winter cloaks the forest; thick and heavy. snow crunches beneath dracarys' paws even as they sink down ... and even then, he is not sure that he touches down through the cold earth. the siren prince draws in a breath, the morning air crisp and cold, needling like a thousand little iceknives in his lungs. after reuniting with his sister, filling his belly and spending several days slumbering he is feeling more like himself than he can remember ever feeling before.

renewed. reinvigorated. reborn. even though the dreams of the dark abyss persist.

frostbound gaze studies the snow capped pines; left ear flickering as the sound of squirrel's claws scurry along the rough bark, fat drops of snow fall to the ground beneath as they play among the branches.

dracarys takes another moment to study, to chart his path ... though these lands are wildly unfamiliar to him and he had vowed not to stray too far.

hope you don’t mind me <3

---

The snow muffled everything: the scurry of distant claws, the lull of trees breathing beneath the burden of frost. Through the pale, endless stillness, Astier moved as a ghost summoned by the cold itself: silent, watchful, carved from winter’s hand. He did not speak.

Instead, his silver gaze lingered over the land, studying the bent willows and ancient oaks with the slow, glacial patience of a creature born to solitude. Each breath curled sharply from his muzzle, vanishing into the brittle air as smoke from a dying fire. A stray flake clung to the arch of his lashes, melting and gone before he even blinked. Somewhere ahead, another moved: the flash of golden fur against the backdrop of endless white. Astier stilled, a pale statue among the trees, the faint stir of his mane the only sign that he was anything more than part of the landscape itself.
For a moment longer he remained a presence felt rather than seen, the weight of his scrutiny as tangible as the cold sinking into the bones of the world. Only when the gap between them thinned did he shift, the motion fluid, calculated. His head lifted slightly, a slow, glacial tilt, as if to say I see you without offering greeting nor submission.
The wraith did not close the distance, nor offer allegiance. He merely stood, a silent sentinel, waiting to see who would break the stillness first. A thread of familiarity wove through his scent, elusive and stubborn, slipping just beyond his grasp.

---

not at all, thanks for joining! <3

---

for a while longer, though brief, dracarys moves with the belief that he is alone in the woodland — pompous such a thought no doubt was. the spell carefully woven is easily broken; first by the pinprick along his nape — that gut feeling that something was off even if the siren prince could not at first place it. steps pause then, a glimpse cast over his shoulder.

there. though it takes a second, longer look to make out the wolf from the snow. the man is cloaked in colors of winter; blessed to not stand out like a sore thumb such as the golden dragon himself.

unusual, thinks dracarys, that the man made no noise to garner attention to himself. the siren prince turns to face the stranger across the way in full, frostbound gaze studious; unyielding. rytsas, issaros (hail, stranger) speaks the siren prince; breaching the silence that had lain heavy between them.

Snow whispered as it fell between their gazes, and Astier did not move when the mans icy gaze landed upon him. His presence remained rooted, anchored as a spire of frost-slicked stone amid the white-buried woodland. Head turned only at first, the rest of him remained statuesque: one forepaw still lifted mid-step, caught between motion and intention. His gaze swept over the stranger as though weighing him, not with suspicion, but with the quiet calculation of one who had survived long enough to distrust the easily seen.
Pale lashes lowered as he examined the man’s cloak, etched in cold ivory and glacial steel. He gleamed like starlight on ice, blessed by the golden light of the sun itself. Then, at last, he shifted, a subtle turn of shoulder to face the stranger fully: „Valyrio ūndos,” he murmured, the words slipping from his tongue like knives wrapped in silk. The accent was not perfect, it was refined but distant, controlled and careful.
His chin lifted ever so slightly, a glint in the pale slits of his eyes. There was neither warmth nor chill, only the weight of study, of restraint worn like armor. „I do not dance in it,” he added, in the common tongue, cold voice curling around the phrase. Seldom did he cross paths with those who spoke this searing tongue; and when they did, they wore fire, fury, and blood like a second skin.
The wraith’s ear twitched, a single lash fluttering with the wind, and his eyes narrowed, sharp as hoarfrost. „And who,” Astier asked, his voice a low drawl of quiet iron, „calls so boldly into the quiet?” He stood unmoving afterward, the snow settling upon his shoulders as if he were a relic carved from the mountain itself: watching, waiting, unwilling to yield the silence unless pried from his grasp.

there is a soft skip of dracarys' heart beat within his chest as the stranger speaks in his native tongue. frostbound gaze studies him slower, more in-depth now. though the siren prince is still wary, still unsure if he is friend or foe though there was nothing hostile in his stance ... the shared tongue demands closer attention be paid.

i do not dance in it, no acknowledgement of this is given beyond a lazy flick of his ear. it was an inconvenience, to have to speak in the crude — to him — common tongue.

a shame, speaks dracarys, common accented; smoky. softened though it feels like sandpaper upon his tongue. do you have a name, issaros?