Moonstone Quarry L.O.V.E./E.V.O.L.

Drogon watches as she turns, with more grace than he could ever manage, to face him, the crystalline waters rippling out to lap at the edges of the pools as she disturbs the serenity of the surface with her languid movement. As she turns to face him, the tundrian abruptly becomes aware of the direct source of the pungent scent of blood ( though he knew it stemmed from her ) as it matted in her fur from where she had suffered what appears to be a small wound under her eye. His glacial gaze focuses on it for a moment before it moves to her eyes — not a color he’s ever seen before. Her irises are pink. Pink! A small ‘v’ forms in the crease between his brow as he contemplates how she has pink eyes but thankfully her “‘sup” pulls Drogon back on track and into the present situation. “Hello,” He returns, not quite sure if “hello” is the correct way to respond to “‘sup” (because he’s not up to date on lingo). “Why’re your eyes pink?” The tundrian asks her abruptly; not because he lacks a filter between his brain and mouth but because he simply doesn’t consider that it may be an insensitive question.