Moonspear be devout to hunger, child

A light rain had fallen overnight and the damp curls the longer tendrils of fur along his nape and cape. It’s relatively cool, however, lacking the sticky muggy air that lingers during a summer rain and for this Drogon: thick and bulky with hardened muscle and fur ( so much fur! ) is easily warm. He barely feels the cool air as it is now, even with his fur blissfully dampened as he made his patrol round in the light rain. He worried that he would struggle with accumulating to pack life. In some respects, he does struggle but as far as recognizing his leaders and adjusting posture accordingly and falling into a routine of patrolling, training, checking caches and hunting has been easier than he imagined it to be. Of course, he puts more effort into it than he might have elsewhere because he is out to impress a certain Cerberus ( …not that he’d be able to tell her from her sisters on sight alone ). Currently, he suspects he doesn’t mean much to the Moonspearians beyond his knowledge of Blackfeather Woods and that’s ok. It’s a start. It’s something. Something for him to build off of, to expand.

He pauses at one of the food caches and roots through it, pulling out anything that carries the sickly sweet scent of decay and carries it away from the cache. He doesn’t exactly care if scavengers go hungry or not but if they are willing to eat it then they are free to pick it clean. His hunt to catch a rabbit to replace what had to be culled was a failure and his pride smarts with the string of the small woodland critter besting him. He huffs and scowls fiercely at the hole it had dived into, much quicker than Dragon who is hindered by his size. Right. He’s not nearly as fast as he’d been as a pup. He was a titan and though he is a powerhouse his speed lacks in accordance. Knowing that he’ll try again later he heads off, deeper into the territory pausing at a rain puddle where his head bows as he laps at the water, seeking to sate his thirst.

Nothing spectacular had happened in Wraen's life after she had accidentally run into Charon and found her brother again. Things had set into a comfortable and familiar routine and, though not being particularly good at anything in any of the trades at the moment, the yearling tried to be there to help in all of the little, yet important things. Hunting, scouting, patrolling alongside Terance, learning to defend herself per his suggestion and looking after the kids now and then, though now they were big enough to be fine on their own. 

With all this there was little time left for daydreaming or story-telling, therefore it was a rare moment - like this rainy morning - to see her walking through the forest and with a far-off gaze in her eyes. She was physically here, but her mind was roaming the realms of imagination land - a place with many dimensions, worlds within worlds and carefully hidden doors that could lead you from one unbelievable place to the other. And in this state it was no wonder that the young wolf noticed very little that was happening around her and that she was about to run into a very real and very serious person.

slight pp! let me know if you'd like me to change it. :-)

Drogon hears the approaching footfalls, leisurely and hurried as he laps at the puddle water, his ears pivoting atop his skull to determine the direction of the pack-mate that approaches. Given that the steps are unhurried and presumably without actual purpose he does not worry much about it. They’ll stop, the tundrian thinks. He’s wrong. He miscalculates that the wolf is paying attention and is startled from his drink as she crashes into him. His mass absorbs the contact and aside from a slight sway of recoil and scuffle of his paws on the earthen floor due to momentary loss of balance he acts like a brick wall. She’s slight and smaller than him, he notices as he glimpses at her from the corner of his eye, biting back his instinctive reaction to snarl and snap his teeth at her. It takes a tremendous amount of effort to stave off that feral, primal instinct but by some small miracle Drogon manages keeps himself under control. He lets out a low grunt of discomfort because the collision itself did hurt and the area smarts for a few moments longer before it gradually fades. “Are you ok?” He asks her, because he was, really, truly working on being not only a productive but good pack-mate; and ensuring that she was alright seemed like good guy thing to ask. It has occurred to Drogon that it was one thing to act a certain way outside of pack lands, and when he was a child but …he was six months of age now and nearing adulthood rapidly. It was about high time he started acting like one ( especially as that was how he wished to be treated ).

Wraen was catapulted from her land of unicorns, rainbows and hidden gold and landed with an actual crash in the real world again. Except she had not hit the ground, but someone furry, warm and definitely alive. "S-orrry," she mumbled taking a step back and trying to clear her mouth from the bits of fur from the other wolf (a not to everyone - never crash into people with your mouth open).

"I am fine," she gave the man standing in front of her a bright smile and wagged her tail a bit. "What about you? No injuries?" Wraen asked, taking this as a good reason to look the young man up and down and to come to a conclusion that this was one dashing fellow. Had she been human, she would have blushed.

Drogon watches as she stumbles back and stutters out an apology as to which he accepts but is quick to brush away because no harm, no foul; and he very much doubts that she’d intentionally walked into him. A chuckle bubbles in the tundrian’s throat, amused, as he watches her try to get bits of his fur out of her mouth. Drogon tries to contain the chuckle for as long as he can before it escapes his lips in a low sound as he attempts to dampen it so it’s almost a mirthful snicker and turns his head away, lest she think he’s making fun of her. He’s not, it just that there’s something amusing about watching someone try to get your fur out of their mouth that’s undeniably amusing as they fuss about it.

Drogon moves to face her, then, composed once more as she assures him that she is fine with a bright smile and a wag of her tail. When she inquires about him and injuries he barely makes an effort to conceal the low snort that rips from his black, leathery nostrils. Even as a child Drogon had been a big boy: thickly lined with baby pudge. Now he is robust, well muscled beneath his pelage. He’s plenty sturdy, built for taking heavy hits in combat. “No; no injuries. I’ve never been better.” There is a cloistered truth to those words: since he’s been apart of Moonspear he’s begun to put on the weight and muscle that being a lone wolf had staved off and he can feel the difference keenly, knowing he will have to adjust for it in spars.

His ears swivel for a moment, feeling the pinprick along his nape as he watches her assess him. “I’m Drogon.” He introduces with a grin that could either be considered devilish or charming as he preens beneath the attention ( because he undeniably enjoys it ), his chest puffing ever so slightly in the show-off manner akin to a male peacock fanning it’s tail.

"Drogon - that is a... fancy name," Wraen mumbled out the last part and giggled, then looking away quickly, because the other's radiating self-confidence was making her feel small, silly and unimportant. She had met few people of the opposite sex that were around the same age she was and the fact that the way she noticed other males had changed since last few months was still something she was getting used to. 

Therefore - she felt awkward and with no suitable words at hand, until she remembered that perhaps it would not hurt to introduce herself too. "I am Wraen... in... in case you wondered," she exhaled, shot a quick glance at the guy and then back at the suddenly very interesting spot in front of her fore paws on the ground.

Drogon’s ears pivot and his tail brushes against his hocks in a soft wag as she repeats his name and adds that she believes it to be fancy, a giggle escaping her at the end, watching as she looks away quickly. The potential reason for the giggle entirely escapes him: he’s a little slow on the uptake. Despite Drogon’s self-assuredness and cocky mannerisms that might give off a different impression he’s rather incognizant when it comes to the fairer sex. Drogon assumes that everyone is as bold as he and this is likely the fault of his inexperience. It doesn’t even occur to him that there are more subtle, artful and shy ways of expressing attraction or interest.

She introduces herself as Wraen, adding with a slight stutter in case he wondered. “Wraen,” The tundrian repeats, testing it out upon his tongue. It kind of reminded him of a bird, if he was being honest. Glacial gaze slides over her once more as she spares him a glance but then looks away fast as she can at a spot on the ground. Ah, he’s noticed it now. Not all of it, mind, but it’s sunk into his thick skull that she has some sort of aversion to looking at him for long periods ( and that’s a start, right? ). “Is there something wrong with me that you keep looking away?” Drogon asks with a light hearted chuckle to insinuate to her that he’s not insulted: just curious. “Wraen?” He adds softly hoping that if she is not inspired to answer the first question that by perhaps using her name she might feel more obligated to answer if he addresses her by her name.

Oh, god, oh, god, oh god... Wraen's mind was racing along with the suddenly very fast heart rate and suspicious feeling (she had not heard '"the term of butterflies in the stomach" or "fluttery") in the pit of her stomach. She felt a bit cheated too - most of her knowledge about the world and relationships was built on her personal experiences (mostly family members) and stories about others - not once was there a mention about this silly weakness (weaky silliness) going on now and therefore she felt a little cheated. 

Drogon either intentionally or truly ignorant of his effect on her asked the very obvious question - what was wrong with her? How could she tell in few words, where there were thousands of them in no logical order? But amidst the chaos in her mind, one word broke out and she - still not looking at him - replied: "The Glamour."

For a long moment Drogon thinks that she will not answer him and for that stretch of time he’s left to continue attempting to puzzle it out in his mind; there’s a slight spark of suspicion. That perhaps she nurtures for him what he nurtures for Hydra: what he once, very briefly felt for Nyx during his short time in Blackfeather. A suspicion is not enough to go on and he shifts his weight, his ears slicking back to rest at half mast atop his skull before they cup forth, towards her. She speaks, still not looking at him but her words …make no sense to him. The Glamour? What did that mean? What was it? “The Glamour?” Drogon inquires with a bit of hesitance, his ears pivoting to the side. “What’s The Glamour?” The tundrian asks her. Now Wraen had gone way over Drogon’s head when a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ would have sufficed to his question. He’s no overly knowledgeable in occult things, in fairy-tales and mystics and in truth he has little tolerance for such things due to his traumatic childhood and his time spent in Blackfeather Woods. Drogon stretches and then settles upon his haunches, his eyes leaving her briefly to scan the territory before his glacial gaze fixates upon her once more.

Now that was a question Wraen could answer immediately and these were waters, where she could sail comfortably. She looked up at the handsome fellow with a new-found self-confidence and smiled at him. 

"That is, what elves possess," she told, "it is an ability to change one's appearance at will as well as charm people so that they succumb to the elf's power. It is a radiant self-confidence, beauty and the one, who is affected by the Glamour, sees the elf as the most beautiful and perfect thing in the world." She left out the part of feeling insignificant, weak and useless.

"That is, how they trick children to follow them in the woods," Wraen finished.

ooc: The Glamour - a reference to Terry Pratchet's "Shepherd's crown"

I just want to say that I'm loving this thread! ♥

Drogon watches as Wraen finally looks at him and smiles at him with a radiating self confidence that briefly stuns him. He gapes at her for a moment, surprised by the abrupt change in her and unsure how he feels about that disarming smile. She launches into her explanation without preamble speaking of things he has never heard before: of elves and some sort of power that allows them to shift their appearance. He freezes for a moment, the strong muscles in his body pulling taunt as he realizes that she’s not wrong. He’d been born as white as snow and gradually his mane had developed and then his extremities had darkened until his fur had darkened into the solid blue-black it is this day. He looks nothing like he had as a younger child. Holy fuck he was an elf. This thought had his ears slowly pinning back to his skull as he realizes that it’s probably not as normal as he had always assumed it was. He preens under the assumption that she thinks he’s beautiful and perfect, his maned chest puffing out in a manner that bespoke his show-offy nature ( because Drogon had always been and would always be a show off ) only to falter and wilt when she added that ‘The Glamour’ was used to lure children into the woods. His lip curled back in distaste then, the moment ruined. He didn’t even want to know what use elves had for luring children into the woods. No, he was definitely not an elf, he deduced stubbornly.

“Well,” The leijona draws in a deep breath. “I’m not an elf, I probably don’t have The Glamour and I have no intentions of tricking children to follow me into the woods.” He offers a crooked grin then and rolls his broad shoulders in a flippant shrug. “Besides,” Drogon murmurs, his tail giving a wag against his hocks as he takes a ghost of a step closer to her. “You’re looking at me right now and look! You’re totally safe.” He almost said that he hasn’t bewitched her but as he’s not entirely sure that’s true ( he understands now — or rather he thinks he understands ) and if he has, per chance, bewitched her he certainly hadn’t meant to.

"Oh, don't worry - not all of them are bad," Wraen chuckled, when Drogon declared not being an elf, based on only one, most known characteristic they beheld. There were - in fact - many tales of elves and even within one species of mythological creatures there was a great variety. 

"I was looking at you a moment ago and, if, what I saw and felt was not The Glamour, then I have no idea, what else it was," she defended her argument. Though she was almost a year older than him, she was just as innocent in her assumptions of, how the world of grown-ups worked. Aside from that first crush, she had nothing else to compare to. 

"Believe me, if you had told me then to follow you - I would have," she added.

Drogon offers Wraen an easy, charming grin as she assures him that not all elves are bad. He thinks, it’s kind of like anything really: there are always heroes mixed among the villains even if they all share the assumed reputation of being manipulatively bewitching and child luring. His ears flutter back as she speaks that if it wasn’t The Glamour that had bewitched her than she isn’t sure what it could be. Drogon doesn’t tell her that he doesn’t believe in such things ( fairy-tales fall in a similar vein as gods to him ) because he doesn’t want to hurt her feelings and it truly makes for a good story; and she’s — as far as the Ansbjørn leijona is concerned — a compelling storyteller. “Maybe it’s my curse.” He suggests lightly, jovially in jest. Drogon is reminded of Airi who showed her own interest in a different way, though Wraen is not nearly as aggressive as the the other girl. Though Drogon doesn’t realize it: his mother, of whom he looks ( more or less ) like a masculine mirror of had the same cursed blessing ( and that it’s what bewitched the gangster initially, therefore allowing Drogon to be born at all ). He laughs, then, a hearty sound that shakes him as she flat-out tells him that if he’d asked her to follow him that she would have. Drogon isn’t sure if telling him he has that sort of effect on some wolves is a good thing or not …because he’s aware of it now and wonders, habitually, just how far it could take him. The tundrian reclines back upon his haunches thinking about what to say to that. It’s not awkward: he feels no discomfort at her admittance; and he’s torn between wanting to assure her that he wouldn’t have but also desires to be flirtatious because what was the point of being bewitching if he didn’t use it? “Hmm,” is what Drogon ultimately settles on: a contemplative noise that works to fill the silence between them with an accompanying grin to assure her that he’s not weirded out or anything ( he’s just, for once in his life, unsure of what to say ).

"Or a gift - depends, how you use it," Wraen mused. "You never really know, when being charming and handsome can become handy." She couldn't be the two things togehter even if she tried very hard. Pretty, ma-a-a-ybe, but charming? Weird and silly was a more likely choice. 

"Oh, no," she pretended to be afraid, when the young man continued their conversation with a mischievous "hmmm". It was easy for her to imagine that there were wheels turning in his head now, sorting out every possible use of the new-found superpower. "Should I be afraid?" she asked, tilting her head to the side, and smiling.

you get my 200th post! :D

Drogon’s lips curl up in a ghost of a smile as Wraen is quick to offer him an alternative to his belief that it’s a curse: she brings to his attention that perhaps it is a gift. Drogon can see the advantage of it: of being thought as shallow because he’s handsome or charming; a deception that he’s afraid to bleed ( he’s not ). Or that his narcissistic tendencies are so great that while he could put off that he’s so self absorbed so that no one pays him any mind whilst gathering information. There were definitely possibilities and Drogon suddenly wanted to know how many wolves he could wrap around his paw. Maybe it wouldn’t work at all. The Ansbjørn was known for going through phases of the need and want to prove he’s the big bad at all and any cost. Where the charming leijona melts away to brutish, brooding and harsh sotapäällikkö in the making. Drogon laughs as Wraen pretends to be scared and rolls his eyes playfully at her, letting out a low snort when she asks: with a head tilt and smile if she should be scared. Drogon pretends to think about it, delving into his theatrics side as a thespian as he tries to make it as dramatic as he can ( if only to make it silly ). “Only if you want to be.” Drogon rumbles with a cheshire grin, his deep, husky timbre playful, conveying what his expression does not: that he’s still jesting and that this exchange is still light-hearted.

ooc: congrats!

"A-haaa..." Wraen gave a sly grin of her own, got to her feet and stretched thoroughly, preparing for action. She pondered briefly, if she should point out that this gift worked only on those, who had no idea that he possessed it, but decided against it. Where was fun in a game, when all parties involved knew not only the rules, but also the cheats and glitches. She would save that for later. 

"Alright..." she drew in and exhaled deeply three times, preparing to be charmed (at least pretending to be), then regarded her companion in a friendly manner. "Let's practice then. I am the poor unsuspecting subject and you - you are the dark, tall and mysterious stranger. Glamour me!" she demanded.

i think i might use this for drogon's scout trade/rogue speciality since it seems like it would fit. :0

Drogon watches her as she rises and stretches, his ears cupping forth as she speaks after inhaling deeply a few times. He bites back the giddy laughter that threatens to hiccup from him, wondering if it’s truly that serious; but as he’s not quite sure what she’s doing ( he briefly wonders if this is her way of insinuating that a conversation is over ). She speaks of practice and Drogon does let out a low, amused snort at that. Practice? How’s he supposed to practice something that just …happens? His left ear pivots to the side and his tail brushes a soft sweep against the snow dusted ground. Despite her demand he snickers every time he looks at her and tries to summon this mysterious Glamour power he possesses; and the tundrian gives a shake of his head as if to convey that he can’t do it when he glimpses at her from the corner of his eye and is struck with an idea. There are facets of himself that Moonspear hasn’t seen: masks …characters that he adopts to aid him in adapting but undeniably all him, nevertheless.

Drogon gave her a ‘stay right there’ look and slipped into the shadows of the trees because he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t shed the skin of the leijona while she watched; could not exchange the lion for the ( aspiring ) warlord without laughing and thus ruining it. It seems silly but he cannot deny the usefulness this previously undiscovered “power” could have if he learned to hone it, to perfect it. Wraen had a point. A very good point.

It was a process: one he that would be a slow discovery until he found out what worked and what didn’t. For now he was unsure of how to call upon the sotapäällikkö, the tenacious and frigidly apathetic beast he had begun but never finished molding himself into to fit Blackfeather Woods. When Drogon emerges from the thick, tangled underbrush his steps are a confident swagger, a ghost of a smirk upon his lips as his glacial eyes graze her with what he hopes is a dark hunger. He doesn’t speak: instead attempting to go for the silent but captivating hook. Whether he succeeds or not …well it comes down to whether he can pull it off convincingly though ultimately his success or failure lays upon Wraen's shoulders.

ooc: sure!

At first it seems that Drogon does not take Wraen's idea seriously - what with all the snickering and grinning, while she explains, what he should be doing. But then, as it seeps in, he seems to reconsider. She watches him disappear in the undergrowth, apparently unable to keep a straight and cool face, while she is present. Therefore Wraen sits and waits, curious about, what he is going to cook up. 

Time passes and he re-emerges, having collected himself and approaching her in a cool demeanor. She looks at him, trying to figure out, what kind of mask he is wearing now and, how should she react. What was expected from her? Though after a while she starts to feel it - the Glamour - not in the same way than before, but rather like the charging of the air between them. Perhaps he does not feel it the same way she does, but her heart starts to beat faster and there is a strange sort of giddiness spreading from her belly to the rest of her body.

Wraen continues to stare at him, however, her gaze changes from the one that is curious and ready to face all trouble bravely, to the one of a person that wants to do something, but represses it. Eventually she can't take it anymore, she looks briefly away, sighs, then looks back at Drogon and shoots out the first thing that comes into her mind: "Uhm... can I kiss you?"

Drogon does not allow himself to doubt — to doubt Wraen’s words or himself. To deny the next snickering jeer that threatens to form upon his muzzle. As absurd as it strikes the tundrian part of him feels an eluding anticipation though for what he does not know. Hydra has already expressed that those talents would be useful and though Drogon could easily slip into the warlord’s mask ( as he has so very recently done for Wraen’s amusement ) he knew he had to disassociate himself. To make the two: the lion and the warlord separate entities. Though both, undeniably, of his own creation ( for even the leijona is a carefully crafted character ). It’s harder to call it to him by sheer will alone for he has only ever implored the masks as necessity demanded. It seems to have worked …in some capacity for the tundrian’s glacial gaze watches as Wraen looks away from him, gives a sigh and then blurts out a question. A question that takes him off guard ( because of course it’s not what he’s expected to hear …if, indeed, he’s expected anything at all ).

The look in her eyes has changed, he is perceptive of that and he wonders if it’s his adoption of the warlord, tucked away and saved for a time when he may need to call upon the tenacious and apathetic conquerer or if the two have no relation. And then Drogon wonders if it matters and comes to the conclusion that he supposes it doesn’t. She awaits his answer, he reminds himself and with a lift of his chin he rasps out, in his deep, smoky timbre: “Yes.”

Drogon does not say "no", which is a relief - really. It would be bad enough, if he had denied it, even worse, if would have said "urgh... disgusting". Because for some reason at this very moment Wraen feels very vulnerable, her heart figratively exposed, though no one apart from herself knows that. 

She gets to her feet and closes the distance between them so that now she is standing next to him, her cheek almost touching his. Gently and carefuly she moves her muzzle through the soft fur, taking the moment to explore it, take in the particular scent, until it reaches the base of his ear and there she plants a small and tender kiss. 

"Good job," she whispers in his ear and stands there just a couple of seconds longer to feel the warmth of the other's body. It is comforting.

Drogon watches as she rises to her feet and draws nearer to him, closing the distance between them. The warrior in him assess her movements, and the tactician studies her movements though it does him little good because …he already knows her intentions. She’s asked permission and he’s granted it. He sees no harm in a little kiss. Still, the tundrian can’t help but tense up slightly as her cheek nearly touches his and as he feels her warm touch as she presses her muzzle into his fur. He’s never been kissed before and thus he’s not sure what is or what is not involved in the process. It is the base of his ear that she plants a small, albeit tender kiss. His ear twitches in response and he lets out a low rumble of some sort when she commends him on a job well done, assuming that she means The Glamour trick ( because he certainly didn’t do anything with the kiss aside from stand there ). It had been …sweet, but admittedly it leaves the sotapäällikkö with a pang of disappointment. He expected more though he had no actual idea why — it’s not like he’s got other experiences to cross reference the kiss Wraen gave him with. He offers a nod of thanks, choosing to remain verbally silent while she lingers close to him.

Eventually the awkwardness that had been gnawing at the edges of the wonder and excitement of the moment took over. Not that Wraen would suddenly feel ashamed or embarrassed for what she had done, but that she had no idea, what to do next, how did a person proceed? What were you supposed to do after a kiss?

Therefore she sighed and stepped away. "Sorry, if I confused you, but I apparently have weakness for good looking people," she chuckled with a hint of uneasiness. "So - besides this "tall-dark-handsome-stranger" mask do you have any other personas? Say... a superhero in disguise?" Had she known any of DC comics she would have suggested "Batman" as an example. Drogon looked just like that type of hero.

As quickly as he had summoned the mask of the sotapäällikkö Drogon sheds it in favor of the leijona because he does not want Wraen to have to know that part of him, that dark and unbearably cruel part of him. “No,” Drogon rasps, his deep smoke and whisky timbre low. “Don’t apologize. It was nice. It was really nice.” He admits, thinking that he probably couldn’t have asked for a better first kiss. Wraen shifts the topic of conversation back to his masks — personas as she calls them. “I don’t know,” Drogon admits with a contemplative, small cant of his head. He’d never actually chosen to take on the masks: he donned his personas because it had been a necessity to ensure his survival. The one Drogon calls the Warlord had been created in his darkest of days, in the harshest of environments and the Lion is a very close replica to the boy he’d been in Teaghlaigh Enok Tundra. Not the same, too marked by the trauma he’s endured, but similar enough. “What does a superhero do?” He’s familiar enough with the term hero in a very basic sense and cannot see himself as anything of the sort. If anything, Drogon’d always considered himself more of that James Dean-esque rebellious bad-boy, the juvenile delinquent that always finds himself in trouble even when he tries to avoid it ( and avoidance of trouble many days seems like an impossible task ).

"Thank you," Wraen dipped her muzzle, when Drogon told her that the kiss had been nice. It did occur to her that this could have been his first one, but she was not brave and shameless to ask. Continuing the thought though... it had been a first one for her too. Like in terms of kissing another person.which was not a relative, for the first time. And all embarrassement aside - it had been pleasant. 

"Superheroes are heroes, but they have a super-power. Like no other person has," she explained readily. "Like there is the power to set things on fire, or control water, or talk to fish, or turn into other living beings, or being inwolfishly strong, or being a very, very, very smart person, or being able to lift and move things with your mind, or being a shapeshifter... or... well, you name one extraordinary power, preferably a magical one, and voila - you are a super-wolf. If you do good stuff with that power, then you are a super-hero. Or... there is always a possibility of becoming a super-villain too," Wraen had said this all in one breath and now that she had finally come to a halt, was inhaling and exhaling heavily as if having run a 100 m sprint.

ironically i've been listening to a song called: 'let me be your superhero' by smash into pieces for drogon lately, lmao.

Drogon lets the topic of the kiss fall from conversation, thinking that they both agree it was nice and that there was no sense in further analyzing it. Drogon listens patiently, interestedly, while Wraen launches into a detailed explanation of a super-hero: that it’s about the ‘super-powers’ and doing good things with them …or, she adds, not doing good things and then becoming a super-villain. He lets out a soft laugh at that because he already knows what he’d be and it wasn’t the hero. Drogon wasn’t the hero type. He didn’t do good things — he’d left plenty of his brief companions, he’d abandoned the forming Ravensblood for Moonspear all because Hydra made the deal and he has a crush on her, and now he offers information to betray a pack he’d once, very briefly, called home because he has a personal vendetta against the same boy that has caused all this trouble. Drogon’s problematic and he’s cruel and he moves through like a devastating hurricane destroying things that are in his path. A warlord in the making, indeed. “I’m not the hero type.” He says it with a charming smile but he’s being sincere as he speaks the words. He has always likened himself to his tundrian ancestors and he is tundrian but there is plenty of apathetic and pragmatic mobster in him as well. "I'm afraid I'd end up being the super-villain."