Dragoncrest Cliffs wrap your hands around my throat and put me to rest

He bristled with impetuous rage, pulling back inky lips to reveal the alabaster weaponry sheathed beneath.  A warning snarl comes low from his chest as his stare turns hard.  Drakru don't cry, he asserts viciously, purporting this with absolute authority (despite the statement being untrue).  Still, he was compelled to follow her into Rose's apothecary and ducked his head as he came in, taller now than he was the last time he could remember coming here.

The red-hued woman had tried to teach him about the healing arts once, although he had retained precious little of the information.  In fact the only thing he remembered was incorrect — when she'd pointed out one plant as she described another.  Since he knew so little he trusted Aure implicitly, but when she came close he froze.

Nobody outside of his immediate family had ever touched him before, and although the medic's ministrations were professional (if not a bit clumsy) but they still stirred something within his poor hormonal body; his cheeks warmed beneath his fur as his heartbeat quickens, and he ushers the conversation on to focus on something else.

Drăguţ? he repeats with relative ease; being billingual has allowed him some lingual adaptivity.  What do you wish to see?  He could take her to the mountains, the plains, show her the wonders of the wilds.  I can take you there.