He lingers after his conversation with the dark male, not keen to leave the lake just yet. Compared to the bog, it is peaceful and cool, the gentle susurrus of the waves against the shore music to his ears. Llewellyn sits for a while in repose, looking out over the water. He ponders fishing, but it can wait--he feels no great hunger, now.

Perhaps he should get moving again soon, however. Flashbacks are starting to prickle at him, raising his hair much like summer lightning does, crackling through the sky. They have not yet receded into the domain of simple dreams; they plague his every resting moment, casting a constant shadow over his mind. Were they not real, he could simply fight them off with logic and reason: one could fight away demons using the brain and no other muscle. Alas. . .

He would always wonder if he could have saved his mother. His father, no--Gwynedd was a marked man from the first day of Ioan's rise, and it was only a matter of time before he fell. But Rhonwen. . .he should have insisted. She refused to go, to leave her husband's side. Even to protect the son that still had a fighting chance at survival.

"Gyda dannedd wedi'u carthu," she had whispered, in her husky whisper of a voice, "rhedeg a byw, fy mab." And who was he to obey a mother--a queen's--command?

It was the last time he ever saw her face. Alive, that was.

Perhaps the woman meant to soothe, but she went entirely the wrong way about it, first by emerging with merely a single uttered word, startling him out of his thoughts--he cursed himself for the lack of attention given to his surroundings--then by digging into his withdrawn attitude, though, of course, offering a way out of the conversation: like one does when they tip-toe around an awkward moment, too late to take the words back. Still, the question has been asked, and he spins around, staring haughtily down his golden nose at her, eyes cold as sheet ice.

"Why would you inquire in the first place, if I needn't answer?" Llewellyn says in gravelly tones, unused to speaking after weeks of silence. His conversation with the dark male had exercised his throat, but just barely; what was once a voice of honey was gruff, ragged.

The golden prince surveys her impassively, eyes running over her form. Average size, lean and dark. A striking marking on her face, grey surrounding one eye. But what catches his attention is her voice; she speaks with an accent on each word, suggesting that she, too, calls another tongue her own, not this one, which others seemed to speak in these parts. For this, his gaze becomes intrigued, but only for the slightest instant before fading back into chilly neutrality once more.

"Who are you?" he demanded, voice sharp. "What do you want of me?" Casual interactions with (likely) commoners are not his forte--every exchange must have some meaning, else his time is being wasted. And he does not take kindly to that, especially not from strange women who seem all too interested in his personal life.

Her tone does not warm him, her titles do not impress him, and her attitude does certainly not endear him. His lips curl in the slightest of snarls, shaking his head at each and every one of her questions, the rage that had built up in his chest in the days since the rebellion finally boiling over, a volcanic mountain blowing its top.

"I would have liked it better," he says through gritted teeth, "if you had left me alone, to begin with. Why engage me in idle conversation unless you wanted something? My God, woman, spit it out--beth ydych chi eisiau?" His anger manifests itself, finally, in his mother tongue, the words clipped and curt and not at all the lilting poetry that he'd once offered his courtiers. He is a changed man, molded by trauma, and this girl, this princess, is receiving the full brunt of his new, abrasive personality.

A little voice in the back of his head reminds him that she does not deserve it. Not his words, not his gaze of blue fire, not the way his pelt bristles along his spine, nor his raised hackles. But the beast cares not for pleasantries, only for solitude, and Minori has robbed him of that. There is no going back--he has committed to prickliness, and so prickliness he will provide.

He snorts, his gaze of blue ice blazing into sudden fire. This went beyond decency; this woman pushing her nose into his private business was nothing less than intrusive, and borderline hostile, no matter how she had worded it. Decency, his foot. If she wanted to push and then cry foul, blaming him, then so be it. But she will not escape today unscathed, especially not if she bares her teeth.

"I will give you one opportunity to walk away from me, now," Llewellyn warns, his voice like the blade of a sword. This is the tone that has made underlings shiver, that has put a tremor in the step of even seasoned warriors. It is the tone of kings, passed down from generation to generation, and if this woman does not heed it, she will pay dearly. "Choose to stay and fight, and I will have your blood stain my teeth."

He squares himself, ready for the challenge. The thought of marring such a pretty face does not make him balk in the slightest. Though Mynydd was a patriarchal society, the women fought as well, and often just as ably as the men. If the princess desires to play with fire, she will get it in spades.

So she does want to try him. Very well. She has made her choice, and she will pay for it dearly. Before he could strike--perhaps thinking himself a little too much of a match for her--she does instead, latching onto his muzzle with fangs of flame. It stings as she bites down, and he tastes the blood that flows in tiny rivulets from the wound, even as he snarls and rips himself backward, out of her grasp.

Gilded muzzle now painted crimson, a savage growl bubbles in his throat, his tail thrashing to and fro behind him. How dare she. To lay jaws or paws on a king or prince was instant death; that Ioan had escaped this punishment would haunt him forever. But he will not let this injustice slide. No, the woman wanted blood, and blood she will get--not his, but her own.

Muscles coiled, Llewellyn powers up before launching himself at her, a golden blur through the air. He rams into her, taking the nape of her neck in his teeth and squeezing, hard. As he does so, he pushes his body against her, hooking one foreleg over her back to try and knock her over. It resembles, in a way, the mating dance, but utterly more savage, less beautiful. He savors the flow of her blood over his tongue, lips curving in a wicked smile even as he still has hold of her.

He is bigger than her, and stronger, too. She must fall soon; she surely cannot hold up under his weight for much longer.

A surge of adrenaline flooded his body, coursing through his veins, as she stumbled and fell to the ground, even as he was tossed backwards. Before he had the chance to take advantage of the situation, however, she was on the offensive again, squirming beneath him to bite at his neck.

He felt the flesh give and tear away, though the pain was masked by the fervor of the fight; it would hurt him later greatly, he knew. But Llewellyn merely shook out his ruff, blood droplets flying, aiming furious snaps at her as she wiggled away. Winding himself up, he took a step backward and then charged toward her, like a golden battering ram--and went straight by, body colliding with nothing, motion simply carrying him aimlessly forward until he managed to skitter to a halt a short distance away.

Llewellyn turned to face her, but by now, it was likely too late to counter her next attack. He had botched the assault, and he was taken off-guard by that naked, ugly truth. How had he missed? She was right there, in front of him, an animal bound and presented for slaughter. Perhaps the princess was a better warrior than he would have ever given her credit for.

He feels more shame than pain, embarrassment more painful than the wounds she deals, the blood trickling down his ribs. To be beaten is one thing, but to be beaten by a girl, a self-proclaimed princess, is entirely another. He feels the narrow, hot stares of his father's line upon him as his knees buckle and he falls to the ground with a tremendous crash, letting out an agonized groan.

Llewellyn uses whatever adrenaline he has left to flip sideways, rolling out from under her and taking several stumbling steps backward, painted in blood--mostly his own. "Sguthan!" he snarls at her, eyes spitting blue fire. Without another word, he continues to back away, then, when she is out of sight, turns and runs, tail slightly between his legs.

If she chooses to pursue her, he will have no choice to fight back. It is true that he could have stayed and fought, anyway, but the events of the past moons and the blood he has lost today have weakened him, putting him at a clear disadvantage. He must save his strength for the real foes, not some stray wench with a big mouth.

He leaves a trail of crimson droplets behind, like proverbial bread crumbs, to follow. When he is able, he will wash the physical reminder of his chagrin from his pelt. The mental effects will be harder to erase.