Sleeping Dragon a prophecy

For the last several minutes, Thuringwethil had idly been following a scent but with no real urgency. The wind shifted in the right moment, enough to draw her attention, and she’d begun the short trek to where it originates. It isn’t until she’s close enough to hear voices that she fully realizes what she’s walked upon. The tone, she’s able to quickly decide, is less than pleasant and her slate eyes shift from one distant figure to the next but it does not yet increase her speed to approach.

…Seageda, then get out.

Thuringwethil stiffens, ears cupping forward to try and hear the rest but it’s not as pronounced as she’s suddenly advancing, a queasiness in the depth of her stomach and a snarl beginning its formation on her lips.

She growls—low—on her approach, her eyes heavy on Seregrýn’s form, pedaled back a few steps as Gyda’s anger threatens to engulf them. Her own ears flick irritably on her head before she slides in without so much of a word, or a chuff of her lips. Thuringwethil steps in between the two females, separating their focus on each other and instead, on her. Her own cheeks feel flush with anger—pointed at no where in particular—but she takes a deep breath and remains silent, looking between the two expectantly.