Moonspear toredig

Hydra is the last wolf he wants to see here. (There are others far more odious, true, but they are either dead or gone, or far beyond his reach.) He cannot turn from her now, though, and so he faces her with a small sigh escaping his nostrils, immeasurable weight in his eyes. Bore da, he greets, for his mother tongue is and will always be easy, even if others did not understand a word.

Llewellyn ceases his pacing and meets her gaze, chin lifted in silent query. A more impertinent wolf would ask something along the lines of, "What do you want?" Born and molded into the royal life, he is not that uncivilized, at least not in that boorish manner. No, he waits for whatever she is to say to him, knowing that it will likely be more of the same.

Unless she knows where Ceara is. Then he will rise to the occasion and be wherever the fiery woman is in a flash. Does she? Does she know?