The Sentinels race wars

The mid-morning was heavy with thick fog that writhed around the towering sentinels, hard to discern where the next tree was in the forest until he was practically on top of it. The conditions weren't favorable, especially for running a patrol of the borders. He could follow the scent of them easily enough, pausing every so often to lift his leg and refreshing them in places where he thought they could use a little more strengthening. That part of his patrol was fine. It was the other half of Regi's patrol that he was nothing if not a bit weary of. He couldn't see more than a few feet (if he was lucky) in front of his own muzzle and thus scanning the territory beyond Donnelaith's borders for impending strangers was all but impossible; not to mention noise was distorted. It was almost eerily silent beyond the sound of his own footfalls upon the earth and each, steady breath he took. 

Fog was known for playing clever tricks upon even the most astute of wolves; likely in just the way it could easily cause disorientation alone. Regi was finding that he was no exception to this, but he was determined to get through a patrol. Regardless of the weather the borders needed to be protected and he wasn't going to back out just because he found himself a little disoriented.