Firefly Ravine you are wicked, and you are cruel

Weather: 3 am | clear | 52°F / 11°C | new moon

There is a little bit of land at the bottom of the gorge and that is where the tundrian moves through the tall grasses that brush against his legs and just tickle his under carriage. The morning sky is dark and the world around him creates a symphony of crickets and the deep throated croaks of frogs and toads against the metronome of the rushing river. Despite the all the noise, he oddly finds it peaceful in it’s own chaotic way. It becomes rhythmic and the chaos of sound calls out to the chaos within him and offers a salve, a calming effect. It is silence that Drogon cannot stand. It is silence that threatens to suffocate him or less merciful drive him insane. He needs to spar, he thinks. He has gone too long without one. The palus of a tree trunk only offers so much and does not satisfy his itch to fight. He has to practice, to keep his skills sharp and to improve. The ache of his bones as he grows and the gradual shifts in his body that he feels: the weight of pudge hardening into solid and thick muscle, the gangly length of growing legs and klutzy maneuvers of paws and head that are yet too big for him. He is as awkward as he feels, he is sure; and that does not even include his voice: once coated in boyish honey now rasping and growing deeper like the richest whiskey steeped in smoke. Rough and husky but not in a way that is not attractive to his own ears (vain, much?).

The soturi feels the call of battle in his bones, in his blood. It is what he has been born to do: to fight, to defend, to be a warlord; and thus does not regret his decision to leave behind the Woods. He was secretive (something he thought they might appreciate as they are all about their secrets and whisper spiders, after all) about it and one day left on the guise of a trip out (as he does often) but …never returned. He met with Cascada and for his own messy and personal reasons decided to stick with her. Stick perhaps is not quite the right word. He became her companion and she his but he ventures away from her frequently with the unspoken promise of his return: and he does return to her when she is ready to relocate. This nomadic life keeps him busy: there is much to explore and each new territory they come to rest at the soturi does not waste the opportunities he is afforded. Perhaps, he thinks, he might take up the ranger specialty once he has become a master warrior. He stretches out, his white, mittened toes (for his stockings are dusted with soot as are his other extremities) bumping against something hard and unyielding. The toad croaks at him, offended, before it hops away. Unbothered by his rudeness to said toad Drogon settles into a sphinx-like position in the grass, content to watch the green glow of the fireflies as they light up the darkened night.