Altar of Twilight You'll float too

Omen descended with great tedium into the moonlit heart of the Altar's lush-green lowlands. She would pause every few steps and scan her surroundings sluggishly before proceeding. The onyx sibyl made it all the way to centerfield without being disturbed. There she seemed to settle, standing for a while to observe the endless night and a googleplex of stars gazing back at her. At some point she reclined on lean haunches, and then— transfixed by the infinity she saw— wound up on her back, lost and luxuriating  in the metaphysical pleasure she got from merely existing under the bask of a gibbous moon. She writhed in the grass, and ignored the creeping vine of loneliness she felt rising up along her spine. No, she wouldn't let that get to her.

The girl felt like starshine.

It is a beautiful valley just south of his new home, especially at night, when the moon lends it an ethereal glow. The stars are especially bright this evening, and Llewellyn finds himself drawn to the valley, having completed his patrol around dusk. There is an unusually silver sheen to his gilded coat in the moonlight, and his eyes are like the heavens above: an unfathomable dark blue. He stalks down the rocky, precarious walls and releases a sigh of relief and contentment as his pads hit firm, flat ground.

There is a figure ahead, a dark shadow against the expanse of grass, and while a growl bubbles in his throat at its close proximity to Moonspear, he cannot help the curiosity that rises within him. The wolf is on its back, rolling in what he imagines is some state of bliss. More pieces of the puzzle come together as he approaches--it is a woman, black-pelted, and she smells of no pack, no wolves he recognizes by scent. Giving her advance warning of his arrival with a chuff, Llewellyn stops several paces away, head tilted as he looks down upon her.

"What are you doing?" he inquires, his tone caught between gruff and confused; the space between an old man woken from a nap and a child stumbling upon something brand new. At any rate, she seems like no threat, though he was not born yesterday--he will not let his guard down quite yet. Not until her answers are satisfactory, and even then, Llewellyn is well familiar with wolves whose honeyed words masked venomous teeth.

She'd been so sure she was alone, but it wasn't moments into her bask that she found herself disturbed by the call of another. The young wolf tensed, flipping onto her stomach as a trilling of fear, and some shade of guilt, seized her up. She dug her claws into the loam, prepared to spring away from the large, glowing brute that drew nearer and nearer still— but she didn't flee from him immediately.

Upon closer inspection, he seemed much less aggressive than she had been startled into imagining at first. His aurelian fur had been bleached by the tall moon, and his warm, dulcet voice lured her further into remaining... for now. Her ears folded back, and she tried not to look too offended— trying to appear above it all— though she was clearly a bit flustered. "I thought I was alone," she said with quiet defensiveness instead of answering his question.

He lets out a small snort at her admission, the sheepishness that paints her face. "You were," he points out, wry amusement clear as day on his face. "Believe me, I did not come to this valley tonight with the intention of running into you." He inhales, savoring the way the night air tastes: cool and yet warm, redolent of summer. It will not be long before the leaves turn, and the icy chill of impending winter makes the atmosphere crisp rather than damp.

"You are not a Moonspear wolf," Llewellyn continues, alluding to his earlier examination of her scent. "Who are you?"

It is a question some are loath to answer--including himself. It is tricky to navigate through the world with an identity you cannot claim. He supposes that he should not let his own troubles in life paint each and every interaction with strangers; she has her own story to tell, completely separate from his. But Llewellyn wonders whether she will balk at the query or answer it honestly; the truth, unless she is a master liar, will show on her face, deep within her gaze.

When no satisfactory answer is given, Llewellyn turns away with a grumble, headed back to Moonspear with a stubborn set to his shoulders.