Two Rivers Isle she rides a white mare armoured

there is a certain bittersweet irony to finding herself treading through the grasses of two rivers isle. it was one of the places she had went with grievous, close to the place that the reaper had sought to claim. the memories come back to thyri unbidden. try as she might to temper them, to shove them back to a darkened alcove within her mind they are, much like her, defiant of control. she recognizes this wild in her to be a problem and is not overly sure how well it will mesh under the ruling thumb of another. gyda and gavriel are one thing — they are her parents — but ...still she rebelled against their authority. numerous times she set out with her goal — the only goal — and each time, for her own flighty nature took root, she has failed. she is like untamed magic: she knows what she is to do, knows what she wants but does not know how to follow the straight and narrow path to get there and it's made the self-proclaimed thespian queen frustrated at times.

she veers towards the east river for a drink, hesitating as she nears it's muddied bank. from the other side the scent of a pack is incredibly strong. her black, leathery nostrils flare as she lifts her chin ever so slightly to siphon the unique melding of scents. it does not habitually strike her as familiar — but she has not made it any sort of point to concern herself with packs in the past. it could be old and it could be new. nevertheless, thryi bows her head to lap at the cool water. turning her attention away from the pack that resides next door. for the moment, anyhow.

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.