Moonspear be devout to hunger, child

Drogon watches as she stumbles back and stutters out an apology as to which he accepts but is quick to brush away because no harm, no foul; and he very much doubts that she’d intentionally walked into him. A chuckle bubbles in the tundrian’s throat, amused, as he watches her try to get bits of his fur out of her mouth. Drogon tries to contain the chuckle for as long as he can before it escapes his lips in a low sound as he attempts to dampen it so it’s almost a mirthful snicker and turns his head away, lest she think he’s making fun of her. He’s not, it just that there’s something amusing about watching someone try to get your fur out of their mouth that’s undeniably amusing as they fuss about it.

Drogon moves to face her, then, composed once more as she assures him that she is fine with a bright smile and a wag of her tail. When she inquires about him and injuries he barely makes an effort to conceal the low snort that rips from his black, leathery nostrils. Even as a child Drogon had been a big boy: thickly lined with baby pudge. Now he is robust, well muscled beneath his pelage. He’s plenty sturdy, built for taking heavy hits in combat. “No; no injuries. I’ve never been better.” There is a cloistered truth to those words: since he’s been apart of Moonspear he’s begun to put on the weight and muscle that being a lone wolf had staved off and he can feel the difference keenly, knowing he will have to adjust for it in spars.

His ears swivel for a moment, feeling the pinprick along his nape as he watches her assess him. “I’m Drogon.” He introduces with a grin that could either be considered devilish or charming as he preens beneath the attention ( because he undeniably enjoys it ), his chest puffing ever so slightly in the show-off manner akin to a male peacock fanning it’s tail.