The Sentinels long dead rows of daffodils and marigolds

For a moment there was no response. It was unlikely to be Adéwalé anyways, he supposed -- the jackdaw usually landed on him to announce his arrival and the sound of wingbeats was hard to miss when he was paying attention. That was only proven true when the crunching started again, in the distinct rhythm of pawsteps, and a sharp inhale of breath was enough -- even for someone with a missing eye and no real sense of smell -- to finally figure out where it was coming from.

It was no surprise he'd been difficult to spot before, anyways -- he was a sort of silvery off-white that blended well with the snow but for a single bright red eye almost the same color as Brig's own.

As always, there was a brief second of worry that he had wandered somewhere he wasn't supposed to be, and for a second he tensed to run -- or fight back if that was what it came down to -- but the other simply tilted his head as if curious and barked a question. Innocuous, as far as they went; Brig relaxed and snorted, amused, at the follow-up. The wound where his eye should have been -- where it would have been if he'd listened to Adéwalé while he was younger -- had certainly garnered all manner of responses, some concerned and some, well. Not so much.

"No coral needed," he responded with a grin, the ear above the gaping hole flicking, once. "This one was all me."