Bramblepoint born and bred and forged from flames

no need to apologize! ♥

Drogon is preoccupied with tugging another thorn loose from his fur where it has gotten tangled in his fur — reminding himself that he’s not coming through this territory again. He’s got no real need to traverse through the bramblepoint and is only here on speculation that it might still manage to attract herds. The tundra’s expression darks as he tugs the last, defiant thorn free and spits it to the ground, grumbling an unintelligible slew of curse words under his breath that are a mixture of tundrian and common. At least he has thick fur to protect him from the worst of the thorns ( for the most part! ) and he can’t imagine that too many ungulates would fancy having thorns prick into their flesh. Unless, it occurs to him, they are of a less thick variation than he and found an alternate way into the Bramplepoint while avoiding the thorny underbrush. As Drogon’s already braved the worst of it to actually get towards the territory’s heart where the meadow lie in waiting he deduces that it’s worth investigating.

Just as he’s about to step in that direction in search of both potential food source for Moonspear and to find an alternative route in he stops abruptly, the muscles in his body tensing and pulling taunt as he hears a small guttural noise and hears the dry rustle of a bramble bush close-by. His hackles rise and bristle along his spine, his lip curling back from his teeth as his ears slick smoothly back against his skull. He doesn’t, initially, think that whomever is near-by is a threat given that he presumes they are hiding from him but all the same the soturi knows better than to trust blindly and let his guard down. “Who’s there?” Drogon demands, glacial gaze sweeping his immediate surroundings slowly for any sort of movement of the bramble bushes that strikes him as out of the ordinary.