He decides to press on, eventually. There is nothing left to go back to, in Mynydd. Should he even manage to overpower Ioan and his minions, there is barely a kingdom to rule over. The Gwynedd loyalists were slaughtered, and all who remained had been persuaded to follow Ioan's reign. Hells, he managed to get out of there only by accident; had his departure been any sooner or later, his head would be on display beside his father's, his mother's.

His stomach twists. His sisters. Three there were, all as gold as he, but much more fair than brutish. Heulwen he knows had perished--he will never forget the sight of her body, strewn over the river rocks--but Eurwen he had not seen, and of course Seren was far away, married off to a prince from another kingdom. Seren, he prays, is completely out of harm's way, and Eurwen is fleet and smart enough to have evaded capture. Still, Ioan has spies everywhere. . .

The golden prince climbs into the mountains, finally out of the bog, and after a couple hours of alpine travel--his paws wholly unused to such terrain--he comes across a lake, clear surface almost like glass. It is raining, slightly, and the drops make ripples on the water. Arc after arc travels to the shore, crisp, lapping over the edges of his paws. He steps in, beginning to clean the mud from his paws. He is a vain creature, accustomed to keeping his gilded pelt pristine at all times. Once he feels refreshed, he retreats from the lake, nimbly shaking droplets from his toes.

Llewellyn's cerulean eyes cast over the lake, over the mountains and to the sea beyond. It is a vast land, bigger even than Mynydd and its surrounding kingdoms. A suitable dominion, for a prince. If they will have him.

Llewellyn is not so rattled by the events of these past moons that he misses the sound of approaching pawsteps; indeed, the conflict has only sharpened his senses, and he wheels around to find a dark brute headed toward him. His posture shifts from almost blissful relaxation to wariness in a split second, and he resists the impulse to puff himself up, holding his bristling fur at bay--for now. The other, a peculiarly dappled creature with eyes of river pebbles, gives him a greeting, quick and to the point.

"Hello," he says back, tongue rolling over the word. He, of course, had been taught the common tongue for diplomatic purposes, but it felt strange to offer it, regardless; he would have given his soul to hear a bore da trickle from the man's mouth. He is far from home, and the reminder pains him, but he keeps his face bland and neutral, surveying the man with impassive sapphire orbs.

"Can I help you?" Llewellyn asks, tilting his head to the right ever-so-slightly. There is no malice in the words, only blunt inquiry; one did not exit a civil war with openness to strangers, after all. It is odd, that this man chooses to come so freely toward him, and he chokes down the momentary panic that this is one of Ioan's assassins, ready to strike. His toes flex on the alpine ground--if need be, he can flee or fight. He would prefer the latter, to kill the man outright. . .but sizing him up, Llewellyn knows it would not be an easy fight, if matters came to that end.

He keeps his gaze trained warily on the man, but shakes his head after a beat of silence following the query, finally giving an answer. "This land is not my home," Llewellyn informs the man, voice blunt and to the point. "I am just as unfamiliar with it as you seem to be." His eyes, like pools of moonlit water, trace the lines of the warrior body, looking for signs of coiled muscles, ready to strike.

"Who are you? What do you want from me?" he asks, toes flexing slightly on the silken silt ground. The air is cool and pleasant, almost exactly the climate of Mynydd, and it gives him longing for the verdant valleys of home. Where everything was as it should be--the Bleddyns still ruled the kingdom, and the land was at peace. But that Mynydd was gone, crushed under the Gethins' wrath, and nothing would ever be as it should be again--unless he should return to claim the throne once more.

It occurs to him that he must have an army with which to return, and a speculative gleam enters his stare as he looks at the man, a newfound idea blooming in his mind. Surely this imperious being would bow to no one, but perhaps he could persuade him of the importance of the task, sway him to his side. He would be rewarded, of course, with power and status, riches and women. A place, perhaps, by his, the king's, right side--a coveted position for any wolf of Mynydd. Llewellyn stands, shifting a little on his paws, waiting for the response to come.