Neverwinter Forest keystone - Printable Version

He wanders a slight distance further from home than usual, today, hoping to find better hunting underneath the boughs of the evergreens, the forest to the north of the Moonspear. The prince wastes no time meandering; he is there quickly, slipping between the trees more gracefully than his brutish form would suggest. His eyes are glowing orbs in the dim light; he makes out the scent of another--they will cross paths, soon enough, he thinks.

The thought is fulfilled as Llewellyn rounds a corner and sees a dark-pelted man several paces away, stalking through the woods. His nostrils flare as he takes in the unfamiliar odor surrounding him: he is not known to the golden wolf, nor the wolves he associates himself with. Still, he is wary, and draws to a halt, letting out a chuff to announce his presence--nothing more. Any warrior worth his salt would have detected Llewellyn by now, so the curt greeting is nothing more than that: a pleasantry, if slightly feral in nature.

With @Anuniaq, @Savik, and @Nippaitok behind her, Ikkalrok sniffs at the perimeter of the coniferous forest. Her calloused paws could not feel the softness of the grass, and when she recognizes no claim, Ikkalrok continues onward. Broad, bearish imprints are left in their wake, though their step is silent and they move in unison, Ikkalrok at their helm. She slowed only when the scent of others became apparent, though she had yet to spot them with her eyes.

She has no intention of avoiding them, either. There was little point. The massive woman keeps a comfortable distance, and her lack of social grace caused no greeting to come forth as she looks upon them, sees them. The gray male holds her attention longer than the golden one; he, in stature, is as massive as she...

But daylight would soon be upon them, and she must lead her kin to a place of rest. And so Ikkalrok diverted her attention to their present route, moving on.

Hail. Just one word in greeting. Llewellyn dips his head in a courtly fashion, more graceful and cultured than before. "Bore da," he responds, his voice deep and smooth. He thinks nothing of the greeting, does not stop to translate it. Instead, he takes a small step forward, closing the gap between them an infinitesimal amount.

"Who are you?" the prince inquires, tilting his chin slightly. The scent of this man is unfamiliar, and any affiliation he might have with other packs is unknown. If he is a messenger or scout from another kingdom, it is a kingdom Llewellyn does not recognize by smell. He is about to ask about the brute's homeland before a sound nearby catches his ears; they swivel, and he turns his head, though keeping the male in his peripheral vision.

A black shadow, through the trees. Here and gone again, quick as a blink. The smell of her is warm and fierce, and he would think it was Hydra, if he hadn't already made the woman's acquaintance. This was another stranger, too. One ear remained turned toward the noise as he returned his gaze back to the unknown male. "Where do you come from?"

He is brusque almost to the point of rudeness, but Llewellyn prefers it over the more chatty specimens these lands had to offer. This interaction will be over and done with, he suspects, before he tires of it completely. He nods, filing the information away. Tsiokwaris is just as foreign a name as his own around here; but Mynydd lay south, not north. Still, they shared a bond of the other, at least.

"Are you headed anywhere in particular, or just passing through?" Llewellyn asks, glancing around at the trees. It's not a bad place to spend the winter, but it is uninhabited for now. Even a big, strong wolf like this man is at a disadvantage being alone when the first snow falls. Perhaps he can be convinced to stay and fight under a different banner. . .