The snow is here frightfully early. He thinks of Speedy, worry settling deep in his stomach. She has not yet come to Moonspear's borders; he hopes for her sake that she has found a home elsewhere, although the envy he feels at that idea cannot be denied. Envy and anger, too. He warned her of this, repeatedly, but the girl was stubborn. . .

He returns to the spot where he met Ceara, hoping to see the fire-kissed wolf again. He has stopped by once or twice, to no avail, but the third time proves to be the charm when he spots her russet form by the water, drinking--and covered in blood, just like last time.

Llewellyn approaches with a bark, intending to make some wisecrack about her hunting habits, when his nostrils flare and the knowledge that it is her blood--at least in part--hits him in the chest like a stone. He pulls to a halt beside her, breathing a little quicker, sapphire gaze raking over the relatively fresh wounds that mar her flesh. This was no quarrel with prey; this was a fight with another predator: by the smell of it, another wolf.

"What happened?" he asks sharply, voice dulled slightly by the roar of the falls. "Who did this?" His hackles raise and his pelt begins to bristle at the thought of enemies nearby. He thinks of Blackfeather Woods and the atrocities they have committed, and a growl gurgles in his throat.

Blackfeather. The name sizzles through his psyche like a match suddenly struck; the rage intensifies, and he looks away, fuming. Weakened as they are from the war, it seems that the pack is not done with their old tricks just yet. Mind moving quickly, he turns back to Ceara, caught between action and empathy.

"You're hurt," he says gruffly, opting for the latter but doing a poor job at showing it. "Are you still bleeding, or just messy? I can try to slow the bleeding with moss, if you are." As with the situation involving Speedy, he draws on his limited experience with battlefield medicine. He knows not the names of herbs, nor what most of them do--but he can heal pain and stop blood, if need be.

Llewellyn breathes a sigh of relief that she has been tended to. Thank God for small blessings. He shakes his head, not out of an unwillingness to help but of a knowledge that whatever he does might only undo the work of the previous healer. "No need, if the bleeding has stopped," he responds. "Please do let me know if the wounds reopen while you bathe."

He bends his head to take a lap of cool water, made even crisper by the presence of snow in the air. The flurries dust his pelt, silver against gold, and he shivers slightly. Winter is coming, and he is loath to welcome it.

"What happened?" he asked again, once his thirst was slaked. "Did you know this woman? Did she attack you unprovoked?" He would not insert himself into a personal quarrel, but then again, this was a wolf of a pack he'd vowed to destroy. Morals warred with necessity as he waited for her response with bated breath, gimlet stare boring into her.

Ah, so it was a personal quarrel. And with a personal quarrel came a personal story. He holds in a sigh, settling back on his haunches as she rambled on, trying to make sense of it all.

Llewellyn is smart when it comes to many things, but sex and romance are beyond him. He doesn't understand much of this, these games, these feelings. Blood and loyalty, he can comprehend. Allies and enemies, he knows. The nuances of love? Ceara might as well be speaking in a foreign tongue. His mouth twitches; he is uncomfortable here. He would have rather the woman just attacked her for no reason at all.

"Good," he responds to her final statement, something he can finally get behind. "That is good, especially considering how torn up you are." Llewellyn looks over the water, glancing up at the snow, then back to her. "So there is history behind this attack. This was not. . .Blackfeather up to their old tricks."

He expects much more than two words, and his eyes widen when that is all that comes, her tone defeated. "Sorry?" he asks, cocking his head slightly to one side. "Why do you apologize, Ceara? You've spared me from shedding blood, exciting as that may have been," he adds with a wry smile. He shakes his head, coming the barest bit closer to her, willing her to find the sincerity in his gaze.

"We will find them and kill them," Llewellyn vows, voice grave. "It won't be for this--it is in total, all that they have done--but I promise you, Ceara, revenge will be yours. I swear it." Perhaps this will make her feel better. Again, Llewellyn is not the best with romance. What he can offer, though, is loyalty and brute strength, and whatever she needs from him, he can provide, so long as it does not interfere with his position and duties at Moonspear.

Is it really his revenge, though? As a tactician, he knows Blackfeather needs to be eliminated. As a member of Moonspear, he understands that the pack presents a very real threat to his kingdom. But the kind of burning desire that sits in your stomach, your loins, that thirst to even the scales. . .that is not here, now. Not like it is when he thinks of Ioan.

It is her revenge, and he will help her achieve it. He doesn't want to contradict her, though, and so he nods, smiling faintly.

"So what is our next move?" he asks, following her as she dries off. Snow flurries land on the bridge of his nose, flutter into his eyes; he shakes the precipitation from his mane like a lion worried by flies, his gaze narrowed. "Do we take the fight to them--infiltrate their forest--or wait for them to come back? Will this man or his sister be back anytime soon?"

Llewellyn does not like to play the waiting game. He frowns in contemplation of this information and begins to pace, tail lashing back and forth. "Then I will go and stake them out," he decides, trying to figure out just how exactly a giant golden wolf blends into his surroundings. Perhaps he could use his conspicuousness to his advantage. . .but how?

"I will go spy, and tell you what I see," the prince says, turning back to Ceara. "Shall we meet at the next new moon? It is waning, now." Not much time between then and now. Hopefully, though, he can gather some credible evidence--a strong lead. While the desire for revenge did not burn in his belly, this did give him a goal. . .something to do.

Llewellyn has always loathed feeling useless; he feels much the opposite, now. He is smiling without his volition, a newfound glint to his eyes.