Moonspear be devout to hunger, child

For a long moment Drogon thinks that she will not answer him and for that stretch of time he’s left to continue attempting to puzzle it out in his mind; there’s a slight spark of suspicion. That perhaps she nurtures for him what he nurtures for Hydra: what he once, very briefly felt for Nyx during his short time in Blackfeather. A suspicion is not enough to go on and he shifts his weight, his ears slicking back to rest at half mast atop his skull before they cup forth, towards her. She speaks, still not looking at him but her words …make no sense to him. The Glamour? What did that mean? What was it? “The Glamour?” Drogon inquires with a bit of hesitance, his ears pivoting to the side. “What’s The Glamour?” The tundrian asks her. Now Wraen had gone way over Drogon’s head when a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ would have sufficed to his question. He’s no overly knowledgeable in occult things, in fairy-tales and mystics and in truth he has little tolerance for such things due to his traumatic childhood and his time spent in Blackfeather Woods. Drogon stretches and then settles upon his haunches, his eyes leaving her briefly to scan the territory before his glacial gaze fixates upon her once more.