His teeth bared in a grin that looked more like a snarl, orange eyes feasting upon the subtle inclinations of inner turmoil. It was a pleasing thing, to watch one's very being fight against itself-- to see the black beast's true nature cracking open that fragile shell built by social mores and a perceived sense of nobility. Onias rolled his shoulders, his tail curling like a pleased cat, the shadows nipping and prodding at his backside. They were excited, they wanted their prophet to bring another into the fold. Not like the Mimic, no, not another thrall to do the bidding of his master mindlessly. Drogon could be another like himself, perhaps, with his own shadows and rituals. Onias had hardly forced him to stay, after all. A few little pushes and the male might just be enveloped in the shadows himself.

The question was, perhaps, not unexpected. Many shied away from purpose, from the thought that their life might not be wholly dictated by them. They rejected Fate, and, as such, they rejected the pleasure that came with aligning destiny and the desires of the self. Of course, Fate was just an idea. Onias knew the truth-- he always had. His tongue slid over his top teeth and he tilted his head, leaving his study of the stranger quite plain to see. It would be foolish to hide such a thing, after all. When one knew they were being dissected, they tended to overcompensate-- but Drogon, despite the bristling of his hackles and the movement of his ears, seemed to rise to the challenge of it. Onias' grin grew wider, his head tilting to rest the other way, tail curling languidly around his paws.

"Of course." He replied, his voice emphatic-- almost as if praising the stranger for his response. "We all are but slaves to the passage of time. Every wolf grows old and dies and leaves just bones behind." He paused, musing over the statement as he considered what came next. What little push would be most effective? The grin began to dim into a more thoughtful expression, almost sagelike in the way his eyes softened and the muscles in his face relaxed. "Purpose, Fate, destiny, whatever one calls it-- it is a platitude, a way to assure one that their life was not in vain. But time turns onward, like you said. When you die, the sun will still rise again the next morning."

Onias chuckled, then, a nihilistic sort of noise. "So, then, Drogon-- perhaps there is no purpose for our meeting today. But maybe there is a reason." And what that reason might be would be revealed the beast if he so desired, but Onias had never been one to divulge too much information all at once. Let the man seek, let him decide just how far he wanted to follow-- things always worked better that way.