Cerulean Cape and i got this vibe i swear it's perfect to ride to

Drogon’s pelage — a gift from his tundrian heritage — is thick and plush, the longer, wispier tendrils of fur in his silvery, blueish grey ‘mane’ offers additional warmth but beyond that it is, perhaps, unintentionally aesthetic. The wind that is a constant companion to the sea is not very bothersome to the sakaali. Most of this scouting trip he has work the mask of the jackal, testing it out, feeling how this mask differs from the other he had adopted. Thus far, the sakaali is quieter, more of an observer, a collector of information than it’s more eager for war counterparts. It’s represents the developing diplomatic side of Drogon but it is wily and coy too; traits of it’s namesake. No matter which mask the Ansbjørn wears he is never overly fond of sand and frowns as it clings to the fur of his toes and legs despite that he has avoided the low reaching but nevertheless greedy waves that crash softly upon the dry sands of the Cape.

It is a beautiful territory, he admits willingly enough to himself. The crystalline clarity of the water is breathtaking and the aspiring ranger could appreciate that from a detached, aesthetic point of view well enough. He would never want to make a home here, though. A flash of movement catches the corner of his glacial gaze and his hackles rise in a bristle, his head snapping in the direction of the crunch of teeth piercing the exterior of a crab’s shell. Drogon does not immediately recognize that was what the sound was, but he sees the flash of crab red and then notes the canine responsible for it. From the distance Drogon takes the rare opportunity to assess the other; male his black, leathery nostrils tell him as he gives a slight lift of his muzzle to sniff at the air.

The scent that layers upon wolf bring it with a vague sort of familiarity. This is not the first wolf-dog that Drogon has brushed shoulders with but still the sight of the beast that looks more dog than he does wolf is startling to the sakaali who is abruptly unsure whether he is meant to be aggressive towards the hybrid or not. Drogon does not immediately seek to make his presence known, does not want to spark aggression from the other while he dines. He waits until the other is seemingly finished with the crab and then lets out a chuff to announce his presence, lingering in the spot where he had initially stopped to admire the cape figuring that the more distance between them: the better. Drogon likes Lavender well enough but there is something he finds wrong and unsettling about hybrids ( ironic that he’s finding himself prejudiced considering he, himself, is a hybrid with about twenty five percent of coyote blood in him though he is unaware of this ) ...that they are something that should not be.