The Sentinels long dead rows of daffodils and marigolds

This had -- a certain promise.

Brig's head swung in the direction of the bay the Captain had pointed out, a huff of breath escaping his lips. There was an appeal, of course, as there always was, in sticking with a pack that could provide him food. He didn't enjoy getting chased off meals like a coyote, but that was how it had to be; he wasn't so stupid as to pretend otherwise. He'd tried hunting before; it hadn't gone well. And fishing was only well and good in the summertime, when he didn't have the risk of frostbite he didn't notice.

It could be a winter thing, anyways. Brig's tongue curled against his lips, white steam escaping in a faint cloud from his mouth. And he certainly preferred the coast; if they had need for a scout -- or someone to fish. Three more on the coast, apparently, but he doubted any others would be more receptive than this wolf was, to his gouged out eye and injured leg.

He glanced up again, towards the speck in the trees, and gave a quick but visible sweep of his muzzle.

Adéwalé swept neatly out of the trees, and Brig turned back to the stranger as the jackdaw came in to land on the slope of his shoulder, feathers rustling briefly in his ears before he folded his wings away. "All right," he said slowly. "If you can make room for both of us, we wouldn't mind joining in."