Moonspear but when it comes you close your window

The night came and stole the daylight, it’s velveteen darkness swallowing everything in it’s path in writhing shadows as the moon took her place among the stars where the sun once burned deviantly. The tundrian had just wrapped up a patrol and was heading inland in search of something to hunt and hopefully nibble on before he settles down for the night. His ‘bachelor’ den is large but it often feels like it’s walls as crumbling and closing in on him and he sleeps fitfully in it’s depths before he scrambles outside of it to curl up close to it beneath the protective branches of the nearby pine tree to offer him some shelter from the elements. He hates his den. As he’d told Hydra: it felt like a death trap. A way to easily be cornered and a cage all in one. It was all in his mind, of course, but he prefers to see the sky. He can’t breathe when he’s concealed by earth. The colder months are upon them now, winter is coming and Drogon is suddenly grateful for all of his bulk and fur. He’s a beast of winter, after all. Wintersbane. The cold never bothered him anyway.

Drogon’s pace slows, his thoughts gone the moment he realizes he’s subconsciously following a scent trail — and not a prey scent trail; it does not take the soturi long to find the man though he admittedly blends in rather well with the shadows. Glacial blue eyes sweep the stranger/his packmate over where he lays upon the ground with his forelegs crossed, appearing to look up at the stars. Drogon sneaks a glimpse upwards but when he sees nothing noteworthy ( for the stars all look like mini suns to him with nothing overly extraordinary because he's got no imagination ) his gaze lowers and he lets out a low chuff to announce his presence to the other male.