The Sentinels the carving of the way

Sounds good to me!

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Szymon’s eyes marked the way the darkling female carved a gouge into the pliant wood with one heavy claw, but as she turned deliberately to face him he dismissed her prize as unimportant. “Is that me?” he asked, nodding toward the freshly-marked staff with a sharp quirk of his lean muzzle, his eyes settled firmly upon her face. Her pitch fur was tousled and wild, and he longed to see it limned by salt and sand, but the black-banded Cairn was no diplomat. Doe was the piper — she was the songstress whose lilting tune could persuade others to follow. Idly the Leviathan wondered whether the wayfarer before him was a witch doctor like his mate; she confused him, and what he could not understand, he respected to a certain degree.

“Are you waiting for something,” he wondered aloud, not precisely asking, his golden gaze winging away, out toward the Sea, before flitting automatically back to the girl. He wanted to be back with Doe and the children — he couldn’t trust the faraway look that seemed to linger in his mate’s flame-touched eyes — but something about the silent sentinel continued to draw his attention. She was an enigma to him.

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