The Heartwood Edge control

Staying sharp was a warrior's best asset. Let the claws and fangs dull, the mind wander, and all is lost. Gwynedd had become too complacent, too comfortable in his position in life, and the crown had been stolen from him, right under his nose. His breath, too. Should Ioan's warriors come to the borders of Moonspear and ask for his head, Llewellyn would have no answer for them should he idle too long. He must stay focused--he must not live to survive, but to thrive.

Lest he become too complacent on the mountain, Llewellyn engages in sporadic scouting trips; today's small adventure took him to a forest in a sad state of affairs, charred from some long-ago blaze. His mouth pulls tight in something almost--but not quite--sadness at the sight, eyes wandering over the blackened trees. Though he had preached to Speedy that water eclipsed fire in terms of potential damage, flames were not without the power of destruction. These woods alone are proof of that.

Still, there was life here, if one looked beyond the wreckage. Greenery here and there, sprouting from the ashes. And movement ahead--a woman with a fish in her jaws, freshly caught, water dripping from her muzzle. His eyes linger over her body in frank appreciation; she is built like a warrior queen, large and muscular, and her pelt a gleaming white, marked curiously with ebony.

Llewellyn gives a chuff to let her know he is passing through, hoping to engage in a conversation with the woman. If she be a loner, she is an excellent potential recruit to add to Moonspear's fighting force. And if part of a pack, well. . .he hopes to remedy Charon's explanation that they have no allies living close. For who will bail you out in times of trouble, if you have no friends nearby? His sapphire eyes are uncharacteristically warm as he approaches, stopping several paces from her.