Moonspear hazine haze

*snags*

There is something magical about a gray day; even the glint of sun off his gilded pelt is no match for the touch of rain-kissed winds against his cheek, the look of a cloudy sky. He stands high atop the mountain, near the peak, head lifted and eyes closed against the gusts. Storms are rolling in, soon, and he will take shelter when he sees the first bolt of lightning. For now, he revels in the tempest.

When light finally breaks behind the clouds, and he feels the hum of electricity through the air, Llewellyn begins to descend the Moonspear, snaking down the winding paths until his paws touch not stone but dirt and leaves. Once he is deep within the alpine forest, he begins to track--but a flash of black fur amid the trees distracts him.

He thinks it is Hydra, at first, but upon further study, his suppositions are proven incorrect. No, she is older, wiser: a queen, not a princess. Llewellyn is drawn to her immediately, gentle steps taking him closer and closer until he is within calling distance. He gives a low, amiable chuff to her, the sound rumbling in his chest. He carries himself proud but submissive to her; no other mortal could make him bend in this moment, save her.

She is the queen, and he is her subject.