Moonspear profi'r dyfroedd

It is not long before Llewellyn has company. A pup of several moons, presumably following a scent trail, eventually comes to a halt a few paces from him, looking cheerfully interrogative. A smile blooms over his face, eyes sparkling like midnight pools. For all his standoffish behavior toward most grown wolves, Llewellyn loves pups. Children, after all, were revered in Mynydd; each youngster was given the best upbringing possible.

How could he not love pups? It was etched into his heart, his bones. And, of course, he desperately wanted a litter, one day--a chance to pass on his name and stories, and young wolves to mentor more closely than he ever had before. The bond between father and child was unbreakable, even by death.

"Hello," he rumbles, wagging his tail slightly. "I am Llewellyn. And who might you be?" he inquires in return, canting his head to the side as she had done. She looks nothing like Charon, nor any of the wolves he'd caught a glimpse of so far--a couple of shadowy things, but fleet--but she is thoroughly cloaked in the scent of Moonspear. She must be Charon's, and his mate must be a brown-pelted woman, like this girl.