Redhawk Caldera I'd rather make it mine.

"Understandable," Llewellyn rumbles, looking for all the world--or maybe not--sympathetic and kind. He sighs, staring out at the land, imagining it blanketed with thick snow. Not too far off, now. The boy may be lying, but it is rooted in truth. Soon, they will all be out, scouting for food.

The prince shrugs slightly, shooting the wraith a mournful look. "I must return to my search," he murmurs. "Best of luck to you and yours, Peregrine." It feels dirty in his mouth; luck is only meant to be wished from a true heart, and he does not mean it now, not one iota. How else is he to depart, though?

With a fleeting smile, Llewellyn nods and pads past, on his way to circling the top of the caldera. He will turn to look after a few long moments, but he waits for the tell-tale sign of retreating pawsteps before he takes a peek.