Altar of Twilight You'll float too

It is a beautiful valley just south of his new home, especially at night, when the moon lends it an ethereal glow. The stars are especially bright this evening, and Llewellyn finds himself drawn to the valley, having completed his patrol around dusk. There is an unusually silver sheen to his gilded coat in the moonlight, and his eyes are like the heavens above: an unfathomable dark blue. He stalks down the rocky, precarious walls and releases a sigh of relief and contentment as his pads hit firm, flat ground.

There is a figure ahead, a dark shadow against the expanse of grass, and while a growl bubbles in his throat at its close proximity to Moonspear, he cannot help the curiosity that rises within him. The wolf is on its back, rolling in what he imagines is some state of bliss. More pieces of the puzzle come together as he approaches--it is a woman, black-pelted, and she smells of no pack, no wolves he recognizes by scent. Giving her advance warning of his arrival with a chuff, Llewellyn stops several paces away, head tilted as he looks down upon her.

"What are you doing?" he inquires, his tone caught between gruff and confused; the space between an old man woken from a nap and a child stumbling upon something brand new. At any rate, she seems like no threat, though he was not born yesterday--he will not let his guard down quite yet. Not until her answers are satisfactory, and even then, Llewellyn is well familiar with wolves whose honeyed words masked venomous teeth.