The Sentinels “hope” is the thing with feathers

Enough of the sea. Enough of its hazardous bluffs and sirensong. It was no place for him. Others have decided that their life would be best flush against the tide but Natjuk cannot see why. Was there some secret to flourishing there? Do seals visit Teekon's beaches often? He does not know and cares not to, traveling along Ravenshook Cliffs to seek asylum within -

Forest revenants fill his vision. Charred wood lined by ice and snow. Some trees have fallen and others are composed of ash. He investigates, anxiety keeping his steps light and quick. Deeper into what was once a grove of grand trees, he finds traces of life. It is dormant thanks to the snow but he finds it is something to marvel at. Choked by fire and winter's deadly chill...Truly, life is marvelous.

there was magick here, velen knew, and it was with reverence he approached the ruins of donnelaith. even so, the ash-fallen weald did not give up its secrets so easily — he came to breathe in the energies here, to patrol for the wretched spider that had dared to make her putrid home in lasher's final resting place. protectiveness rose in him at the sight of the sentinels, and at the presence of a lovely, earthen-hued stranger therein.
the mayfair-cairn slunk forward, shoulders rolling. velen lacked ford's massive, haunting build, but skellige's blood had made him impressive enough. ears swept forward, chestnut gaze resting impassively on the newcomer; a low chuff rolled from the boy, and he was silent then.

There is a patch perfuming of greens below, dormant for the winter. He's almost certain the plant is herbaceous in nature. Natjuk pokes and prods the area with his snout, the urge to dig striking him. To do so would bring about the plant's death, so he leaves it, ash and earth powdering his nose.

The chuff makes him jump a little. Natjuk faces the origin quickly, pushing down deep his contempt for being caught unaware. It shows nevertheless, in presence and expression. His fur bristles like quills for a few seconds before he has the presence of mind to chill out. There is no need to be so prickly. Not now. He is still too recent for rivals. Never can be too cautious.

A cursory glance reveals what the nose cannot: a youth of autumnal hide and sturdy build. Male. Seaside tenant. There are additional fragrances masked within his pelt, concealed by salt, sand, and draft. Natjuk aches to examine but he doubts the other would reveal his intrigues so readily...A swipe of his tongue is all that's given, contemplative.

his presence well-received, velen advanced to take in the stranger's own unqiue fragrance. earth, no clarifying pack-scent that suggested this was anything but another loner. the stormrift creature lashed his muzzle with salmon tongue, turning his attention now to the sprawl of ashen, cold forest housing the bones of his grandfather.
"this used to be a pack called donnelaith," velen murmured after a time. "my mother was born here." slowly he extended a broad paw to sweep snow from the greyed floor of the ruined forest, wanting to see verdancy, but spotting none. like the stranger, however, he could scent it, and it reminded the former islander of life beyond the effects wrought by demise.

His company draws close. There likely wasn't an insidious notion in the stranger's heart. No, not then and there. Natjuk receives him rigidly, succinct in who he has associated with. His is a natural musk, reeking of salt, stone, and tidal wind. Not all that noteworthy. The male is quick in his assessments, withdrawing and resting his interest elsewhere.

Donnelaith. A delicate title, rippling with sublimity. It is plain to see Donnelaith did not survive the inferno but a prince yet lives. The life that prevails shares plenty in common with the juvenile: he and the ramshackle forest persist. Natjuk looks down, floundering for words. The boy had mentioned his mother. Always the grim pessimist, Natjuk assumed she had perished in the blaze. Awful starter, that.

Can you tell me more about Donnelaith? There is power in stories, in history.

surprised at the other's words, velen did not allow this to show upon his countenance, but waited only a moment. "i am told my grandfather, lasher, was a witch. that he called the storms. that he came to my mother after he died. donnelaith was beloved, for he was kind, and his wolves were kind."
he was only recounting what his mother would have said about the place — velen had no true tie to it, only the stirring of magicks in his chest, and the knowledge that lasher's bones lay somewhere beneath the sifted ash. "i was born far from here. i only saw donnelaith when it was like this. but my mother says it was beautiful, that those large trees towered high. and that they buried lasher in a fairy-ring here, before it came to ruin."

He wonders what brought about such tall tales, thinking a wolf to command elements beyond his control. A witch, bringer of storms...A charming story that teases imagination. Natjuk will entertain these thoughts later when the sun has withdrawn and nothing tends to him save the dark.

Considering the upturned turf again, Natjuk knows green will return here. It is a matter of time. How life will surge back into these trees, however, is an alien process. Can they be restored? Are they doomed to stand hollowly forever?

There is a raucous crack deeper within the stagnant weald. He looks in that direction for a split second. The only thing that can heal this place is time, much like more cognizant species.

velen followed the line of his silent companion's gaze. unlike the other, however, the stormrift boy did not think that this place can be mended. too many years had donnelaith laid desolate; if magick remained, deirdre would have told him of it, surely. there is nothing to do but play silent sentinel, as he was unwilling to turn away while a stranger lingered.
but neither was he willing to break the quiet with his voice. velen felt that he had spoken quite enough for the time being.

Through the awkward silence, eastern flurries beckon. Prey. Trifling prey, however. Vole. Not enough for the two of them. Natjuk sets off in search of it, departing with a glance over the shoulder. He'll return later. Hopefully when the other is gone.

thanks for the thread <3

he watched as the other moved off, protective of the ruined forest though he had no reason to see the other as a threat. when the other was gone from sight, velen too turned, moving off toward home with only a single glance behind him as he went.