Otter Creek a burning coal touching the prophet's lips

drogon...

he hasn't heard that name in so long. hearing it now, applied to him, feels like the discovery of a language long since forgotten. spit from betwixt the teeth of another ancient; disdainful. he turns to face the accuser, glacial gaze searching and finding the stark coat of his once fellow turncoat. ganondorf. recognition comes flooding back; their tense meeting in moonspear. that was old history, better left buried and forgotten. the war that never was; and the dark woods that kept pulling him back into its shadowed embrace. indoctrinating him again and again.

it has been a long time.