Drogo's own item from home is a weapon as well--his arakh, long and curved, and something he keeps on him at all times.

He likes his tent, although having to share it is mildly grating--tents, at the very least, remind him of home. The weather, too, when the rains come along the great grass sea. He spends time in his tent when he isn't training--mostly because he can remove his shirt, he can feel grounded, and his hair is free and no longer tucked underneath his jacket.

Currently, he sits cross-legged, rebraiding is as best as he can himself. When he glances over, he spots a gleam of metal.

Daggers.

"Mihesof." He points.