| Onias
The shimmering strands of crimson that caught in the light reminded Onias of ritual blood, gleaming in the sunlight. It excited him, caused his eyes to gleam as the other came down to meet him levelly. In a move of silent, yet almost paternal dominance, the foxlike ritualist raised his head. His head at a slight tilt, he surveyed the beast of a male that stood before him-- he smelled strongly of the open air, the pine forests of the mountains that loomed over them like eternal watchmen. He wondered if the male before him felt watched by the mountains, too, their peering eyes all-seeing and omnipresent. Perhaps it was telling, that Onias had taken a home underneath the shadow of another. Never one to play in the light, after all.
What one was and what one presented oneself as were two different things, however. Was this stranger as gruff and as plainly worded as his reply suggested, or was he deeper than that? Onias examined him, curiously and openly, making no move to disguise his sizing-up as something different. It was not the look of a predator nor an innocent child, but yet there was a strange hunger in his eyes. There was a lack of reaction to his words that made him yearn for an answer even more than he already had previously. Who was this stranger who came to stand before him? What secrets lay hidden beneath his caged tongue, what internal wounds came to the surface in the form of the deep, crimson gashes that stained his ribs?
Onias snorted softly, drawing back, his head held low once more. Dark energies surged between them, like static electricity passing from one form to another. Perhaps this one might like to learn-- perhaps their meeting was determined by Fate. It would be good, he thought, to teach another his creed. But first, he must learn. Onias continued to stare at him, his ravenous orange eyes filled with a gleam, indiscernible as any single emotion.
"Drogon." He repeated, drawing out the word as if it were delicious on his tongue. Perhaps one might see the crimson-eyed Drogon as a bad omen, should he hide in the shadows. But Onias simply saw potential. There was something quietly dark about this fellow, lurking and brooding just beneath the surface. He settled down onto his hindquarters, motioning for the other to do the same.
There was a strange softness to the scarred male, for a moment, his features settling into another paternal expression. For he had always been the patriarch, not only a leader, but a Father too. "My words may mean little to you, but please, tell me-- do you believe that there is a purpose for everything? For, perhaps, our meeting together today?" His tongue swiped up and over his top lip. "And what... what might that purpose be?"
If you ain't got money, it can't save your soul.
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