Moonspear cymylau

There is a subtle change in the air, each year, that suggests winter is on its way. Perhaps a breeze, or the far-off flutter of many birds taking flight all at once. When one senses it, it cannot be forgotten. Year after year, autumn greets you with a kiss--

And winter follows it up with a cold, hard bite.

It is a cloudy day on the Moonspear, and Llewellyn patrols fervently. Hydra and Lyra have departed, evidently to find their sister. That leaves the pack down two capable warriors, which means he must step up in their stead. If he was zealous before, he is crazed with duty now. There is a determined glint to his gaze that hasn't been there in moons; he has hit his stride, again.

He does not know whether rain or snow is in the cards. Too soon for snow, perhaps, but he has been surprised before. The caches are not yet filled to his standards for a long icy season. So he begins to alternate patrolling and hunting, hunting and patrolling, until the day is nearly over and he has left a small trail of carnage behind, small game tucked away in a makeshift cache near the base of the mountain.