Ravensblood Forest Looking for a fight?

Subtly, Drogon was attempting to fish for information, to ferret it from the dark male who carried ( perhaps faintly ) a familiar whiff of pack scent that had clung to the tendrils of the merle girl whom called herself Lavender. He wasn’t sure why. She was but a mere babe but he hadn’t forgotten about her penchant for rocks. She was like the little sister he’d never had. Sort of. For a few hours she’d brought out Drogon’s soft side; a side the tundrian hadn’t thought he’d had anymore. Howl’s “not really” left the tundrian with the impression that Morningside had settled close to Ravensblood, though the Drogon supposed he could have chosen to be vague on purpose: to give that illusion as to not give away their location. Secrecy. Drogon was really beginning to hate secrecy.

The question turns back to him and Drogon lets out a silent snicker, a curl of his lips as he contemplates just how honest he wants to be. “Maybe I’m far from home and maybe I’m not.” Home is where the heart is, after all, and he has yet to form those sorts of attachments. His heart has long since been set adrift and then froze over from whatever frigid sea it’d plunged into. “What's your business here, stranger?” The tundrian asks, figuring it's best to let the small talk to the birds ( or those who enjoyed small talk more than Drogon ever could ).