Fairspell Meadow crowns sit heavy on the hearts of heroes

Meadowlark Prairie has gone silent as the songbirds it is named after have taken flight to warmer climates and the grasslands have been leached of it’s color. It is dark and dull in it’s coloration now: the only thing about it that is even remotely appealing is the dusting of snow that caps the tall grasses that swallow the tundrian as he moves from the shorter vegetation into the taller dried and dead grasses: moving towards the prairie’s dormant heart. There are a few scent trails of small herds that have passed through: their path evident by the trampling of grass that can no longer spring back up and the hoof prints marked into the softened earth. Drogon didn’t really expect to find too many herds still lingering. Most of them are on the move, looking to escape the worst of winter in warmer climates …not unlike the meadowlarks. It’s a first time in a long time that Drogon has been in the southern reaches of the Flatlands and he’s filled with not a fear but the apprehension of a runaway kid now teenager starting down the street of their parent’s house after a few years away without explanation or communication.

Ignoring that apprehension Drogon’s glacial gaze sweeps the tall grasses before him before he bows his head to assess the herd trails, discerning the most recent and begins to follow it though he will not go too much further, he has already decided. The Prairie is far enough of a journey, a chance to truly stretch his leg beyond the neighboring and close-by territories of Moonspear but close enough that returning home would only take him but a few hours at most.

He had never seen snow before. It was not in his recent memory, so even the soft dusting on it now was a marvel to him. He trudged in it carefully, admiring every soft crunch his paws made in the larger mounds. 

Ganon had been wandering into the Flatlands ever since Potema had given birth. Even though it was cold, his fur was thick from his Northern heritage, his mantle swelling into a thick ring of flame hovering over his neck. He had grown broad and strong, though still not larger than his brother. He had contented himself with that, confident in his own abilities that superceded mere size. 

He was wandering for many reasons. To get away. To see the lands around him. To stretch his legs. To think. His mother had given birth to monsters and nearly killed them. He, upon seeing them, believed that she should have. But she had chased him out before he had gotten so much as a glance of their twisted bodies. Vaati had insisted they live. What infatuation he once had for his brother faded into obscurity then when he realized what a complete and utter fool he was. Why would he waste his time on such a man, attractive as he was? Bringing captives into the Woods from nonexistent Gods-know-where, starving an innocent child? He had heard that Vaati had gained his knee facial scar attempting to kill another wolf from some neighboring pack. 

He sensed that it was his time to move on. He no longer belonged in Blackfeather Woods. He hadn't since he renounced their deities. It was only a matter of time. Mother would be all the better for it, losing one of her wayward sons. 

The tall grasses that surrounds him blocks his peripherals, and he nearly runs into the coy wolf. He snorts in surprise, a sheepish, but amused smile briefly flashing along his face. Didn't see you there, He doesn't recognize the young man, taking a step back as he would to any other stranger.

Drogon’s anticipation rose to a icy crescendo as the sound of footfalls grew nearer and the scent of Blackfeather Woods grows stronger. The tundrian’s heart pounds like the steady beat of a war drum in his chest hoping that Wraen had not been lying to him about his ‘supposed’ Glamour ( not that Drogon believes in it in quite the same sense as he believes Wraen does ) just because she thought he was handsome. He knows due to the color change his fur had gone through as he’d aged that he looks nothing like the pale cream puff Nyx had taken in: he’s not recognizable by sight and he hopes not by scent either. It’s been many moons since he’s been anywhere near Blackfeather Woods and he doubts that they’d even remember his scent, either. As the ember nearly collides with the soturi there is a brief tug of recognition in Drogon’s mind on sight alone but it goes no further than that. The hackles along the dark kahl’s spine bristle at first contact but they quickly smooth as the ember takes a step back. He knows the ember kissed boy before him is the pale boy’s brother but Drogon had never officially met him during his brief stay among the Blackfeather wolves, nor did he know his name.

The older boy makes mention that he had not seen Drogon there and the tundrian offers a lofty roll of his shoulders and a beguiling grin. Drogon rather thinks he stands out like a sore thumb even in the cover of the dried and dead grasses: a stark blue-black with silvery-blue mane but perhaps, he allows, the other boy just wasn’t paying much attention. Drogon’s salmon pink tongue draws across his lips and he offers the ember colored boy an amiable wag of his tail, dispelling some of the snow from the stalks of tall grasses that have bowed with the weight as his tail swipes at them. The snow rains down upon the tundrian and he gives his coat a slight shake to dispel the wayward snow that has not yet melted upon the tendrils of his pelage.

“You come out here to hunt, too?” Drogon inquires conversationally, gesturing in the direction of the scent trail he’d been absently tracking. Admittedly, it’s a bit further than he thinks the wolves of Moonspear are willing to go for a pack hunt but at least it’s an option, he thinks ( and also works as a good cover in case he needed it to be ).

Looking around at his surroundings, he couldn't help but to laugh at his own obliviousness. How did he walk into this guy? He really should have seen him from leagues away. It was amazing that although he was awake, he was so thoroughly locked within his own head that he saw nothing, sensed nothing. It was amazing how the mind worked.

Ganon smirked back, watching as the snow flew from the boy's dark pelt, raining down gracefully though expelled so forcefully. He was amazed with the substance. It was cold, but soft, and when he caught it in his mouth it tasted like cold water. He knew the word for it, but not what it was. The Gods that his family worshipped could not explain them, too locked up with betrayal and insanity and being ostracized to really care for creating anything. There had to be a source of it. He looked briefly upwards and away from the boy, noting the soft gray of the clouds, lighter than the gray of rainclouds, and still weighed with potential. 

His gaze only returned to the boy when he was questioned. Had the coywolf been content to merely shrug and leave, he might have left a cloud-gazing teen behind, wondering what the hell just walked into him. But Ganon had been snapped back. His mind was truly in the clouds at the moment. He shook himself, not to clear his pelt of snow, but to briefly clear his thoughts from the fog and clouds that were occupying his mind. 

No, He responded simply. Just needed a few moments away from home, yeah?

The fire-kissed boy did not appear to be in the moment and Drogon cannot help the skeptical and judgmental thought that being in such a clouded haze was not a tactful maneuver. It left the other boy vulnerable and in an especially dangerous situation because of the going-on’s created by his brother and the tangled web that he had drug Blackfeather Woods into. Anyone could have attacked him, taken him in for questioning ( again something that Drogon does not put past others because he would do it if it meant giving himself the edge ). It’s a terrifying thought in and of its own: what he would be willing to do to win. Where did he draw the line? Did he have a line? If he didn’t how did that make him any different and more importantly any better than the wolves of the Wood? “Yeah,” Drogon rasped, drawing his salmon pink tongue across his jowls. Drogon supposes he can relate — sometimes he just gets an itch to wander away from Moonspear for a day …and he always returns as the night swallows the daylight and the moon steals the sun’s limelight. “You seem …distracted,” Drogon broaches the topic with a inquiring tilt of his head. Admittedly, he likes to be the center of attention especially when he’s talking ( someone’s a bit pompous, yeah? ) but there is a strong part of Drogon that hopes that this trip and unintentional run-in might prove valuable to him yet.

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He's echoed, and Ganon's smile widens. The affirmation seems sincere, which is enough to stroke Ganon's ego for a brief moment. He has every right to be suspicious of any stranger he meets in this area, though at this point Ganon cannot be bothered by it. He does not see himself as blameless, nor does he see himself as punishable. Though he often asks himself how he could prove that to any vengeful wolves lurking nearby.

His mental attention seizes back to his own daydreaming. That obvious, huh? He chuckled sheepishly, his shoulders hunched in an apologetic shrug. His body relaxes for a moment, and he is silent, briefly thinking before his voice rumbles again, his voice losing the previously jovial tone it had taken in mockery of his own follies. Is your pack full?

The other boy smiles at him and when Drogon points out that he appears distracted offers an apologetic shrug and inquires as to if it’s that obvious in a sheepish chuckle. Drogon cracks a smile of his own. “A bit.” He offers in a light tone, part teasing but part serious. Drogon has an itch to want to see inside the other boy’s head: to know what’s got his attention so high in the clouds. It’s the tactician in him, the rogue that wants to pry and pick apart and analyze; but he knows that he can’t let on that there’s a familiarity. He has the advantage of anonymity and the tundrian seeks to keep it that way. The following question startles the Ansbjørn and he does not attempt to hide the surprised furrow of his brow. Part of him worries, instinctively, that this is a trap …but another part of him thinks that if it’s not a trap that this male could be useful to Moonspear and The Cerberus ( and lord knows that Drogon would do anything to impress Hydra ). “I don’t really keep track of those things,” The tundrian’s not a leader and the status of their pack’s availability to new joiners isn’t his responsibility …but he knows they’re a fairly big pack. “I could take you there, let you speak to my leaders if that’s what you want.” Drogon offers and then hesitates, preparing to put his concern out on the table. “But you smell of a pack …are you looking to leave them?” Drogon broaches: it’s a legitimate concern after all and logical, besides.

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Ganon flashes another smirk at him, before his face relaxes, twisting into a more somber expression. He had been thinking about this for months, always hesitating, always finding a reason not to leave. But he knew that his home was not the same place it had once been. It was a magical place, he knew that for certain, and he knew that he could not find any other like it. But the wolves there... His family.. Well. He could not necessarily live with them any longer.

He was disappointed to hear that the younger wolf did not actually know. It would be beneficial to have a clearer grasp on the pack he may or may not join. He didn't have a preference for who or where, but simply away from home was enough criteria for him.

He should have been more suspicious of the boy's invitation. He knew the tension between Blackfeather Woods and the their neighbors, and he should have surmised that they were much craftier than they were given credit for. But the prospect of finally achieving one of his goals and finally getting away from the repressive yoke of his family's distrust and disappointment in him was too much to let slip from his hands. Might be a good idea, He agreed, though a bit noncommittal in his wording.

I've never felt at home there. I've always been looking for a good excuse to leave, and now I have one. It was a selfish one admittedly — to save his own hide from the coming storm. But not something anyone could fault him for. Can we set up this little appointment sooner rather than later?

maybe wrap this thread up here & i can start us a new one? :-)

Drogon does not fail to notice the noncommittal response he’s given to his offer and he listens to the older boy’s words with a terse expression upon his lips. It sounds valid enough — and point in fact is that Drogon relates a lot to the reason. It’s why he left. Yet, that doesn’t mean there is blind trust in the flame-kissed boy. He’s putting his neck on the chopping block for the safe of gaining that advantage over Blackfeather Woods and though the Ansbjørn doesn’t get the feeling that he’s being lied to it doesn’t mean he does not look to be thorough on the trek back to Moonspear. Perhaps even he would subject the dark woods boy to the inspection and interrogation of Hydra …if not The Cerberus as a whole before it goes to Charon and Amekaze. He gestures for the boy to follow him, though Drogon is careful to keep the older boy in his line of sight. “I’m Drogon,” He offers his name as a peace offering before he warns, “The upset between our packs means they’re probably going to want to question you.” Especially, Drogon thinks, because his knowledge is very recent and very fresh. “You’ll have to excuse my lack of absolute trust but I’m taking you to The Cerberus first. Pacify them, earn their approval and then you can meet the Alphas.” It seemed, to Drogon, like the safest option: to go through the two stage process just as Drogon himself had. If the flame-kissed boy was truly sincere in his desire to leave the dark woods then in the tundrian’s mind he wouldn’t care if there was a preliminary screening process; at the end of the day Drogon’s looking to cover his own ass because he realizes how wrong this could go for him if he’s not methodical and careful.

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Yep!

The boy gives his name. Drogon. It sounds strong. Ganondorf. He returns back, his body straightening when he realizes that he might be going somewhere with this. Moonspear, I take it? He doesn't consider himself at making a mistake by attempting to join the mountain pack, though it is a little frightening to be put into the clutches of the pack that so despised him. His brother really, but by extension him. The Cerberus? His face twists in confusion. The term is foreign to him. He wonders if it's a title for a ranking in their pack, similar to the Dark Council. There was definitely more than one of them, to be sure. Perhaps they were the Betas. He doesn't know why they had such a strange name when the Alphas did not. If I fail to pacify them, am I going to be made a prisoner? He sees the result as a responsible reaction on their part. After all of the wolves they had ensnared in their Web it would not be surprising for one of their own to suffer the same fate. He asks the question calmly, expecting this to be the result of his meeting with the mysterious Cerberus.

Ganondorf. So that was his name. Still, there is a lingering question of the reckless boy running around being a terror and angering the packs of the Wilds but Drogon thinks that if he is patient enough with the flame-kissed boy that he might be able to extract that information from him. Patience has never been the tundrian’s strong suit but he does not think that Ganondorf will need to be pushed to offer up what he knows. Not considering he’s willing and wanting to rid himself of the Blackfeather wolves. “Yes, The Cerberus. The ferocious three. The gatekeepers of Moonspear. Each devastatingly beautiful and equal measures deadly on their own. Together?” There was a soft, albeit dark chuckle as Drogon weaves the legend. “Well …you’ll see.” A wicked grin is offered his companion, a mischievous glint to Drogon’s eyes. It’s easy for the Ansbjørn to create the illusion of the ethereal triplets. He’s a good storyteller because he is a good liar and manipulation and weave of tales comes as easy to him as breathing.

Ganondorf’s question is a valid concern and admittedly one that Drogon has no real answer to. He wants to claim that Moonspear takes no prisoners but ultimately realizes that he cannot. It lingers on his tongue to tell Ganondorf about himself: that he once looked very different, that he was once a ward of Nyx Apaata but he bides his tongue. There is still not enough trust between them to so willingly hand out that information. Drogon believes that Ganandorf’s words are sincere, that he is true about his intentions but the tactician in him has planted a seed of doubt that guards from revealing too much, too soon. “I don’t know,” Drogon eventually responds, salmon pink tongue drawing across his lips. “The best advice I can give you is be humble, speak the truth and don’t piss them off.” Which is basically the basis for any joining process, he thinks ( not that Drogon’s the best wolf to be giving advice on these matters).

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