Altar of Twilight You'll float too

He lets out a small snort at her admission, the sheepishness that paints her face. "You were," he points out, wry amusement clear as day on his face. "Believe me, I did not come to this valley tonight with the intention of running into you." He inhales, savoring the way the night air tastes: cool and yet warm, redolent of summer. It will not be long before the leaves turn, and the icy chill of impending winter makes the atmosphere crisp rather than damp.

"You are not a Moonspear wolf," Llewellyn continues, alluding to his earlier examination of her scent. "Who are you?"

It is a question some are loath to answer--including himself. It is tricky to navigate through the world with an identity you cannot claim. He supposes that he should not let his own troubles in life paint each and every interaction with strangers; she has her own story to tell, completely separate from his. But Llewellyn wonders whether she will balk at the query or answer it honestly; the truth, unless she is a master liar, will show on her face, deep within her gaze.

When no satisfactory answer is given, Llewellyn turns away with a grumble, headed back to Moonspear with a stubborn set to his shoulders.