Alpine Lake symud ymlaen

He keeps his gaze trained warily on the man, but shakes his head after a beat of silence following the query, finally giving an answer. "This land is not my home," Llewellyn informs the man, voice blunt and to the point. "I am just as unfamiliar with it as you seem to be." His eyes, like pools of moonlit water, trace the lines of the warrior body, looking for signs of coiled muscles, ready to strike.

"Who are you? What do you want from me?" he asks, toes flexing slightly on the silken silt ground. The air is cool and pleasant, almost exactly the climate of Mynydd, and it gives him longing for the verdant valleys of home. Where everything was as it should be--the Bleddyns still ruled the kingdom, and the land was at peace. But that Mynydd was gone, crushed under the Gethins' wrath, and nothing would ever be as it should be again--unless he should return to claim the throne once more.

It occurs to him that he must have an army with which to return, and a speculative gleam enters his stare as he looks at the man, a newfound idea blooming in his mind. Surely this imperious being would bow to no one, but perhaps he could persuade him of the importance of the task, sway him to his side. He would be rewarded, of course, with power and status, riches and women. A place, perhaps, by his, the king's, right side--a coveted position for any wolf of Mynydd. Llewellyn stands, shifting a little on his paws, waiting for the response to come.