Stone Circle when the laurel grows heavy on your brow

the man who greets him is tall and corded with thick muscles, draped in a pelage of ebony leeching to crimson with a pale cream underside and gold eyes the color of the setting sun. something within dracarys recognizes that he should be weary, perhaps even a bit afraid ... he was vapidly outsized and likely outmatched. at least in regards to strength; but dracarys always flirting with the valkyrie that would one day come to collect him felt little in regards to reservation.

if he errs to the side of diplomacy, it is only because he recognizes the power dynamic here, the brawny stranger holding all of it, and knows well how to play his hand.

i am called dracarys. he answers, offering nothing more and asking nothing in return; content to answer questions simply and to the point asked to him.