Staying sharp was a warrior's best asset. Let the claws and fangs dull, the mind wander, and all is lost. Gwynedd had become too complacent, too comfortable in his position in life, and the crown had been stolen from him, right under his nose. His breath, too. Should Ioan's warriors come to the borders of Moonspear and ask for his head, Llewellyn would have no answer for them should he idle too long. He must stay focused--he must not live to survive, but to thrive.

Lest he become too complacent on the mountain, Llewellyn engages in sporadic scouting trips; today's small adventure took him to a forest in a sad state of affairs, charred from some long-ago blaze. His mouth pulls tight in something almost--but not quite--sadness at the sight, eyes wandering over the blackened trees. Though he had preached to Speedy that water eclipsed fire in terms of potential damage, flames were not without the power of destruction. These woods alone are proof of that.

Still, there was life here, if one looked beyond the wreckage. Greenery here and there, sprouting from the ashes. And movement ahead--a woman with a fish in her jaws, freshly caught, water dripping from her muzzle. His eyes linger over her body in frank appreciation; she is built like a warrior queen, large and muscular, and her pelt a gleaming white, marked curiously with ebony.

Llewellyn gives a chuff to let her know he is passing through, hoping to engage in a conversation with the woman. If she be a loner, she is an excellent potential recruit to add to Moonspear's fighting force. And if part of a pack, well. . .he hopes to remedy Charon's explanation that they have no allies living close. For who will bail you out in times of trouble, if you have no friends nearby? His sapphire eyes are uncharacteristically warm as he approaches, stopping several paces from her.

She does not attempt to make pleasantries, nor even feign the appearance of cordiality. He takes it with some affront--having been raised to use flowery words at the start of an interaction and save succinctness for later--but part of him welcomes the change. She is all-too real; she pulls no punches. In response to her remark, he shakes his head, the ghost of a smile touching his lips.

"I do not care for fish," Llewellyn responds, nose wrinkling the slightest bit at the scent wafting from her kill. Saltwater creatures were fine, even sometimes refreshing, but those that swam in these inland waters are much too bland for his taste. "You are welcome to all the fish in the river, if you so choose." There is the barest hint of wry laughter in his words; the smile soon fades, and his tone grows more serious.

The woman smelled of crisp mountains and other wolves, and he regards her with a curious but measured gaze, pausing a moment before speaking again. "Where do you hail from?" he asks simply, pushing pleasantries aside--both for her sake and for his. An extended trip away from Moonspear is not much too his liking: he wanted to keep today's excursion brief and trouble-free. Extract relevant information, make an ally, leave.

"Your gain," Llewellyn counters, eyes glittering like the water. He ponders what she offers, the name she's given. Sunspire. It holds not the slightest bit of familiarity in his mind, though it bears slight resemblance to the name of his own pack, Moonspear. Perhaps this is what gives him a sense of kinship with the laconic woman, and prompts him to say the name of his new band in turn.

"Moonspear," he answers, "though I am new to that kingdom, having come from the south." His eyes linger on her face, watching each muscle, every facet. "Have you heard of a land called Mynydd?" Was there recognition in her gaze? Does her mouth betray prior knowledge of the place? His next move hinges on her body language, the way she answers this question, both physically and verbally. He is prepared to give the name he gave Speedy, if it comes to that.

His mouth twitches once, the only outward sign of the relief he feels at her negative answer. Much more intriguing to him was her attitude toward the name of his pack, and the question she shoots him. Charon had not said a word about this Sunspire, nor had anyone else. The pale alpha had painted a visual map for him--no allies or enemies, nearby.

Had he been deceived?

"What is Moonspear, to you?" Llewellyn asks, an edge to his voice. He did not appreciate being given the run-around by a woman, no matter how capable she might be. Especially a woman he did not know or trust, and who insisted on digging into this apparent connection. "Where is Sunspire? How far have you traveled?"

Like pieces of an intricate puzzle, things begin to come together as the woman speaks. He watches her, eyes narrowed, realization slowly blooming over his features. Loyalty and betrayal. Charon had given him a lesson when he had first arrived at Moonspear, a story. Wolves who left, and took half the pack with them.

It is too much of a coincidence for him to ignore, and when she is finished, Llewellyn seizes upon it with alacrity, a slight snarl in his voice. "My leader spoke of treasonous wolves," he begins, utterly unaware of the irony in his word choice. "Now I have a name to include with the tale." His frown deepens as he stares her down, eyes raking over the firm muscles, the marks of battle.

"Were you one of the warriors they stole from Moonspear?" he accuses, decorum forgotten entirely in his anger--springing solely from his newfound loyalty. "Surely not, if you still stand before me. Unless you have no shame," he added, a derisive snort escaping his nostrils. Silently, he prepares himself for a fight. What a treat it would be, to bring home the head of a traitor and lay it at Charon's feet.

He could paint himself with her blood, present himself to Hydra. . .

For all his merits, Llewellyn tends to be a little narrow-sighted. Battle tactics? Sure, lay them all out. But he is notorious for missing details in a conversation, especially focused on other things--like he had when thinking of Mynydd--and he has forgotten that she mentioned her travels. He'll be damned, though, if he lets the slip show. He doubles down on the scowl instead, waiting until she exhausts herself before speaking again.

"You could have been lying. I don't know you from anyone else," he counters. "And I have better things to do than gossip about traitors. Out of sight, out of mind." Though now, perhaps, one of them is clearly in sight. Even if she is telling the truth, then she is at least partially devoted to them--these wolves, who took so freely from a kingdom and left it bleeding.

The wounds of Ioan's betrayal are too fresh still for Llewellyn to let this past injustice slide.

"It is a grievous fault, to support those who would betray their leader," Llewellyn says coldly, looking down his nose at her. "Perhaps you should steal yourself away from that kind of company." He knows not why he is telling her what to do. His words come from emotion rather than logic; pathos and ethos hand-in-hand, with logos cast aside.

Her tone is far from agreeable, to him; his face sours even more as she speaks. He tries--and fails--to see the merit in her argument, ending up shaking his head, the fur along his spine bristling. She clearly comes from a different understanding of loyalty than he. Even if they were on the same wavelength, there are flaws in her argument that she does not--or refuses to--see.

"I know nothing of any promises; I did not receive a comprehensive history lesson when I joined the pack," he responds, voice cooler and calmer than before. Where there once was fire, there was now only ice. "I did not need it. What I do know is that according to nature--" he apes her tone, a little nastily-- "you only need two wolves to start a family. Not an entire group of warriors."

Llewellyn rolls his shoulders, a gusty sigh escaping his lips. "Like I said before, I have no desire, nor time, to talk about traitors," he rumbles. He dips his muzzle at the stream. "Enjoy your fish."

Without another word, the golden prince turns tail and leaves, head held imperiously high. No minds were changed in the course of this conversation--how could they be? These were clearly two very different wolves with very different opinions of the world. So polarized were they that persuasion was all but impossible. Perhaps, one day, she would see the light, and return to Moonspear as a sort of reparation for the wrongs her chosen pack had done them.

Llewellyn was not confident of this outcome, so he instead forgets her entirely.