Moonspear beating wings they whisper, a baby's breath

The boy is shy, enough that he has offered only two words thus far, and stumbled over one of them. Llewellyn holds no judgment toward the child for this--plenty of shy pups, after all, grow out of it and become fine wolves. He has witnessed it first hand. And even should this boy remain reserved and quiet for the rest of his life. . .one does not need to speak to kill. His fangs and claws will do all the talking for him.

"Arcturus," he rumbles, dipping his head in a slight bow. A fine name, fit for a warrior. "A pleasure to meet you." He has many questions, most of them revolving around the dark-furred lad's relations, but holds them back for now, hoping not to overwhelm his new acquaintance. Instead, he settles in alongside Arcturus, keeping close enough for his words to resonate without having to pitch his voice over the babble of the stream; far enough away that the child is not made uncomfortable by proximity.

The prince points his muzzle toward the water, the other bank, where the prey had disappeared. "Were you trying to catch a frog?" he asks, glancing over at the boy. Llewellyn's mouth stretches wide in a smile that lights a small flame in his soul--a tiny flicker of remembrance. "My sister, Seren, and I used to sit on the banks of the river, back home, and try to catch frogs. More often then not, we ended up soaked, water up our nose."