Altar of Twilight show the world that you would eat it whole

for @Hydra!

The morning sun is a defiant oranges-red blaze in the sky where it lingers above the towering spirals that stretch heavenward as if they seek to rupture it, to spill it’s fire upon the lands as it casts it’s morning glow: fiery and golden upon all that it touches. Despite the burning wrath of the sun above the morning is chilled. Chilly enough to elicit a soft shiver from the tundrian as it touches upon his muzzle. It is in his extremities where the fur is thinner that he feels the chill in the air, notes it in the slight white furl that rises from his lips with each breath he expels. His winter coat is growing in, coarse and thick and the frosted silvery mane he bears protects his throat, chest and nape from the impending cold, the fur thicker there regardless. There is a few months of fall before him yet, he thinks, but not enough. His time of aimless wandering must come to a stop …if only to survive the winter. Instincts keep him well informed that his likelihood of surviving without a pack is slim to none even with his youth and inexperience with winter; and Drogon has come to trust his instincts more than he trusts anything else.

He enters the small valley that sits between the twin peaks, a grey wall rising to the sout — a ugly gate that the tundrian has no intentions of crossing. Little does the lion boy know that at night, in the light of the moon, if he were to see it that his whole opinion on the rock staggering and towering rock wall would change. He shifts his position to take him west but pauses a few minutes in as he realizes there is a faint scent of a pack’s claim. He’s still a good distance away from Moonspear but he’s done a ( relatively ) decent job of avoiding pre-established packs ( Morningside doesn’t count because they were on the move when he stumbled across them ) and intends to keep that streak going. He wants to head back to the coast but knows that unless he wants to backtrack he’s going to have to skirt the claimed territory.

For now he does not worry too much about it as he sates his thirst in a shallow puddle he comes across. The water is not as crisp as moving water but it serves it’s purpose nevertheless. He thinks this valley is good a spot as any to catch a meal and maybe get a few hours of shut eye before venturing on.

Hydra only strayed from the territory to make good on her conversation with her father. After her run-in with that strange scented male, she roamed with @Lyra by her side. The two of them were as good a team as she and Alya, and given what had just transpired Lyra, even knowing her capabilities, wanted to be near. Just in case, Lyra had expressed. Hydra humored her, though could not deny she felt all the better for it. 

Though the incident had occurred in the Glen, Hydra took into account the neighboring territories of Moonspear. It would not do to assume that just because the attack happened in one location it would happen again solely there. Her nose hovered over the rocks as she inhaled, though there was no hint of the strange pale males coming here. In the distance there is another wolf, not close enough to warrant immediate inspection yet near enough to warrant some measure of interest. Hydra's ears pricked as her head lifted, observing his appearance. He was intriguing and unique looking, young, too—as young as the other male she had come across, she believed.

Drogon continues to lap at the puddle even as his ears pivot and perk atop his skull, swiveling to determine the direction of the sound of approaching footfalls upon the earth. They grow louder with each step but the tundrian remains unworried. This is neutral territory, after all and he is a more than fair distance from the claimed spire in the distance. He gives it a wide berth purposefully with no intention of breaching said wide berth. It is only when the dark duo materializes into his peripheral vision does the soturi lift his head and allow his glacial gaze to touch upon them as his salmon pink tongue darts out to swipe the lingering droplets of puddle water from his chin. Even from the distance between them Drogon can tell the two are identical — startlingly so!. He can smell them, smell that they are from the pack whose territory he gives wide berth ( despite that trekking around it with the same wide berth he gives it now will prove to be inconvenient as it will cause a bit of backtracking to see him to the coast ) and wonders if they are wolves that are overly territorial, if they will chase him from neutral territory simply because it borders their home; and wonders still if they do if he would resist. It is neutral territory and well outside their claim, after all…but fighting them would burn up energy that he needs to hunt and could possibly cause injuries that could turn grievous very quickly. Not to mention he has yet to eat for the morning and he did not sleep much during the night, preferring to travel when he can best blend in with the shadows and when it’s at it’s coolest. It is bad enough that he’s had his fair share of spars ( reckless really as his “healing” knowledge is mental and extremely primal )…though to call them spars feels like an insult to the art of war.

Throwing the fight to let him win, or not taking it as seriously as Drogon was just because he’s a kid ( oh, how he hates being a kid ) is insulting and poor of those he would look to as mentors. He wants a teacher. A teacher who will not hold back, who will shove him face first into the dirt to remind him that he still yet has much to learn ( he could use the reality check, his ego’s gotten a bit out of hand lately ). There is a snap back to the present, out of his thoughts as he considers that if they truly were so territorial that they’d have given chase already. He doubts they’d have even paused to assess him if that were the case. Drogon’s never been much of a conversationalist and so lets out a low chuff to announce that he acknowledges their presence because he does not know what to say. He figures as they have stumbled upon him first he would pass the torch of first words to one of them.

Hydra approaches with her sister hanging in the back. It would not do to underestimate any, even the young—Hydra did think herself capable of handling herself, given her nearly acquired mastery of being a warrior, but after dealing with an unstable wolf Hydra knew that not everybody out there fought with instinct in mind. At the very least, Hydra could warn him. As she thought of it, the male they fought against had been young, too. Given her skills, she likely could dispose of him—if he did not fight dirty. Well, in knowing how he fought, she had an advantage. Singularly, he could not even begin to guess how she did. 

Once she was a comfortable distance away, she looked over his shoulder and then back to him. Have you seen a pale wolf around these parts? Large, pale... has a scar upon his face, now, her lips twitched upward, pleased with the permanent mark she had left upon him. He's not pure white... he's got some tan on him, too, she said, thoughtful. After a beat, she informed him, we don't intend to hurt him, much, in case they were friends. Perhaps it was not the best approach, if they were pals—but Hydra wanted the attacker of Rannoch to know. If he was seen again, he would pay the price with his blood.

Drogon’s ears cup forward, attentive, atop his skull as one of the duo speaks up. She inquires as to whether he’s seen a large, pale wolf bearing a scar across his face in these parts. At first, Drogon is unable to call to his mind any such likeness in any wolves he’s seen, but then again he doesn’t recall ever coming into contact with too many pale wolves. When she mentions, however, that this male she’s searching for isn’t pure white but bears markings of tan the breath rushes from Drogon’s lips in a sound that is near a hiss. Though the tundrian doesn’t have much to compare to when it comes to pale wolves he suspects that Vaati’s tan markings are unique — as unique as Drogon’s frosted, blue-silver mane and mittens. It would be hard to mistake the soturi these days now that his fur has cooled into it’s adult colors. The hairs at the nape of the tundra’s neck bristle and he takes a step forward, chin lifting. “I think I know who you speak of. Has blue eyes a few shades darker than mine? Bears the pack scent of blood and rotting corpses?” He is almost positive it is Vaati and he itches with an excitement that someone else wishes to put that little bastard in his place. Drogon would pay to see them tear him apart. Hell, he was near ready to offer to help …but he has the advantage of being unrecognizable to them now. When the wolves of Blackfeather Woods knew him he was still pale and growing dusty at his extremities and his voice had not yet deepened. It’s an advantage of rare anonymity that the young titan doesn’t wish to lose …not that he thinks that they even care enough to bother to waste their resources to come after him. Still, they’re dangerous and sneaky and Drogon wasn’t willing to put it past them.

That he knew of who she spoke of caused Hydra to come to complete and utter attention. And feathers, she rumbles, her eyes flashing. That this was pack scent rather than individual scent... Rannoch had said as much, when he spoke of Feathery Woods. You have seen him recently? She asks, feeling her sister look beyond them even as her eyes remained upon Drogon. She licks her chops. He had been injured plenty and had lost a lot of blood—now would be as good a time as any to kill him, if he was near, if he had been found. Her tail lashed predatorily behind her as she awaited his response.

Drogon watches as her eyes flash and she rumbles the words and feathers. Feathers? There is no doubt that they speak of the same wolf — the boy that had ( rightfully for whatever it had been worth ) said he’d never belong. It occurs to Drogon that he never learned Vaati’s name but that hardly matters because the very important key is that the platinum boy who thought himself the soturi’s superior made an enemy out of the wrong Ansbjørn and Drogon knows where the crypt of woods is located that the Blackfeather wolves call home and there is no hesitation, no qualm ( and no future remorse ) about leading this woman and those who would take up arms to join her to their doorstep. To see what those mangled corpses were worth in the face of a true fight. His blood thrums at the thought of it, answering to the call of war in his bones. “No,” The tundrian replies honestly but the left corner of the tundrian’s lips lift in a smirk. “but I do know where he lives and how to get there.” It makes sense to him now: why they dispose of those who are no longer useful, why they might have bothered to use the wolves and resources hunting for him. They value privacy and secrecy and he is a loose canon with a tongue that will losen for the right price. He wasn’t there long but it was long enough to gather knowledge and though he’d never before had intents to use it against them he certainly has no issue with it now that opportunity has presented itself in the form of the identical duo before him.

“What did he do to earn your ire?” Drogon inquires figuring that it's a fair trade: the knowledge of why they want him for the knowledge of where to find him. What he seeks to know really isn't necessarily, per say, but he's curious all the same.

His words caused her interest to deepen. She knew the name of the place, but not its whereabouts. This was all too good to be true, she felt, and not one to trust blindly (anymore), she asked: How do I know I can trust you? Has he wronged you? 

As for his next question, Hydra responded, he attacked a friend of mine without motive. He tried to kill him, he was reckless and dangerous. If he was near, she wanted him gone, and she would do whatever it took to do so.

Drogon suspects that she does not trust him and he does not begrudge her it. The tundrian knows all too well the world is “dog eat dog” and that about the only wolf you can ever trust is yourself. In truth, the pale and tan spiderling had never gotten the chance to attempt to do anything to Drogon but threatening the tundrian ( wolves that were known for their pride ) was all it took. One didn’t simply threaten Drogon Ansbjørn and get off scotch free …especially not when Dragon wittingly held information that could very well prove to give him an upper hand. It was not half as satisfying as the thrill of a spar but information, the soturi was discovering was a delicious power in and of itself. “He made an enemy out of me and it was an arrogant and poor decision.” Drogon speaks gruffly. “I’ve got no reason nor desire to betray you or lead you astray. Trust, at the very least, that I believe a rapid dog should be put down and that he should be made to pay for his crime.” Because that is what the soturi thinks of the spiderling they speak of now: he attempted to kill without motive and thus he is a rapid dog that should not be allowed to draw breath. This arrogance does not exactly surprise Drogon: it had been apparent that the older boy had thought himself untouchable. Superior. If she truly left mark upon him, caused him to bleed it should be a nice dose of reality; and perhaps Drogon's own motives were petty, school-yard reasons but it didn't matter. He has reason to back it up despite that he did not know the umbra duo or their friend that was nearly killed. Drogon didn't have to. Their word was good enough for him.

This stranger seemed to think much of himself; as to that, Hydra had no opinion, given she, too, thought highly of her own self. She was young and accomplished both; who was to say he, too, was not? Surely not as capable as she, she vainly thought, but she would not understimate him. She licked her chops and looked thoughtful for a moment. She wanted to believe him, though she had plenty reason not to. This crazed lunatic of the Feathery Woods (as she had heard it called) would surely be out for blood, she imagined. To be led right into his waiting jaws... 

I have a proposition for you, stranger, she decided, her tail flicking behind her. Join me and mine at Moonspear. I am it's Beta. My father and mother lead; with your intelligence, I think he would be interested in you among our ranks. I should like to learn more of where this wolf comes from, and I am sure all cannot be told in a day. You sound like you desire blood, she looked to Lyra, who moved beside her and watched Drogon, and I think you may be fortunate enough to see some, with us. Hydra was a fighter; if her father sent his hounds, she would be happy to take Drogon with them. In the meantime, they could train for the battle that she felt was to come.

Drogon does think highly of himself but his own self-assuredness that flirts with the irrevocably blurred lines of arrogance is nothing new. He’s always wanted to be the champion even as a young child. It makes him cocky, more times than not. His vanity is his weakness, an acknowledged one that hopefully as he grows and learns and develops will be able to temper. It’s perfectly well and good to be self-assured, to be dominate and to occasionally show off but he has yet to learn the valuable life lesson that being too self-assured, too dominate and showing off too much is unhealthy for him and others that he would come into contact with. In fact, he thinks that it probably makes him just as bad as Vaati ( and swallows the cringe and bile that rises in his throat as he makes the comparison of similarities ). Drogon’s ears pique atop his skull as she speaks of a proposition and accordingly offers her his full and rapt attention as she lays out her offer in the space between them. She offers him a place: a trade of sorts. For his knowledge he will have a place in their ranks and a spot to join them if a war was brewing on the horizon. It is the first time, the tundrian has well noticed, that he was not once asked if he was lost. She didn’t offer it as a older woman with harbored pity upon a young boy. She treated him as if he were an adult ( as far as he has noticed, anyway ) and Drogon both respected and appreciated that immensely.

The tundrian is quiet for a moment, contemplative as her proposition lingers in the air between them, weighing the pros against the cons. The pros far outweigh the cons and he realized this nearly right away. “I’ll take you up on that proposition,” Drogon breaks his silence to speak, accepting it. Perhaps it should have surprised him: to say yes without knowing much of anything about their pack but winter would soon be upon them and this was always inevitable, in the end. Whether it was with her pack or another’s …he was going to have to give up his enjoyed freedoms to survive the winter, at the very least. “I’m Drogon, by the way.” The soturi finally introduces himself to them, offering a submissive dip of his head.

He accepted her offer, and she felt the shoulder of Lyra press against her own. She nods to him, and when he introduces himself, she samples the unique name: Drogon... it is an interesting name, a strong one, too—and in turn, she introduces herself and her sister. I am Hydra, and this is Lyra, she gestures toward her sister, tail waving. Have you any particular strengths? She inquired next—her father would want to know this, she was certain. She moves around him, and then beside him; Lyra keeps beside her, and she remains at the groups center. She gestures at him to follow; they could head to where he would soon call home, if Charon or Amekaze willed it.

The one who calls herself Hydra offers an introduction of her own and Drogon tucks their names away though he wonders if he might suffer the ( probably eventual ) humiliation of getting them mixed up ( ha! wait until he realizes there are three of them ). She inquires as to his particular strengths next. No doubt a question he should have expected but luckily didn’t matter because he happened to have strengths to offer them. He’d earned his Mercenary trade young — an accomplishment that he would always be proud of ( and probably boast about until he’s grey all over and can barely move from old age ) and he’s a pretty decent hunter for whatever it was worth, though that was probably because he swore he’d never let himself ever get as close to starvation as he’d been when Nyx had found him.

“I earned my mercenary trade young and I think I could soon hold the warrior specialty. Tactician too. I enjoy trying to map out how the enemy thinks and moves.” He offers what he knows he’s good at first. He’s tundrian — he’s built for war ( despite that he’s not hit his full height nor filled out fully yet ). “I’m a decent hunter as well. I’ve kept myself pretty well fed on my own. It’s getting harder with the approach of winter though.” But he didn’t think they needed him to tell them that the herds were migrating and woodland creatures were starting to bunker down for the winter months; and in hindsight he’s been fairly lucky though to find a hunting partner when he’s wanted something larger and more filling than a small woodland creature but that's neither here nor there.

A mercenary! Hydra delights at this, and now more than ever Moonspear could afford more. Her father and mother both would surely appreciate this. I am a master warrior, she informed him, and she thought of her intent to teach Jarilo. It would not hurt, however, to use Drogon as a guinea pig; she could have two apprentices. This thought delighted her, too. If you would like, and you are accepted, you may apprentice under me, with her tutelage, he would become a warrior and tactician both. Though her interest lay more in protecting, she had the mind of a woman who was made for leading wars, it would seem. This was a gift she had earned from her mother, surely. It is good that you are a hunter, as well—winter is coming, and we have some young... if he could pull his weight, which it sounded as though he could, he would be welcomed with open arms she believed.

just a lil conclusion post! :-)

A master warrior! Drogon looks to her again, briefly, as if with new eyes and not for any reason other than she is the first master warrior that he’s come across. “I would be honored to learn beneath your instruction.” Drogon responds not adding that which they both know hangs in the balance: if he’s accepted. He offers her a contemplative nod as she adds that they have young and that his hunting skills will no doubt come in handy within the pack as the two women lead him to the towering, sentinel spire in the nearby distance.