Blackfeather Woods i'm so low that my scrotum's almost dragging up on the concrete

Good--they are on the same page. With a stilted nod, Llewellyn turns and slinks into the territory. His golden fur is a damned liability in this dark, dank place, but what else can he do? Perhaps if there was mud in which to roll around, but there had been not much rain lately, and the ground is dry. Besides, not much got through here. The canopy is thick; barely any moonlight filters through.

"Fy Dduw," he breathes, entirely unnerved by the place. It is unlike anything he has ever seen before; it is something out of a nightmare. Little wonder the wolves that have chosen this forest as a home turn out so twisted. He imagines he would be much the same, if born and raised here.

There is no clear scent trail of Ceara's, nor any clues that would lead them to her. Llewellyn keeps on, sniffing like a bloodhound and praying--praying--that it leads him somewhere worthwhile. The words of his family's last rites are ringing in his ears; his parents never got theirs, nor would he if he dies here tonight. But at least he hears it now, as if he is a child once more, tucked in the safety of Mynydd.