Grouse Thicket yn ei drwchus

For @Fire!

He wanders aimlessly for the first time in his life, lacking a role and a purpose. He leaves the lake, mulling over everything he has learned over these past days, retreating into the hinterlands below. The golden prince picks his way through the thicket, emerging at the edge of the forest with a sprawling landscape in sight. He moves to step into this new adventure, but carefully placed scent markings stop him, a flashing sign of caution warning him away at once.

Llewellyn halts, perturbed. Never before had borders stopped him, but then, he had only ever dwelled within his own borders; the lines of Mynydd were all he knew. These were unfamiliar wolves with unfamiliar smells, and they would not take kindly to a stranger traipsing boldly into their territory, no matter the lineage or position of said stranger. No, he was stuck in the thicket, for now; he could go no further this way.

Lashing his tail in irritation, he paces back and forth on the open land between the plateau and the forest, trying to puzzle out what to do next. Indecision plagued him--he could barely stand it. He had always praised himself for knowing each step before it came, each day before the sun rose. He was a meticulous planner, and the idea of going from forest to forest, mountain to mountain, with no goal in mind was something that ate away at him with each inch, every mile, that he traveled.

Ymlaen: the motto of Mynydd. "Onward," it meant. He has held it close to his heart from the day of his birth, and he would not let it go now. But onward to where, and to what?

Grouse Thicket had become Ceara's personal sanctuary following the drop in her self-esteem.  She liked the apples and the way they smelled, she liked the few good memories she had of the place.  Not that the Plateau was filled with bad ones... but it had been a pretty stressful place as of late.  

She'd escaped from the Redhawks to head there today when she caught sight of a pacing butterscotch presence she associated with Niamh.  But this guy was bigger, and he didn't seem happy.  Hey, she hailed him, tail neutral as the tip began to arch, you're pretty close.  What's up?

She is beautiful, fair--not the sort he'd necessarily expect to greet him at the border. But it would do the great matriarchs of his ancestry a disservice were he to discount her based on size or sex. Instead, the golden prince regards her coolly, respecting that she lay on one side of the border--presumably her claim--and he on the other, with no right to the land. He takes a long pause before answering her question, voice a deep rumble.

"I am trying to decide where to go," Llewellyn explains, the irritation plain as day on his broad face. "I clearly cannot travel any farther this way--" He gestures with his muzzle to where she stands, and the plateau beyond it, "--and behind me are lands I've already seen, and not cared for." He lets a huff of air through his nostrils, agitated. "Never in my life have I felt so. . .trapped."

He does not know why he utters these words to the unknown woman. She knows not his name, nor his title; she doesn't know him from any other wolf and yet, here he has given her an intimate detail of his recent life, bared part of his soul to her. It is perplexing, to say the least, and it takes him aback, sapphire eyes blinking slowly at her for a long moment before he speaks again.

"Madame, are you familiar with Mynydd? Ever hear of the land, in your travels?" He wanted to ensure he was far enough from home that Ioan's scouts could not reach him. It was a cowardly move, and he feels the weight of it in every step north he takes, but he cannot help but ask. Battle-tested he might be, but there was a difference between being on the winning side of a fight and emerging a loser, an outcast.

The horrors he had seen were etched into his soul, now. He knows that never again will the hills of Mynydd be as green as they once had been, to him; they are forever splattered in the crimson blood of his blood, his kin.

Sorry for the wait on this, omg!  Moonspear colours look good on him, though!

The man holds about him a royal air, and immediately it is both enticing and intimidating.  She wants to know more about this Mynydd of which he speaks.  Can't say that I have, she supplies with a roll of her shoulders.  Next time, you shouldn't come so close to packlands.  We're not going to chase you off... but someone else might.

She sighs and draws a breath.  Where are you looking to go?  I might be able to help.

No problem--and thank you!

The relief Llewellyn feels is palpable, and surely it must be visible to the young woman. His shoulders sink an almost imperceptible amount; his gaze tells a greater story, mellowing from a cutting crystal, a wary shade, to something much more friendly and amenable to this stranger. No spark of recognition on her part at the name of his homeland means that he does not have to keep his guard up. Of course, there is always the possibility that the russet girl is lying. . .but he will take such twists as they come--his claws are ever-sharp for a reason.

She is quiet and firm without additional attitude, unlike the princess from the lake. He immediately respects this, canting his muzzle downwards in a gentle nod to her suggestion. The scent of the border is cloaked over her pelt; unlike the princess, this land is her claim, and he will not fight her for it. Instead, Llewellyn shakes his head in the negative, eyes cast back in the direction he'd came.

"I don't know, madame," he responds absently, a sigh escaping his lips. "This is not home--these places are unfamiliar to me. Do you have any suggestions?" he adds, one ear tilted toward her in curiosity. "I could use them now, if you do." There was a note of good humor in his voice that wasn't there before. Clearly he was just a wayfaring traveler, not a berserker intent on ravaging her lands and killing her friends.