Horizon Ridge shadow runner

Drogon wonders, after a moment of watching Constantine watch him, if he’s unwittingly revealed too much; but it’s a truth that would have came about, eventually and perhaps, the soturi thinks it’s better to be unintentionally honest about things ( ahah, that was a good one or as honest as Drogon will ever be ) up front. He is feral and it shows. He never stayed in one place long enough to learn that rules are essential for a pack to function. To him, ignorant as he is on pack life, they are just shackles to keep him caged because all he can remember knowing is the terrifying burden of freedom at a much, too young age and then the next extreme of being cattle for slaughter in Blackfeather Woods. Useful until he wasn’t and queued up for the executioner’s block when he ceased being a pawn. He rebels against the notions of laws because he thinks that all packs operate this way. It’s not as if he knows anything else; and Cascada had been some ray of goodness, had let him essentially do what he wanted but he’d bolted at the first sign of attachment he felt for her.

There isn’t much the tundrian fears in life but attachment and the devastation of having said attachment ripped from between his teeth is definitely one of them.

Drogon tucks the male’s name away. Constantine. And lowers his chin a smidgen when asked about where he’s from. “A place called Enok Tundra,” A name stolen from a beloved nightingale’s bed-time stories; as is his language. Pieces of his mother that he clings to even though his coping mechanism has left him to forget the truth in it's near entirety. “Kaukana,” He speaks in tundrian and offers it’s common tongue equivalent seconds after without prompt. “It is very far away.”