Neverwinter Forest painted the hunger onto my skin

Drogon becomes aware that he is not the only predator lured to the grazing herd when he hears her footfalls upon the earth. He spares her a glimpse out the corner of his eye at first and turns his head to face her as she approaches him. She’s a slender thing, with dark fur and eyes of golden amber. Hunting? She asks him, her voice a whisper that melds into the whispers of the forest. He looks back to the deer herd, his gaze zeroing in on an elder buck: his joints swollen with arthritis, his chest deep and muscular, a sag of his belly and he appears content to linger in the back, lacking the stalwart posture of the younger bucks. Drogon offers her a nod to her first question but his gaze moves from the prize to her once more as she inquires if he wants help. Drogon knows that despite his size and his mercenary experience it will take more than just him to take down that deer, elderly or not. He hadn’t necessarily pursued it with the intent of hunting it — more-so to torture himself with the idea of hunting it. Yet, she presented an opportunity. A chance that if they succeeded they would be supping upon decadent venison instead of whatever small rodent or woodland creature they managed to catch.

She is smaller than him, despite his youth, but that works to a distinct advantage. She’s got speed. He’s a boxer, a heavy hitter; but then again he’s never been designed for speed. Even as a wee babe he’d been round with pudge. Pudge that had hardened into muscle no doubt aided by his drive to become a warrior. “You’ve got speed on me,” He breaks his silence, keeping his rasping, smokey voice low — a quieted rumble as to not spook their prey as he works out tactics aloud. “If you can herd him away from the others and I double around to intercept him as you chase him, we may stand a chance of taking him down.” He gestures to the elder deer in question his muzzle.