From a distance, Llewellyn watches the woman. Dark and broad, she cuts an imposing figure against the rugged backdrop of the mountains, a creature born for this wild land. His gaze is drawn to her without question; even if he wanted to, he could not look away--and he wants no such thing. When his curiosity finally boils over, he walks with quiet steps toward her, giving a quiet noise to signal his arrival and keeping his posture neutral. She carries herself like a queen; she must be royalty, of a sort.

"Bore da," he says instinctively, before tacking on a belated, "Good day," to clarify. Her eyes are much like his, deep and sapphire. He wonders if she is kin to the black-furred boy he had met before; the prince thinks it must be so. What is she to Charon? "Would you mind my company on your patrol?" he asks, a pleasantly-meant but inaccurate 'miss' dying in his throat.

She is no miss. That is clear. To give her such a soft, cultured name would be an affront to the untamed savagery that marks every inch of her--the notch in her ear, the faded scars cutting through her ebony pelt. She is a warrior, like Llewellyn. She has fought and bled for this mountain. She is clearly above him in rank, and he holds back the ever-present superiority that would spur him to conceit, to lift his head over hers. She could have him killed. She could kill him herself.

She draws closer than he would have dared to dream, the sweet musk of her scent tickling his nostrils as she falls in step beside him. Hydra is her name, like something from stories; not the lore of his family, but there were bards from far-off lands who spun tales with names like hers. Short and cutting, to the point. Yet it is delicately crafted, and her tongue glides along each syllable. It suits her perfectly.

"A pleasure to meet you, Hydra," he croons in his rough, burred baritone, a small smile gracing his muzzle. "My name is Llewellyn. As you might have guessed, I am new to your pack." He knows that she knows, but it seems short-sighted and incomplete not to offer an explanation as to his presence here. He will not divulge further details unless she asks for them; he is much more interested in learning about her then giving her a list of his tragedies.

There is another scent, close by, but he thinks nothing of it; there are always one or two Moonspear wolves lingering in the near distance at any given time. It makes him feel at ease more than anything; should he be taken unawares by an enemy, this family band of wolves will be quick to defend him. . .right? After all, he has sworn allegiance to their ranks; he expects nothing less of them. He is one of them, now.

Hydra's question broadens his smile, and he purses his lips for a moment in silent thought, contemplating his response. His eyes drift upward, to the summit. "How can one not be drawn to the highest peaks?" Llewellyn responds, still gazing toward the sky. "They are beauty and ferocity all at once. Nothing less would have suited me."

He looks at the woman again. "Were you drawn here, too, or born onto the slope?" the prince asks. His gaze narrows the slightest degree, as if studying her carefully. "Judging by your own beauty and ferocity, I think you must have been born here." His eyes soften again, a smile that could have been described as devilish had it belonged to a crueler mouth.

But Llewellyn is neither devilish nor cruel. He was raised to be courtly, honest, sincere. Even if he is a trifle--more than that, surely--bull-headed and cold, his heart is, altogether, good. Hydra will not find a schemer in this man; she will have to make do with a warrior, instead.

Her laugh suits her, too; though warm now, he knows it for the kind of mirth that could ring cold with ice, if necessary. As it is, her retort broadens his smile further, and he meets her gaze before looking away, shaking his head in response to her question. His eyes are on the peaks once more, sapphire glittering in the all-encompassing sunlight of a summer's day.

"How can I fear something I was born into?" Llewellyn asks, glancing back at her and raising one gilded brow. "You are much like the ones from my family, save you are dark rather than pale." He stretches slightly, muscles rippling under his plush pelt, and nods down the slope, through the trees. "I was not born among the mountains. The change of scenery is. . .refreshing."

She is a princess, he thinks, but she is more than that, really. Princesses, to him, were soft and tame, cultured--a beautiful bird's egg, picturesque but fragile. No, this girl is not fragile. Not soft or tame, either. "Is Charon your father?" he inquires mildly, almost off-hand. He knows it must be true, but he wants to ask before he takes this assumption away when they part at last today.

There is truth to her answer. He has seen everything here, from the barest of cliff faces to the most verdant of forests. Clear streams, open skies, cool breezes. . .Moonspear really does seem to have it all. What hidden gems of the territory has he not yet discovered? Llewellyn wonders if there are secrets on this mountain that he is not yet aware of.

Judging by the shadows lurking in the corners of Hydra's eyes, he ventures to guess that there are indeed things he does not know. Perhaps things he will never know.

He nods in answer to her inquiry, quite brusque and at odds with his earlier behavior, which could have almost been described as coquettish, albeit with a masculine flair. "I killed my first man as a yearling," Llewellyn says, his gaze cutting into hers. He studies once more her muscles and scars. "I assume you are, as well?"

Hydra verch Charon. That would be her name in Mynydd, and that is the name he will remember her by. But there is so much more to this young woman; he has barely scratched the surface of her, and he cannot wait to delve deeper.