Moonspear come away, o wolf child!

The footsteps behind him are that of a child's, and Llewellyn spins around, expecting to see one of the two pups he had already met. Not so--this one is gray, male, and bloodied; a cautious sniff revealed that it is squirrel blood that paints the boy's face, not his own. The prince cocks his head in momentary puzzlement, then smiles, realizing his presence must cause the lad some confusion, if he has not seen him before.

"I believe we have not yet met," he says rhetorically, bowing his head. His gaze strays, every so often, to the cat, making sure it was not on the prowl. "My name is Llewellyn--I am new to your pack. And you?" He lifts his chin, curious. Then he takes a couple of steps further, although making sure to keep a respectful distance from the boy, who is right to be wary.

"Faeries," Llewellyn explains, nodding toward the ring of mushrooms. "They are spirits, not mortals, like you and me. This is where they come to dance, and leave only this behind." Where they go afterwards, he does not know. What would a wolf know of the spirit world, especially one like him? He has never been in-tune with the supernatural, though he clings to the stories like anyone else. Llewellyn glances at the boy, feeling suddenly put on the spot. He does not know how well acquainted the wolves of Moonspear are with folklore. If they have some grasp, do they even pay it mind?

Maybe the child thinks him stark raving mad. A great first foot forward, with the youth of his new pack.