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

Despite the storm that sundered the sky and the ample amount of space afforded him, Szymon was loathe to enter Deirdre’s den — he had only just become accustomed to sharing a den with Doe and this, somehow, seemed even more daunting. He cared for the witch of Donnelaith, but they had not yet achieved a closeness befitting ease of physical contact; in some regards, the golden-eyed Cairn had placed the younger female on a pedestal and dared not touch her lest he mar her with his bloodied past. Still, she had invited him, and he made an attempt for her happiness — he found it hard to deny her inviting gaze, and inched his way in little by little, ceasing when he was elbow-deep into the cozy space. Rain pattered the length of his back, but he did not mind; he only hoped that she would understand his reluctance was no fault of her own. Fastening his gaze intently on hers, anchoring himself in the emerald of her eyes, “D-D-Deirdre,” he stammered out, his anxiousness making speech difficult despite the serenity he found therein. “A p-p-plague w-wolf c-c-came to the b-b-b-bay.” He had no other name for the female.

The Cairns had seen battle on all fronts, and it was not unheard of for a crafty wolf to roll itself in toxins or poisons in hopes that an enemy would ingest it and perish — though the wolf who had approached the Blackrock Depths borders was clearly stupid and incapable of intelligent thought, Szymon bore a natural mistrust toward strangers and did not wish for Deirdre to come to any harm. “P-P-Purple eyes, white f-f-fur, b-b-broken right f-f-foreleg,” he rattled off, the description still clear in his mind; his kohl-lined lips curled in a snarl of memory at the stench of her, covered in purulent discharge and the Sea knows what else. “Sh-She is in — f-f-fected, D-D-Deirdre, but you m-m-must not t-t-treat her w-wounds,” he commanded in a rumble like the stormwinds that battered the shore. His golden eyes blazed with the conviction of his words; absurdly, he longed to grip the sweet, innocent girl by the scruff and shake her — force her to understand and sway to his will. She must not be injured; she belonged to his brother.

Drawing a deep breath to calm himself, his lean-muscled body shook as he looked upon her. “P-Please,” he entreated, loathing the word; it had been akin to crying “uncle” when Jagoda and Jaglon had set upon him, “she m-m-mentioned p-p-poison, D-D-Deirdre.” In desperation he sought to touch her, something he had not dared to initiate so boldly before now; his scarred muzzle reached to brush the pads of one hind paw as he looked up at her. She would be his queen one day, he thought. He would use everything in his power to see it done, if it was Skellige’s will.