Cedar Sweep pass the wasabi

He is restless. The golden prince has come two or three times to their meeting place but has found no sign of Ceara. Hadn't she wanted to meet again soon? Her scent is stale by the falls; the last time she visited was likely their previous tete-a-tete. Llewellyn sniffs around for a long while before heading down into the forest. She was guarding borders to the west when he had first ran into her; perhaps it would be best to go that way.

A bird of prey flying overhead draws his attention, and it is not long before he stumbles upon the two wolves, one light gray, one dark. A master and apprentice, it seems, and Llewellyn chuffs at them as he approaches, keeping his body language neutral and nonthreatening. There is something to their scent that reminds him of Ceara--packmates? And the bird is with them, now. Strange.

"Bore da," he says, casting a wary look at the hawk. "I am looking for a friend of mine who lives over yonder," the prince explains, tipping his muzzle to the west--or, at least, what he thinks is west in this tangle of a wood. "Ceara. Red-furred. Has she been around here lately?" He does not notice, yet, the tuft of ruddy hairs that the pair has in possession.