The Sentinels i was late like thunder; i’m regretting it now

@Deirdre ♥

A storm had been threatening for the better part of the afternoon, and Szymon could feel the unseen crackles of electricity as if they’d crawled into his bloodstream and under his skin; his salt-crusted pelt, wild and unkempt, seemed to bristle in a prolonged flare of his fiery hackles. He had a sneaking suspicion that a certain foul-mouthed, paltry tangle of flesh, blood, venom, and fur would seek Donnelaith’s aid next, denied the sanctuary of the bay — and he feared for the wolves of the wood, who were, to his knowledge, a trusting and perhaps naïve group of pacifists. His scarred, sand-dappled paws moved swiftly to the verdant borders, where sulphureous eyes regarded the new sprigs of plant life with referred pleasure. Though the regrowth of the wood meant little to him on a personal level, it would please Doe — and certainly Deirdre, who dearly loved her father’s legacy and guarded it with great care.

It felt empty and wrong to approach the pack territory empty-mouthed, so he spared a moment to return to the bay and pull the reasonably fresh carcass of a rabbit from one of the pack’s reserves. When he reached Donnelaith the second time, he shook out his haphazard pelt — which did little, if anything at all, to improve his scruffy appearance — and tipped back his head, his resonant bass timbre calling for Deirdre in particular. He believed from her visits that she was the primary healer of Donnelaith, and the thought of her gaining some kind of infection or malady from the wandering plague wolf was horrifying to her brother-to-be. Though only a few moments had passed since his first call, he threw his head back and howled again, more loudly — a heavy, whipping gust of wind slashed against his body, causing him to set his teeth stubbornly. The storm was upon the bay now, but Szymon bore its wrath in the virulence of his eyes and the desperation in his call.