He is quiet throughout the trip. It is a hard journey, and he is consumed by worry for Ceara, presumably in the paws of Blackfeather's depraved denizens. Plus, he doesn't know Tegan all that well, and he feels slightly sheepish at having tagged along so readily (though if his actions save Ceara's life, well, no regrets). He is both relieved and anxious when they arrive, the fetid aroma of the bone-lined border sending his nostrils flaring.

Before he can even get a word out, Tegan is howling for Ceara, and Llewellyn flashes him his trademarked "Are you fucking kidding me?" expression, bristling as he shoves his shoulder into the boy's own. "Be quiet," he snaps in the most authoritarian tone he can muster, hissing through his teeth. "Do you think they are going to be honest with us, tell us exactly where she is? Come on, we need to get in before they come."

The golden wolf trots quickly, soundlessly away, waving his tail for Tegan to follow. He slinks like a commando, belly to the grass, moving a good distance before slipping into the shadows. They are at the edge of the border, not quite across but well within the point of no return. He glances at Tegan, who (hopefully) has followed him to this point.

"If they find us, we explain ourselves," Llewellyn explains. "They are in the wrong, not us. We go until we are caught. Go. We will look for her scent."

Good--they are on the same page. With a stilted nod, Llewellyn turns and slinks into the territory. His golden fur is a damned liability in this dark, dank place, but what else can he do? Perhaps if there was mud in which to roll around, but there had been not much rain lately, and the ground is dry. Besides, not much got through here. The canopy is thick; barely any moonlight filters through.

"Fy Dduw," he breathes, entirely unnerved by the place. It is unlike anything he has ever seen before; it is something out of a nightmare. Little wonder the wolves that have chosen this forest as a home turn out so twisted. He imagines he would be much the same, if born and raised here.

There is no clear scent trail of Ceara's, nor any clues that would lead them to her. Llewellyn keeps on, sniffing like a bloodhound and praying--praying--that it leads him somewhere worthwhile. The words of his family's last rites are ringing in his ears; his parents never got theirs, nor would he if he dies here tonight. But at least he hears it now, as if he is a child once more, tucked in the safety of Mynydd.

He knows they cannot go undetected for long; first one scent, wreathing through the air, then something behind. . .

Then Tegan is making an ass of himself once more, screaming vulgarities and whirling around, and Llewellyn is just about to try and shut him up once more when the rush of pawsteps and a darker shadow against the dim light of the forest whirls away. Unaware of the pup that has just arrived on the scene, too, Llewellyn races after the fugitive, lips curled in a snarl.

He is silent death, bearing down on the Blackfeather wolf from behind. Soon he will be upon her, and she will lead him to Ceara. . .wherever they have her hidden.