Fairspell Meadow crowns sit heavy on the hearts of heroes

Ganondorf. So that was his name. Still, there is a lingering question of the reckless boy running around being a terror and angering the packs of the Wilds but Drogon thinks that if he is patient enough with the flame-kissed boy that he might be able to extract that information from him. Patience has never been the tundrian’s strong suit but he does not think that Ganondorf will need to be pushed to offer up what he knows. Not considering he’s willing and wanting to rid himself of the Blackfeather wolves. “Yes, The Cerberus. The ferocious three. The gatekeepers of Moonspear. Each devastatingly beautiful and equal measures deadly on their own. Together?” There was a soft, albeit dark chuckle as Drogon weaves the legend. “Well …you’ll see.” A wicked grin is offered his companion, a mischievous glint to Drogon’s eyes. It’s easy for the Ansbjørn to create the illusion of the ethereal triplets. He’s a good storyteller because he is a good liar and manipulation and weave of tales comes as easy to him as breathing.

Ganondorf’s question is a valid concern and admittedly one that Drogon has no real answer to. He wants to claim that Moonspear takes no prisoners but ultimately realizes that he cannot. It lingers on his tongue to tell Ganondorf about himself: that he once looked very different, that he was once a ward of Nyx Apaata but he bides his tongue. There is still not enough trust between them to so willingly hand out that information. Drogon believes that Ganandorf’s words are sincere, that he is true about his intentions but the tactician in him has planted a seed of doubt that guards from revealing too much, too soon. “I don’t know,” Drogon eventually responds, salmon pink tongue drawing across his lips. “The best advice I can give you is be humble, speak the truth and don’t piss them off.” Which is basically the basis for any joining process, he thinks ( not that Drogon’s the best wolf to be giving advice on these matters).

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