Grouse Thicket yn ei drwchus

For @Fire!

He wanders aimlessly for the first time in his life, lacking a role and a purpose. He leaves the lake, mulling over everything he has learned over these past days, retreating into the hinterlands below. The golden prince picks his way through the thicket, emerging at the edge of the forest with a sprawling landscape in sight. He moves to step into this new adventure, but carefully placed scent markings stop him, a flashing sign of caution warning him away at once.

Llewellyn halts, perturbed. Never before had borders stopped him, but then, he had only ever dwelled within his own borders; the lines of Mynydd were all he knew. These were unfamiliar wolves with unfamiliar smells, and they would not take kindly to a stranger traipsing boldly into their territory, no matter the lineage or position of said stranger. No, he was stuck in the thicket, for now; he could go no further this way.

Lashing his tail in irritation, he paces back and forth on the open land between the plateau and the forest, trying to puzzle out what to do next. Indecision plagued him--he could barely stand it. He had always praised himself for knowing each step before it came, each day before the sun rose. He was a meticulous planner, and the idea of going from forest to forest, mountain to mountain, with no goal in mind was something that ate away at him with each inch, every mile, that he traveled.

Ymlaen: the motto of Mynydd. "Onward," it meant. He has held it close to his heart from the day of his birth, and he would not let it go now. But onward to where, and to what?