The Sentinels long dead rows of daffodils and marigolds

The sound of snow beneath paw also drew Smokestep's attention. His muzzle was lifted and pointed in the direction of the sound, ear swiveling atop his crown for hints of another wanderer in the wood. When he saw the other wolf, he cringed openly and inhaled at the sight of the mangled face. He could not yet see the hind leg that had taken a severe beating, but he was surprised by how many wolves had made it through the wilds with only a single optic. The markings on this brute were odd, but he looked capable and wild; precisely the type Smokestep's father would have sought for his ranks. It piqued his interest and his head canted to the left curiously.

“Ye alright there, mate?” he barked to the wolf softly. “Look like ye've gotten in a fight wit a coral reef.” Callously, Smokestep motioned toward the gaping hole in the other male's face and snickered softly at his own joke. Of course, it only worked to bolster his own pride in the lean strength of his body and the sharp glint of his two-toned gaze. As young as he was, the corsair was not elegant with his words and he did not see any need to tiptoe around the difficult subjects and impairments that others faced. The pallid Captain wished to see how thick this brute's skin was, and how much he could take from a scoundrel like himself.