tone (again those jackal-like manners of his). drogon's ears swivel atop his skull, alert in part to catch the other male's response and because he thinks he hears something apart from them, and reminds himself shortly after that the fog distorts sound as well as eyesight. he lets out a small, near inaudible huff and the longer, wispy hair at his nape bristles slightly. the senses drogon heavily relies on as a warrior, as a predator are muted in the fog's masking properties and while it could undoubtedly be useful that door swung both ways. "this fog is putting me on edge." drogon confesses to his pale companion abruptly.

"Gannet," he replied. Drogon. The name didn't ring much of a bell either; another stranger to the family like himself then. He was pretty sure he knew all of Charon's children by name by now.

He nodded; it was eerie, but almost peaceful. Gannet kind of liked the fog despite the lessened senses. "It's quieter," he said, though his tone spoke clearly that this wasn't a negative for him. Rather the opposite.

"You aren't one of them?" He asked, a highly abrupt and probably more than rude question that followed his thought train earlier. He didn't specify who he meant by them; as usual he forgot the person he was talking to wasn't in his brain.

gannet, the pale boy introduced him as and drogon tucked the name away though it sparks a vague recognition. perhaps, he thinks, he's heard it mentioned before ...and perhaps he merely thinks there is a very vague familiarity there because he hasn't heard it before. he is not one of charon's children — all of whom he knows ( except for the youngest ) — and if drogon's mind numbing patrols have told him anything over the course of the last few months there are not many on the mountain that are not blood related to charon ostrega. while drogon felt a sense of unease at the pressing fog that engulfed the pair his pallid companion appeared to feel the opposite and drogon found that he couldn't dispute gannet's observation of the fog. it was quieter ...and perhaps that was the underlying problem for the ansbjørn. he was used to noise and in the solitude and quiet he no longer remembers how to cope. the epsilon offers a small grunt of reluctant agreement but does not offer a verbal comment upon gannet's observation of the fog.

the question that falls from betwixt his companion's lips makes little sense to the talvella who, in his confusion, thought that perhaps he'd zoned out and had missed the context of gannet's inquiry; but he knows that he hadn't and offers the paler boy a bewildered look as his left ear pivots to the side and partially slicks back. "huh?" it was a knee-jerk reaction, more of a ( probably rude ) noise than an actual demand for clarification. "one of who?" drogon remedies it quickly, putting words to his confusion as he studies gannet with a furrow of his brow, unabashedly trying to discern what his first impression of the pale boy before him is.

He did indeed seem confused, and it took Gannet a moment's consideration to find out why and how to better explain. One of who.... "Charon's family," he said, figuring that was the best description for it. He'd thought he was the only one left, but if he was there, this meant he was not. Though even if he was, Gannet still would be happy to have another friend here, so his tail waved tentatively as he smiled.

"I'm not, but some don't mind." He added, thinking of those who seemed to. Just those who he imagined would never warm to him... Hydra's sisters. Vela the jury was still out on, but the rest were friendly to him now.

for consistency i'm going to keep calling him drogon for the rest of this thread. :-)

gannet clarifies after drogon's inquiry. charon's family. the tundrian almost laughs. he doesn't think that the alpha of moonspear will ever like him enough to consider him family even if he and vela did become serious enough to become one another's family. given the distance between them — which may or may not be mostly drogon's fault in his endless boredom as of late — he isn't sure vela and him'll last. "no. i'm not charon's family." he speaks, perhaps unnecessarily. the rut he's found himself stuck in is gradually driving him (stir) crazy and he grasps at straws at how to fix it. each time is more desperate than the last. leaving would be a last resort but it's persistent consideration. he should feel ashamed of it but at the same time he doesn't. drogon's fairly confident that no one ...except for perhaps vela ( but he couldn't rightly say ) would feel a loss if he left.

"seems like you and i are the only non-ostrega's left." which is interesting to drogon. he ponders it with a twitch of an inky ear and a lofty shrug of broad shoulders. "that either says something about them or us." drogon half jokes. he has it good, he knows. he has a home, a girlfriend. no friends but then again drogon knows he's hard to befriend and he's used to being on his own. used to seeing everyone as competition. yet, there is a part of him that strives and would always strive for more. his ambitions are endless and recently they've felt capped which in turn leads to the discontent he feels currently. he doesn't want to be a traitor but it would hardly be the first time he's bore that brand. he still bears it as far as blackfeather woods is concerned and has never been ashamed of the fact.

he inhales deeply and lets it out in a slightly heavy exhale as he turns his glacial gaze to gannet once more. he's not good at conversation, admittedly, and isn't sure what to ask next.

Gannet wasn't the greatest at conversation either but, happily, that meant he didn't mind the silence. He smiled as the other boy grouped them, nodding. There was an immediate kinship on his end... it never took much to inspire that, especially towards a packmate.

He let the silence fall for a little while, then breaths out a light, huffing laugh. In his opinion, it said something about both... they are obviously loyal and strong enough to be deemed at least an extension of family. And the Ostregas obviously had a way that only suited some.

"Why do you stay?" He asked, not wanting to pry, but wondering. None of the others had..... but he did.