Falls of the Hinterlands rhaeadr

The russet wolf from moons ago arrives, the smell of blood with her. She is liberally coated in the stuff; it is only that of prey, but it flares his nostrils nonetheless. He lifts his head and licks the droplets from his chops before speaking, voice less gruff than it had been after a cool drink.

"Moonspear," he answers succinctly, without preamble, just as she had done. "Just over the mountains, if you are not familiar with the kingdom." He eyes her, gaze moving from her pelt to the trees behind her and back. She is perfectly suited for autumn--she blends right in. He meets her verdant eyes once more. "I do not believe we exchanged names on our last meeting," he rumbles.

He gives a small bow of his head, foreleg bent slightly with the movement. "Llewellyn," he decides, remembering that she was not familiar with Mynydd before; thus, there was no harm in giving out his true name. He raises his brows. "You are?"