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

by the ocean shore she lingered, calling to lasher in a melodious tone. 

her circle was cast, the elements present. she felt them surround her, dancing--she thrust a foreleg into the makeshift well she had created, rooting herself in the moment to the liquid. 

rains ama do cad is fiú folamh dún do shúile nuair a thabharfar an domhain. she paused for the moment, feeling the moisture laden-air and watching the thick clouds overhead begin to open--first in the distance and soon, o'er her! she relished in it, and continued onward: her foreleg moved in a circular motion, stirring the water as the wind would when it would come. she knew her fathers name, thought it--lasher!--before speaking: déanfar gaotha a leanúint effortlessly, tearing trí gach géag ar chrann! she continued this, feeling the wind around her as she always did, but here it seemed concentrated, ready to lend itself to the storm she called for. the days had been hot, and this storm would cool the world again. she called to it to feed the thirsting plant-life, and to also bless the shore of the bay with carrion. a witches gift! and the storm would be no small thing; her senses were veritably filled with it, and as she focused, she could see it growing in the distance. vehemently, she spoke: stailc lightning tapaidh agus fada - a dhéanamh caite, go mbeadh sé láidir! and there, in the distance, came a branch of white-hot light, touching the ocean and rippling electrically through the waves. the thunder that came afterward was distant and rumbling, but foreboding nonetheless. there was no stopping this storm, not now. she breathed, finishing: ag chumhachtaí trí huaire trí lig sé a bheith! cloud-to-cloud lightning illuminated the wide-sky in the clouds that had overcome it. the drenched deirdre was overcome with the joy of seeing its imminent approach, though moved to place some enchantments upon donnelaith to protect its trees and its plant-life from damage. she would use the proper wards for things such as this, and rest.

when storms like these came, she felt her father most. the electricity within the air warned her that it was unwise to lurk too long in places the forked light could reach, but her father--this eve--carried to her a song he felt she must heed. 

she had never thought the scruffy man to be unattractive. he, and his kindness, had warmed her. he had been something akin to anxious the day they had met, but it seemed that as he had found skellige he had also found a stronger sense of self. deirdre was only glad to see this, wanting only for the happiness of others so long as it did not cause any harm. those with malevolent intent she had yet to meet, though she did not fear them. she did not think herself unable to be harmed--the witch had no god complex to speak of--but she knew that any that might hurt her would be dealt with, whether she wished it so or not. 

the wind was kind to deirdre, not lashing cruelly against her; it seemed to play against her features, though perhaps it was because the sentinels took the brunt of the gales that came. deirdre was something to behold as she moved proudly toward szymon; she would soon come of age, and by the day she was coming into herself. though she was soaked, it did not detract from her otherworldly appearance; she blinked past her thick lashes to see the man before her clearly, and hummed. i did not expect any visitors this eve, she was apologetic; she had summoned the storm, after all--else i would have delayed in requesting for such weather. come inside--it will soon get much worse, the thunder rolled in the backdrop, as though the heavens themselves applauded her extended hand.