Moonspear tŷ, nid cartref

It is the very image of a warrior that comes to greet him at the border, which instantly brings him comfort. This is no pack full of weaklings, led by an ineffectual king; this man has the glimmer of intelligence in his eyes and the scars to prove he is no stranger to battle. Without volition, he bows his head, as if at court, then lifts his muzzle once more, blue gaze holding no secrets as he meets the other's gaze.

"I wish to join your pack," Llewellyn rumbles, sparing the white wolf from a rambling introduction. It is not his style, anyway; his father was the poet, but he is all bloody business. "I am a warrior and can provide strength and safety to your family. I am not afraid to die."

Perhaps that is a lie; else, why would he have fled Mynydd? Yet in this moment, a preternatural calm had settled upon him, a knowledge--no, more merely a sense--of things still to come. Death only claimed the body. The soul lived on, through the thousands of years left for the world. His family was dead and gone, his kingdom sacked. Why shouldn't he put his life on the line for this band of wolves? He has nothing left to lose: absolutely nothing.

His eyes trace up the vast slope of the mountain, lingering on the peak for a moment before settling back on the man, whom he assumed was leader here. He carried himself like royalty. "What is this place called?" he asks, no great urgency in his voice. He wonders if he has heard of it before, grand crag as it is.