Cerulean Cape i let all my love rot inside me

Drogon isn’t so sure why he’s so concerned about whether the stranger follows him because she appears — for the moment — fairly dependent upon him to lead her to a fresh water source and when they reach it the soturi watches as she strides forward and drinks deeply from it. His moment of wayward heroics is over and the proud set of his shoulders lowers minutely. It was good to feel needed for that short walk. He wonders if he should leave, hesitating a few feet away from her but she has yet to answer his question and his curiosity far out weighs his desire to bail. It’s not exactly in the tundrian’s nature to be so flighty: he only left Blackfeather Woods because he clashed with who and what they were. Losing Nyx was an unfortunate side effect to that realization but he’d lost wolves much more important to him before and he was doing just fine. He was a survivor at all and any cost. A belief that has him living dangerously in the varying shades of grey of morals ( a trait he’s unknowingly gotten from Arturo ) where good and evil have no clear definition. It alters from his perception and can be argued that each situation is unique and thus each definition of those words can be manipulated to suit his needs per situation ( perhaps there is a bithiúnach living within his heart after all ).

Drogon is so caught up in his thoughts that the growing titan almost doesn’t realize she is speaking to him and tunes back into the present with a small jolt of surprise when she speaks with certainty. For a second, he is confused having forgotten about his question but it comes back to him quickly and his lips are terse as he realizes she speaks of the pack she left behind. ‘They probably won’t notice I’m gone’ she speaks and something within the soturi tugs though he can’t exactly place it. Sympathy, perhaps. “They sound like assholes.”It was a terrible thing, Drogon thinks: to be lonely. How horribly lonely it must be to be able to speak confidently that they ( probably ) wouldn’t even notice that she ran away.

“I’m Drogon.” He offers her in a way of introduction, shedding Kahlil like a king cobra sheds it’s skin. This was becoming alarmingly easy for him: as if the world was his stage and he was the thespian on stage acting out his roles. Some for necessity and some for convenience and idly he wonders if he would ever stop. Could he? Currently, it was how he coped. It was how he survived. Changing his name, his personality. “I left my pack, too. I wasn’t a fan of their whole hide behind secrecy like cowards, religious voodoo, and when your usefulness runs out the Dark Master has every right to kill you in the name of the gods, blah, blah bullshit.” Drogon admits her with a roll of his eyes, figuring that it might not hurt to show them they are alike in the regards of running away.