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

*evidently writes you a novel* this post got away from me, lol. no need to match the length! c:

She protests that she only lost her footing on the last bit and he frowns because that doesn’t reassure him. She is lucky all she got was a small cut beneath her eye. She could have broken a bone or from a higher height ended up a broken corpse. Neither of which Drogon wants to end up with or as. A broken bone would mean his eventual death from inability to hunt or fight to protect himself, so of course, he is weary and prickly about the arduous task of trying to find their way back up the quarry. Perhaps she does not share in his fear, or does not linger on how very bad a simple fall could be but Drogon’s pragmatic ( thanks Arturo ) and it doesn’t take a master tactician to figure out how debilitating an injury of any kind can end up being to a lone wolf.

The tundrian’s glacial gaze follows her movements as she rises from the pool as he laps at the water from it’s bank, wincing as she shakes her coat free of water and droplets splash across him. Smattering across his muzzle, cool against the heat of his flesh. The soturi lets out a half-hearted huff of annoyance at her as he lifts his head and his salmon pink tongue draws across his jowls to collect the lose droplets of water that cling to the short fur of his chin. He follows after her as she takes the lead, a shock of flame against the otherwise drab landscape of the quarry and unintentionally finds himself admiring the view from where he is. When he does realize that he finds something memorizing about the sway of her hips and the curves he scowls fiercely down at pebbles and dirt beneath his paws as if he finds the earth horribly offensive.

His ears perk as she fires another question at him but he scowls at the wall of rock as they begin the climb in the interest of not looking directly at her, lest he begin to admire again. “Why do you think I’m from the south?” He inquires with a low snort though his interest is nevertheless present in his tone, unable to help the flicker of his glacial gaze in her direction. He’s a tundrian through and through, a northern lad if there ever was one. He’s too big and bear-like to be a southerner ( or rather that is his general, *cough* uneducated *cough* assumption, anyhow ); or at least he would be when he finished growing, filled out, and was able to eat better than a pauper.

“I’m a Tundrian. I hail from a place called Enok Tundra in the far North.” Where the Nightingale sang was a harsh place of snow, battle and ice and only the heartiest could survive. “What about you? Where’re you from?” Not that Drogon was likely to know because she’d already said she wasn’t from around here and he generally assumed that to mean the Teekon Wilds in general. Through the fabricated history he’d given himself there is a giant gap in his memory but it is easy to excuse as being terrified of The Stranger who had led him here and abandoned him to die; and the best fuck you Drogon has had so far was surviving against all the odds and it was easily the most satisfying thing he’s done to date.