Fairspell Meadow crowns sit heavy on the hearts of heroes

The other boy smiles at him and when Drogon points out that he appears distracted offers an apologetic shrug and inquires as to if it’s that obvious in a sheepish chuckle. Drogon cracks a smile of his own. “A bit.” He offers in a light tone, part teasing but part serious. Drogon has an itch to want to see inside the other boy’s head: to know what’s got his attention so high in the clouds. It’s the tactician in him, the rogue that wants to pry and pick apart and analyze; but he knows that he can’t let on that there’s a familiarity. He has the advantage of anonymity and the tundrian seeks to keep it that way. The following question startles the Ansbjørn and he does not attempt to hide the surprised furrow of his brow. Part of him worries, instinctively, that this is a trap …but another part of him thinks that if it’s not a trap that this male could be useful to Moonspear and The Cerberus ( and lord knows that Drogon would do anything to impress Hydra ). “I don’t really keep track of those things,” The tundrian’s not a leader and the status of their pack’s availability to new joiners isn’t his responsibility …but he knows they’re a fairly big pack. “I could take you there, let you speak to my leaders if that’s what you want.” Drogon offers and then hesitates, preparing to put his concern out on the table. “But you smell of a pack …are you looking to leave them?” Drogon broaches: it’s a legitimate concern after all and logical, besides.

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