Fairspell Meadow crowns sit heavy on the hearts of heroes

Meadowlark Prairie has gone silent as the songbirds it is named after have taken flight to warmer climates and the grasslands have been leached of it’s color. It is dark and dull in it’s coloration now: the only thing about it that is even remotely appealing is the dusting of snow that caps the tall grasses that swallow the tundrian as he moves from the shorter vegetation into the taller dried and dead grasses: moving towards the prairie’s dormant heart. There are a few scent trails of small herds that have passed through: their path evident by the trampling of grass that can no longer spring back up and the hoof prints marked into the softened earth. Drogon didn’t really expect to find too many herds still lingering. Most of them are on the move, looking to escape the worst of winter in warmer climates …not unlike the meadowlarks. It’s a first time in a long time that Drogon has been in the southern reaches of the Flatlands and he’s filled with not a fear but the apprehension of a runaway kid now teenager starting down the street of their parent’s house after a few years away without explanation or communication.

Ignoring that apprehension Drogon’s glacial gaze sweeps the tall grasses before him before he bows his head to assess the herd trails, discerning the most recent and begins to follow it though he will not go too much further, he has already decided. The Prairie is far enough of a journey, a chance to truly stretch his leg beyond the neighboring and close-by territories of Moonspear but close enough that returning home would only take him but a few hours at most.