Firefly Glen crashing out into the noise

The older male speak, his voice cracked and gravelly, his response simple. Food. It was as fair a reason as any and regardless of it’s proximity to Moonspear the glen remained a neutral territory all the same. He couldn’t condemn a man for looking to fill his belly — Drogon had been a lone wolf for some time and it was still recent enough that he hadn’t forgotten what it was like though he had the advantage of having been a vagabond during the summer months before the herds had migrated. Prey had still been bountiful then and it hadn’t been too hard for him to survive ( though he had several companions throughout his time as a lone wolf and that’d made a difference ). Drogon’s glacial gaze lowers to the hare for a moment before it travels back up to the melanistic coywolf offering a curt nod. “The locals call it Firefly Glen,” Drogon offers though he isn’t overly sure whether the older male much cares what it is called.

The names of territories are useful to Drogon if only because he’s an aspiring ranger — and because he might be expected to escort someone ‘important’ someday and thus it strikes him as useful to him regardless — as per his warrior speciality. Up until this point Drogon had unwittingly avoided it for whatever reason, likely because Silverlight Terrace and Altar of Twilight seemed more accessible and were more easily navigated when he was returning to Moonspear from an impromptu venture outside of it’s borders. Drogon isn’t a beast made for staying in one place for too long — it tends to invite his penchant for finding and/or making trouble and he’s done surprisingly well at keeping his head low and avoiding shoulder brushes ( and thus potential of butting heads ) with Moonspear’s alphas. Drogon knows his trouble with responding favorably to authority and is learning how to avoid it as he goes. It’s working so far.

“There’s a pack just to the west of here,” He gestures in Moonspear’s direction. “a second pack to the south and a third to the south east of here. I don’t know what way you’re heading but it’s a bit claustrophobic on our end of the valley.” Drogon offers the stranger from the mental map he’s constructed during his numerous travels, a soft sweep of his tail against his hocks. It seemed like a ranger-y thing to do even if Drogon was not the most sociable of wolves …regardless of what ‘mask’ he donned. Unless he was being a sassy asshole or around someone he knew well conversations always left the Ansbjørn feeling a bit awkward. Or perhaps it was simply because there was something inherently unsettling about the coywolf, something that Drogon could not put a name to but a feeling that has fluttered to life and flickered like a candle's flame in his chest nevertheless.