Moonspear war stalks proud

Snow crunches under foot as Drogon dutifully patrols the borders, his steps even and measured, leisurely. The Ansbjørn studies the neutral territory outside of Moonspear’s borders with a critical sweep of his glacial gaze, offering a glimpse skyward at the grey and bleak morning. He knows the sun has begun to rise: it’s still darker on one half of the sky and beyond that he’s always been an early riser but with the thick, heavy grey clouds obscuring it he cannot deduce it’s precise location in the sky. There’s a undeniable chill a …bite to the air that makes Drogon suspect it’s going to snow. He’s no meteorologist but it’s an easy enough deduction to make even for him; truth be told he’s not bothered by his conclusion of the day’s weather. The leijona is built to endure the harsh chill and conditions of winter. Drogon thinks of winter and briefly makes the connection that he’s nearly an adult, that with the coming of the new year he will join the adult ranks. He’s considered celebrating the milestone in some shape or form but he’s got no one to celebrate it with and strikes the thought from his mind.

Drogon gives pause then, steps halting abruptly as he sniffs around a tree trunk, nose twitching. His ears taper back against his skull in a languid movement, discerning that the scent is nothing to worry about after a few more seconds. For good measure he lifts his leg and marks the tree with a refresher just in case before he continues on with his patrol.