Moonspear confident

From a distance, Llewellyn watches the woman. Dark and broad, she cuts an imposing figure against the rugged backdrop of the mountains, a creature born for this wild land. His gaze is drawn to her without question; even if he wanted to, he could not look away--and he wants no such thing. When his curiosity finally boils over, he walks with quiet steps toward her, giving a quiet noise to signal his arrival and keeping his posture neutral. She carries herself like a queen; she must be royalty, of a sort.

"Bore da," he says instinctively, before tacking on a belated, "Good day," to clarify. Her eyes are much like his, deep and sapphire. He wonders if she is kin to the black-furred boy he had met before; the prince thinks it must be so. What is she to Charon? "Would you mind my company on your patrol?" he asks, a pleasantly-meant but inaccurate 'miss' dying in his throat.

She is no miss. That is clear. To give her such a soft, cultured name would be an affront to the untamed savagery that marks every inch of her--the notch in her ear, the faded scars cutting through her ebony pelt. She is a warrior, like Llewellyn. She has fought and bled for this mountain. She is clearly above him in rank, and he holds back the ever-present superiority that would spur him to conceit, to lift his head over hers. She could have him killed. She could kill him herself.