Sleeping Dragon her eyes hold thunder and her blood is magma

She does not remember her first summer, but she existed. A babe in the middle, the only one of the litter, taken away from her mother as soon as she had been able. As soon as she had been strong enough to survive away from the sweet milk she does not remember. No one had been younger than her, as Fos Goufa, and the next had only been Seregrýn—a wolf of her own familial blood. It didn’t surprise her that another had—one of her ancestors had battle for Heda in a conclave without surviving—but perhaps it unsettled her. 

The ways of Drageda fit the wolves of the area, wolves that are not like the ones currently following her. Graviel and Seregrýn, but the others have yet to understand. And the others are barely the wolves she recognizes from the beginning. @Hush, and her queen, are the only founders left. @Lorne and @Dio had come early, easily molding themselves into the history she mentally writes. 

Thuringwethil swallows as she looks over the ledge of the pack’s meeting spot, staring across the valley in the early morning light. In such a short span of time, even in the tame land of the teekon, they’ve had to scrap for what they wanted, and while it may not be the same group—as much as she hates to admit it—those that remain were her own. Some would come and go but eventually, she’d find the wolves that understood Drageda. That had Drageda in their blood, even if they didn’t hail from her home. They would come. They would stay. 

She knew Heda would not be satisfied with her decisions, until generations later, when their roots are solid and not even the strongest of wolves could shake her mountain free.