Deepwood Weald he is neither gentle nor kind

drogon let out a small noise of acknowledgement when the other moonspear wolf returned that he had no particular destination in mind either. drogon watches as a small smile tugged at the edges of the other male's lips but drogon — whom had the social graces of a jackal at best — did not return it. nevertheless, in this moment both wanderers they were alike as destination-less wanderers. except drogon was contemplating cutting ties with moonspear, a move on the chess board that might easily be seen as treasonous by charon and co; and he was heavily considering that it was a sacrifice he was very willing to pay. but, he did not trust this information with the man before him. drogon isn't even sure he trusts that information with vela whom had always been more loyal to charon than she was anyone else. if there was one thing drogon was an expert at: it was ghosting.

"drogon. drogon ansbjørn." he responds moments before he draws his salmon pink tongue across his jowls and casts his glacial gaze to the thick fog that surrounds them. "yours?" he returns in a abrupt tone (again those jackal-like manners of his). drogon's ears swivel atop his skull, alert in part to catch the other male's response and because he thinks he hears something apart from them, and reminds himself shortly after that the fog distorts sound as well as eyesight. he lets out a small, near inaudible huff and the longer, wispy hair at his nape bristles slightly. the senses drogon heavily relies on as a warrior, as a predator are muted in the fog's masking properties and while it could undoubtedly be useful that door swung both ways. "this fog is putting me on edge." drogon confesses to his pale companion abruptly.