Moonspear lladd fi

@Speedy

He has kept an uncharacteristically low profile since returning from Blackfeather Woods. There are times here and there where he emerged from his shell, but they are few and far between. He is more ghoul than guardian these days, drifting through patrols, the look in his eyes reminiscent of a man who sees something far removed from the path before him.

The prince is dead. Long live King Rhys of Mynydd. Long may he reign.

When had Llewellyn ap Gwynedd died, and Llew the gilded ghost had come to replace him? There is no moment in particular to pinpoint as his downfall. It is the careful, deliberate deconstruction of a once-formidable wall, a brick-by-brick effort.

He is more than humbled; he is dirt-poor here, and his name is meaningless. He is not anything particularly special, contrary to everything he was told throughout life in Mynydd. He rules nothing and will never do so. Tales will never be spun, nor songs sung, in his honor.

He is and always will be forgotten. A prince in exile, the pretender to the throne.

If Llewellyn was aware of the growing rebellion in Mynydd, with brave souls calling for his ascension, he would return immediately. As it was, he is here, on the Moonspear, where all he has to show for himself is a mindless fealty and myriad scars from the Blackfeather bitch. He is nothing here—he will always be nothing here. He has sealed his own fate with his pledge of loyalty to this mountain.

Oh, how he wishes he could bring it down, pebbles and all, for what has become of him here! He sends a glare toward the snow-capped precipice, stalking through the evergreens near the summit. The air is thin and cold here, and the silence is deafening.

He can hear each and every beat of his heart, and he hates it.