Ouroboros Spine even atlas cannot stand forever

The dark woman’s hostility appears to return but the tundrian is unperturbed by it especially as she replies that she is not intending to claim the Spine as her own. He’s not afraid of her. There is some part of his brain that cautions him, that little angel among the devil within him that begs and pleads that he be more careful. Drogon’s been ignoring it all of his life, however, and accordingly recognizes that his misfortunes in life are his own doing. He accepts it and their consequences but has no real desire to change the path he walks down. He’s not a coward, she’s not anything to him and neutral territory is neutral territory and he was here first. He can’t prove it of course but either way he’s not leaving and he’s not intending to be responsive to her unwarranted hostility. Maybe, it occurs to him, that it is she that is afraid. Not necessarily of him but it’s the only conclusion he can draw. “If you don't intend to claim this land and I'm not trespassing then there's no need for the hostility.” Obviously he’s not her enemy. Or, rather, he does not have to be. He does not know the history they share through his nightingale mother. He was still of his mother’s womb during that skirmish and there is nothing to tie him to them, to Teaghlaigh. He undoubtedly looks like his mother: very much so, but her pelage isn’t made of uncommon colors. The tundrian could be anyone’s son.

“No,” It is Drogon’s return to reply. He’s got a good thing going with Moonspear: he’s happy there and he sees no reason to abandon it because a woman lets a not-too-serious offer with no information dangle in the air between them. She’s a stranger to him and Drogon has learned early on what happens when one trusts a stranger, especially a lone stranger. When she inquires where he comes from, the tundra’s glacial gaze takes her in, unable to help but think that they have a very similar gaze. A coincidence, he knows, but it still unnerves him a bit for reasons he cannot place. “Ladies first," Drogon offers her a beguiling smile though whether it holds effect or not he cannot say. "If you’re not from around these Wilds I doubt you’d know it.” He doesn’t presently trust her enough to so freely give her Moonspear’s name. Not because he doubts the pack would be unable to defend itself: but because he feels duty bound to protect it in whatever capacity he can. She has his scent now and it would easy for her deduce where he came from if she was ever near enough to the towering spire.

Drogon’s still learning the game of intrigue, crafting and moulding his ability to be a thespian, to be of the shadows and one step ahead of the game as the unsuspected chess-master. He’s got the strategic, pragmatic mind for it: and tactician will tie in well with rogue, glad that his ambitions can feed off and into one another.