Moonspear toredig

To snuff out the pride of a prideful man takes great effort. For that, the Blackfeather woman must be commended.

It was not just that, though. It is everything. Ceara's absence, Hydra's disappointment, the silence that bears down on him day after day, week after week. He keeps some company, visiting Speedy on occasion, but largely stays in solitude, unable to bear the looks in their eyes.

The once great warrior is a shell of what he used to be, but why? Never before has shame affected him so. He used to bounce away from a setback like a rabbit over the plains, ready and willing to take on whatever challenge was next. Now he sulks, frets, mourns. . .like a damn woman. It is pitiful.

Llewellyn walks around the mountain, slipping quietly through the conifers. With winter comes an unsettling sort of peace; the icy chill underneath his feet matches the frost around his heart. He is cold, so cold. . .and he longs for the days where he was inimitable fire, destroying all in his path. How long ago those days seem, now.

It would have been better if he'd have died in those vile woods.