The Sentinels long dead rows of daffodils and marigolds

Where Adéwalé was at the moment, Brig didn't know. The jackdaw had flown out scouting for food near half an hour ago -- when Brig couldn't smell much unless it was right in front of his face, scavenging was difficult. Less so, with a bird's eye view. He'd eaten recently, but Adéwalé was adamant on his schedule and no matter how much he chose to insist it wasn't necessary he was ignored. He could admit that perhaps it was wise -- he wasn't the best at managing himself, as the jackdaw could no doubt attest, and though he refused to admit it they both knew he appreciated the effort. He'd be long dead, otherwise.

He might have stayed in place if it was summer, for ease of finding each other again, but the trees were still bare of leaves, and he stuck out, a patch of dark russet among the white of the snow. The place he'd found himself in now felt more like a graveyard than a forest anyways; giant trees, bigger than any he'd seen before, but somehow there were a fair few that had fallen. He could only imagine the force that would have taken, and though there was snow to cushion the inevitable sharpness of broken branches on the forest floor he was still careful, glancing behind himself every so often to see if he was leaving bloody prints in his wake.

Something crunched, distantly, off to his right.

His nostrils flared, uselessly, and he spun in place, turning so that his remaining eye could get a good look at the forest before him. It smelled of snow and ash, and he truly couldn't see much beyond the tangle of fallen tree trunks and the vivid white of the snow, and the flakes currently falling didn't help. He blinked a little, ears rotating this way and that. "Adé?"