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

dracarys' gaze is studious, contemplative as he stares past her, past her meal, past the trees and grasses and horizon. it fixes on something just past the horizon: not quite the past, present or future. where he imagines the great tree of the twelve sits; the branches coiling out into the aether. a quiet noise of agreement rumbles in dracarys' throat at her words. it does not serve to fear our fate. all we can do is run to it. their fates were already written for them, he believed. the fate weavers have already decided it long ago.
which felt like a juxtaposition when compared to his own words minutes ago: that he wished to forge his own path, make his own legacy.
valar morghūlis, rumbles the siren prince in response. all men must die. he offers the translation in the next breath, left ear giving a twitch as he pushes himself to his paws, stretching slightly. smart men live a little longer than strong men but they cannot evade death forever.
a heavy pause is given. death is all we are promised in life.