The Sentinels long dead rows of daffodils and marigolds

Guts wasn't something others generally associated with him -- if only because most of his interactions had the purpose of scavenging only. They generally ended in him fleeing with insults hurled after him, but as long as he had enough food to last him a little longer he didn't mind what words got thrown at him. If he was offended by everything he'd just be tired. This one was a lot more friendly than the usual.

Above them, something rustled, faint and familiar. Brig's head lifted, ears flicking as his single eye searched the tree branches and found the speck of black he was looking for -- a bird that was only unmistakably Adéwalé because he'd spent so long around the jackdaw. A part of him relaxed at the sight -- he was always concerned something would happen when he was out of sight, a cougar or some bird of prey catching him, but he was sure Adéwalé felt the same.

He turned his head back around. "Just passing through," he said, with a tilt of his head. "While we're talking, though, are there any packs nearby? I got a certain -- inability to smell things with the lack of pain, especially scent markers. Wouldn't want to get my other eye gouged out over a mistake." Of course, he was also asking so he knew what direction was the best to go scavenging in, not that he needed to know.