Lost Creek Hollow There's delays on the planes out of Eastern Montana

the melding of bloodlines and cultureslong ago had crafted something that was not northern and not draconian; but a mixture of both. old ways merged to become new, coming together in a strange coalesce until it is all that the wolves of the fjord knew; the separation dying out long ago. and dracarys stood, a product of that marriage, generations later.
her name lingers like something boneold and familiar in his mind, like something he should know but cannot place a finger upon. like the nails of an ancient, chained beast clawing at the cages of dracarys' mind where he has kept them hidden.
he is spared having to examine it further as she speaks of his own name, calling it strange and remarking that she has never heard it before. dracarys lets out a low hum in his throat. strange to you, drífa, murmurs the siren prince, the grin ghosting at the edges of his lips flirting with the lines of being mischievous. in truth, i am dracarys the fourth ...or fifth of my bloodline. he adds with a flippant gesture of his paw, as if it did not matter.
but it mattered.
there was power in names.