Neverwinter Forest dreamers of day are dangerous men

for mama-bear @Lotte! ♥ psa: please note that drogon will be asleep for 99.9% of this thread. everything below the 'cut line' in this post (and all posts going forward unless otherwise stated) are apart of his dream. :-)

drogon slips from moonspear's borders before the sun has even risen, when the moon is still high in the velveteen night and heads north-east. he does not venture far, breaching into neverwinter forest's evergreen sentinels when the sun is just beginning it's ascension in the horizon. he ventures into the territories heart and when he finds a suitable place to bed — a long since abandoned den big enough to comfortably fit him he noses his way inside past the thick weeds and brush that have grown to nearly conceal it's entrance. he sniffs at the far wall, does a complete circle in place before he plops down, licks his front left paw a few times to smooth the fur there. after a few moments drogon lays his chin upon his paws, closes his eyes and falls into a fast albeit heavy slumber.

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he ventures outside the overgrown den entrance, frowning as a few burs cling onto his thick pelage. he's vain enough to mind the unsightly and unwanted addition yet as he looks away they are easily forgotten. like all dream things, they disappear as if it had never been apart of it in the first place. the forest is covered in a thick fog and drogon struggles to make out too many details. the sentinels that he knows surround him are distorted, little more than writhing shadows in the creeping fog that eventually yawns forth to swallow him. though drogon is not afraid of fog, neither does he necessarily mind enclosed places he feels as if he's suffocating, as if the fog is making it hard to breathe. he is caged by it, the cage bars pressing tighter and tighter against him. his limbs feel heavy and thus he stands near-statue still aside from the flare of his black, leathery nostrils as he exhales heavy breaths and the alert swivel of his ears cupped forth atop his skull, accompanied by the slight bristle of hair at his nape as he expects — by warrior nature alone — something to emerge from the fog.