Moonspear be devout to hunger, child

Drogon does not allow himself to doubt — to doubt Wraen’s words or himself. To deny the next snickering jeer that threatens to form upon his muzzle. As absurd as it strikes the tundrian part of him feels an eluding anticipation though for what he does not know. Hydra has already expressed that those talents would be useful and though Drogon could easily slip into the warlord’s mask ( as he has so very recently done for Wraen’s amusement ) he knew he had to disassociate himself. To make the two: the lion and the warlord separate entities. Though both, undeniably, of his own creation ( for even the leijona is a carefully crafted character ). It’s harder to call it to him by sheer will alone for he has only ever implored the masks as necessity demanded. It seems to have worked …in some capacity for the tundrian’s glacial gaze watches as Wraen looks away from him, gives a sigh and then blurts out a question. A question that takes him off guard ( because of course it’s not what he’s expected to hear …if, indeed, he’s expected anything at all ).

The look in her eyes has changed, he is perceptive of that and he wonders if it’s his adoption of the warlord, tucked away and saved for a time when he may need to call upon the tenacious and apathetic conquerer or if the two have no relation. And then Drogon wonders if it matters and comes to the conclusion that he supposes it doesn’t. She awaits his answer, he reminds himself and with a lift of his chin he rasps out, in his deep, smoky timbre: “Yes.”