Alpine Lake symud ymlaen

Llewellyn is not so rattled by the events of these past moons that he misses the sound of approaching pawsteps; indeed, the conflict has only sharpened his senses, and he wheels around to find a dark brute headed toward him. His posture shifts from almost blissful relaxation to wariness in a split second, and he resists the impulse to puff himself up, holding his bristling fur at bay--for now. The other, a peculiarly dappled creature with eyes of river pebbles, gives him a greeting, quick and to the point.

"Hello," he says back, tongue rolling over the word. He, of course, had been taught the common tongue for diplomatic purposes, but it felt strange to offer it, regardless; he would have given his soul to hear a bore da trickle from the man's mouth. He is far from home, and the reminder pains him, but he keeps his face bland and neutral, surveying the man with impassive sapphire orbs.

"Can I help you?" Llewellyn asks, tilting his head to the right ever-so-slightly. There is no malice in the words, only blunt inquiry; one did not exit a civil war with openness to strangers, after all. It is odd, that this man chooses to come so freely toward him, and he chokes down the momentary panic that this is one of Ioan's assassins, ready to strike. His toes flex on the alpine ground--if need be, he can flee or fight. He would prefer the latter, to kill the man outright. . .but sizing him up, Llewellyn knows it would not be an easy fight, if matters came to that end.