Bramblepoint born and bred and forged from flames

Drogon watches as, eventually, ears poke up over the bramble bushes followed then by a pair of eyes. Of the canine sort …but evidently as it stands, Drogon has never known any sort of big predator to hide ( but then again he hasn’t ever truly encountered too much other than wolves which was mostly just a stroke of dumb luck ). The tundrian’s muscles tense and pull taunt as the other launches himself out of the bramble bushes. Drogon’s hackles bristle, his lips ready to curl back at any given moment that he thinks it’s necessary. Black, leathery nostrils flare as the other boy gives him a hard stare: a stare that the tundrian is all too happy to return, his glacial gaze hardening into chips of ice. “Look, I have no interest in hurting you,” or whatever it is you think I’m going to do, Drogon speaks and adds mentally. He thinks it goes without saying and therefore sees no reason to verbally add it. A frightened wolf is enough to be cautious of all their own. Fear is just as strong as anger: both can cause unpredictable episodes of lashing out and Drogon isn’t necessarily looking for a fight. Mind, he wouldn’t back down if a challenge was issued ( of course not, his pride would never allow such a thing ) but he doesn’t exactly go out of his way in search of brawls anymore, either. He’s calming down the older ( and hopefully wiser ) he becomes and he knows the value of when it is worth a street brawl ( admittedly there are times when he just needs a good street brawl, to expel his pent up energy ) and when it’s smarter to swallow the bitter pill that is his pride and walk away if verbal communication cannot placate a situation. It’s all apart of being a good tactician and a smart warrior, he’s learning.