Stone Circle when the laurel grows heavy on your brow

for @Drøugr

to be so far from the fjord leaves dracarys with a strange feeling lingering beneath his breast. not quite homesickness ... but like something vital had been carved from his ribbones. the sirenlord was used to travel — it'd been apart of his training as tactician — to infiltrate enemy parklands and nest there as a sleep agent.

but to leave, still not at his own violation ... rather at the command of a blind seeress, no less, left him feeling a bit like kronos, banished to the pits of tartarus dressed in silvered, pretty words ... of grandeur. of gauzy mumblings that reminisced of the nonsensical words of the pythia.

the afternoon wore into evening, painting the sky violent purples, clementine orange and bright pink; stars winking their way past the myriad of celestial violence that was left in the wake of nightfall.

dracarys' steps slow as the scent of wolves, fresh make itself known to him. he lets out a low huff, not sure he was interested in re-routing himself ... not when he can feel the call of something in the earth beneath his travel weary paws.