Two Rivers Isle she rides a white mare armoured

He goes westward, licking his wounds and giving the plateau a wide berth. Soon, he approaches a river, and fords it, having been an accomplished swimmer since his youth (the hills and forests of Mynydd are plentiful in waterways big and small). Shaking the water from his gilded pelt, he looks around, nostrils flaring as he takes in the varied scents. The river grows wider as it flows nearer the plateau, so he is fortunate to have crossed here; any more south and it would have been more of a challenge.

And he is not without company, either. An alluring tawny female stands on the bank, drinking. Her pelage is so similar to that of his family's that he feels immediately at home, upon seeing her, and has to steady himself against the rush of homesickness that follows, the abundant grief for his dead family, worry for those that were still--he hoped--living. He swallows, making his way toward her with large, steady steps, gaze fixed on her countenance.

"Bore da," he rumbles, in the hopes that perhaps--maybe!--she will understand, and respond in kind. That she was a relative, a Bleddyn he'd not yet met. One that had been lucky enough to escape the slaughter, or perhaps had never known war altogether. But a warrior born, no doubt; she is small but mighty, muscled and strong. Llewellyn takes a moment to silently admire her, eyes lingering no more than a few seconds on each feature, waiting for her response.