Moonspear come away, o wolf child!

Tylwyth Teg--the faeries. They held powers even wolves did not, moving from the earthly realm to theirs seamlessly, unseen by all but a few unlucky--or perhaps lucky?--souls. They left few signs of their presence here, save the ominous ring: a cluster of fungi, placed in a circle. Llewellyn has never before seen one, only heard the stories. It sends a shiver down his spine, to see it now, at the northern base of Moonspear.

The gilded hairs on his pelt lift without his volition, his hackles rising. He stands just a few paces away from the ring, and yet he takes a few cautionary steps further back. The magic of this place is undeniable; whether good or evil, he does not know. But the wind whistles past his ears. . .and he swears he hears voices within the breeze.

So fixated on the evidence of faeries is Llewellyn that he does not notice the cat nearby until it blinks, its tail moving idly. His lips curl in a snarl, for while he hasn't seen the likes of this creature before, either, he knows that its larger cousins can do significant harm. Perhaps it is more afraid of him--he takes no risks, here. He gives a single, warning bark, ears rotating backwards. He cuts a sharp figure against the wilderness, defender of his new home.

Run now, cat, or you will never run again. It seems silly to make such an effort on account of a relatively small feline--but the faerie ring has caught Llewellyn off-guard. He has naught but aggression now, spurred by childlike fears of the unknown.