Horizon Ridge shadow runner

Drogon feels like he’s in an interrogation, like Constantine’s the cop and Drogon …well Drogon is the trouble-making kid whose been in juvenile delinquent ( which is more or less exactly what Drogon is just in the wolf equivalent ). Maybe that’s what it is, or maybe Drogon is just feeling prickly about having to go into his past when his past no longer matters. There’s nothing back there for him, it’s not the way he’s going. He settles back upon his haunches figuring he might as well get comfortable. “hengissä tai kuolee.” He speaks in Tundrian. “Survival or death, survival of the fittest, et cetera. Fighting is not just a means of survival. It’s a way of life.” From everything he remembered of the Nightingale singing to him as she lulled him to sleep night after night: the tundrian was a harsh place and in order to survive it’s wolves had to be harsher. Or perhaps he fabricates this, too, using it to justify why he is little more than a heathen. Perhaps he dishonors his tundrian bloodline. He can’t even tell anymore. Lie is truth and truth is lie. Words are just words. Without action behind them they are and will always be empty and meaningless. Nothing is true and everything is permitted.

“I’m not untrained,” Drogon offers in confirmation to Constantine’s assumption. “I already have my mercenary trade.” Soon, he’d be able to claim the warrior speciality while he was at it. Time was not something Drogon was deigned to waste. He spent it as wisely as he could and he had an incredible drive to be the best warrior this side of the Wilds. He’d earned the preliminary trade early and he won’t stop, tucking in a single-minded determination until he’s earned mastery of his trade. Drogon offers what he can and isn't sure that it will be enough to sway Constantine and if not that's fine. Drogon isn't about to beg. Winter is a few months off yet and Drogon is not yet so desperate.