Moonspear tŷ, nid cartref

The vexation in Charon's voice does not escape him, and the first question sends him spinning off into space, a blind panic gripping at his limbs. None of his names would suffice--they all would give him away, if Mynydd was familiar to this man. His name, his father's, his family's. . . Llewellyn grasps for something, anything, to say, and is finally relieved of the burden when Charon speaks again. . .and is ignorant of Mynydd, albeit questioning.

A placid smile comes to his face. "'Tis my father's kingdom," Llewellyn says. "My name is Llewellyn. I only wondered if anyone here has heard the name; I have traveled quite far." He dips his muzzle, looking abashed. "I meant no offense in secrecy," he explains. "A man's name is his greatest weapon, a weapon that can damage him most, when used against him. I have been trained from birth to. . .take great care of mine."

He understands, though, Charon's frustration. Any dancing around in Mynydd drew scrutiny, especially in times of war. He remembers well, though he was only a yearling then, the bloody days after the first Gethin rebellion, when Rhys's supporters--the ones that did not take back their treason, anyway--had been put to death. To be silent was an indicator of guilt; to use flowery words, even more so. The ones who had stood firm and truthful had always been the ones Gwynedd had been most sorry to put down.