Moonspear be devout to hunger, child

As quickly as he had summoned the mask of the sotapäällikkö Drogon sheds it in favor of the leijona because he does not want Wraen to have to know that part of him, that dark and unbearably cruel part of him. “No,” Drogon rasps, his deep smoke and whisky timbre low. “Don’t apologize. It was nice. It was really nice.” He admits, thinking that he probably couldn’t have asked for a better first kiss. Wraen shifts the topic of conversation back to his masks — personas as she calls them. “I don’t know,” Drogon admits with a contemplative, small cant of his head. He’d never actually chosen to take on the masks: he donned his personas because it had been a necessity to ensure his survival. The one Drogon calls the Warlord had been created in his darkest of days, in the harshest of environments and the Lion is a very close replica to the boy he’d been in Teaghlaigh Enok Tundra. Not the same, too marked by the trauma he’s endured, but similar enough. “What does a superhero do?” He’s familiar enough with the term hero in a very basic sense and cannot see himself as anything of the sort. If anything, Drogon’d always considered himself more of that James Dean-esque rebellious bad-boy, the juvenile delinquent that always finds himself in trouble even when he tries to avoid it ( and avoidance of trouble many days seems like an impossible task ).