Bearclaw Valley I've heard the mumbling of citadels shifting on this richter scale.

Glaucos' only reference point for other people was limited. There had been Astara, swarthy and skulking, then there had been the introduction of two older children emblazoned with fire or steeped in soot, both machiavellian in nature and the furthest thing from welcoming. The last, Averna, was a ghost who spoke only when it was to explain components of a faith he was too young to understand.

He was suitably skeptical of this newcomer, wondering which of them they took after. Illidan had his own separate distinctiveness; wild but not feral, rangy but not unhealthily so. A sharp profile - bright eyes.

"Will your mother be upset with me for coming close to your home?" He whispered, as if he did not wish to disturb the quiet. Glaucos appreciated that more than he let on.

He shook his head in quick little jerks. "She's not my mother." As if that would clarify anything. At the very least it might ease Illidan of his caution. Glaucos tipped his way closer. He kept a slight distance in case this man turned on him, which was something of an inevitability as far as he was concerned, but he was curious all the same.