Moonspear cadw addewid

“Mae'n... impressive,” the inked surmised, surrendering both his mother tongue and shy smile for his war-lord in favor of clambering over the Common of this land. Mynydd sapphires of his own — of the crown’s — flicker from the gilded face of Llewelyn, to more properly fixate themselves on the eve-spire, which eternally tore into the sky’s belly.

Secretly, a bit selfishly, the knight hoped that color from the heavens’ entrails would ribbon out on the night of his coming here. ...But there wasn’t time to drift upon his futile figments, for one of Moonspear’s soon answered his king’s call; that dark face was drawn, the tongue like spearpoint as “They’re dead” lanced from between readied fangs.

The smile that’d begun to flourish on Cad’s own lips now faltered entirely, and his blue-bright gaze leapt to his lord’s; nothing in their depths, unless stricken astoundment counted for anything. In the meantime, his jaw hefted, wordlessly— Dead? His king had spoken of them with such frivolity, and the knight’d been so yearning to pledge his services— but, now?— how?—