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

She teases him about his mane and the tundrian let out a low huff. It was only fair she take her own jab at him. Drogon isn’t exactly pleased but he doesn’t bring it up further — but also because she already answered: that she doesn’t know and that she was just born with them. He was not born with a silver mane. In fact, he’d been born white as a cream puff and it hadn’t been until the last month that his fur color had started to darken, the slightly longer fur of his mane growing and bleaching a silvery-bone white. Drogon assumes he takes after a parent or a distant relative even if not a parent directly but pink eyes struck him as unnatural ( and despite the fact that he let it go between them he was still trying to figure out how she has pink eyes, alas to no avail ). She calls him silver-lion boy and for a moment his muscles pull taunt at she nickname strikes him as familiar. He’s heard it before. Once. A long time ago. Not quite the same but similar. The memory was distorted and little more than white noise but he is sure that this is not the first time he’s been called lion boy. Nevertheless, the soturi does not spend time thinking it over.

He settles back upon his haunches as she lounges in the shallows, the surface of the water lulling back to a still state around her, once more enhancing the bright fiery coloration of her pelage. Witchbaby. That was what she said her name was. Like her eyes, he thinks it’s a bit strange but this time has the foresight to think ahead that she could think his name was strange and didn’t rudely blurt out what he was thinking just because he could. “Drogon.” The unkempt tundrian rasped, noting that for the first time in some time that his voice had ceased cracking and breaking around the words he spoke on a voice like whisky steeped in smoke. Puberty was far from done with him yet but at the very least he was relieved to be able to notice that he was growing into his body and voice.