Deepwood Weald he is neither gentle nor kind

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the choice, the pros and cons as he weighs them out in his mind are a heavy burden, like a crown set heavy upon his head. life was full of hard choices and if he desired to ever see his ambitions come to fruition he knew sacrifices would need to be made. it was apart of life. drogon understood as well as any seasoned beast that life was tough and so, too, were the decisions that led down certain paths. he is a young adult in body but in mind, in soul he exceeds his years of life by a long shot. it was a curse but it was his curse. the fog conceals and distorts the sound of approaching footfalls, confusing him as to which way he's being approached from. drogon's pace slows instinctively, ears alert atop his skull despite that he knows he cannot fully trust his eyes and ears in the thick of the fog.

he draws in a deep breath, dissecting the scents. the musty scent of the woodland's floor, rotting plants and warm aromas of scurrying woodland beasties. he is able to deduce that someone from moonspear is nearby, closing in rather quickly and for a moment he wonders if charon has followed him; only to cast the ridiculous notion aside. he isn't worth that much attention to the alpha which, drogon considers in and of itself might be a blessing. a pale figure with black paws emerges from the writhing fog and poses a question. drogon doesn't recognize him — whoever he is to moonspear he wasn't anyone drogon had introduced himself to. "no where in particular," the ansbjørn replies in his raspy baritone, like whiskey steeped in smoke. a half truth. the decision still lays bare before him and he's not decided either way yet; so he's not actually heading anywhere. not back to moonspear but not exactly away from it either. for the moment, he's simply stretching his legs in a near-by territory. "you?" drogon returns the question.