The Tangle that wasn't very cash money of you

the lost dragon's journey is long and perilous. successful hunts have been far and few in-between and wounds treated with salves and pastes from the stranger whom he'd allowed to treat him on borrowed but not extended trust aside the his haggard form puts on display that he's suffered. he's slimmer than he should be; eyes haunted. fear, pain that quickly translate to aggression and hostility. he feels it bubble and burn like lava seething beneath the surface of a volcano as he becomes aware that he's not alone. he dines on a corpse — a few days old, the meat hard and partially frozen. meat is meat and beggars cannot be choosers. he thinks he's close to drageda now, but he's exhausted and it weighs heavily upon him so there is nothing but never-ending uncertainty.

his hackles bristle and he noses through the partially frozen corpse before deducing that he's polished off what is good. the scent has been wafting towards him but even with ears perked he's heard no sign of approach. it would be easy to avoid the other all together. there is enough distance, enough of labyrinth between them that he could slip away unnoticed. but he yearns for home and he catches drageda's scent. there is a familiarity there, he thinks, but he cannot outright place it.

home, home, home...; it is home that forces his long legs forward, towards the scent that grows stronger with each harsh breath he takes. he's seen her. in passing. maybe. he thinks. he isn't sure. he doesn't know her, though, and despite that he desires to sink into the comfort of scents he does know that cling to her pelt he tenses and lets out a choked noise at war with himself again.

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295 words