Redtail Rise but my god, you are divine

He moves slowly among the ash covered ground, ruddy brown and emerald green stained and coated with streaks of soot and stained with the chalky white of the ash. He suspects that whatever had happened here had been some time ago but it’s scars remained. There is a tang upon the air that lingers: sharp and smoky; unlike anything he’d ever smelled before. Rains had cleansed the Rise some, he thinks but whatever happened here still remained. It was stubborn and he wondered if the Rise would forever be doomed to bear this ugly scar through the passage of time. The ash that does remain feels strange underfoot, different than sand — an entirely different texture — but he wonders how much is tree and how much is bone and flesh of animals that were not able to escape the disaster. How many graves does he walk on? A brooding frown tugs at the corners of Drogon’s muzzle as he inhales deeply, filling his black, leathery nostrils with the scent of char and smoke and lets it out in an deep exhale.

The sound of footfalls is the last thing the tundrian expects to hear and his ears cup forth atop his skull to pinpoint the origin of the sound though he sees her soon enough: as brightly colored as she is. She is like a sun in the presence of the moon: she does not look as if she has a place among the charred trees, soot and ash stained Rise. She mumbles something, a question that makes no sense to the soturi; whose glacial gaze watches her, assuming she would notice him. There is not much distance between them and though he blends better than her he is perturbed at how she didn’t appear to notice him at all. If he was a snake he would have bitten her.

“Hey!” Drogon calls out to her in a gruff bark, hoping to snap her out of memory lane.