The Sentinels the sea alone, with its multiplicity, holds any hope

The call sounded overhead, but the wraith did not move to approach her immediately. He had been searching for the young golden child since she had disappeared, but she had done well at vanishing. Anger had coursed through him, and he had lashed at many who had tried to speak with him. The sea had spoken; she had returned the child to him, and it had been destined that she would join them. Skellige could not believe that the swell had lied so viciously to him. He had been riddled with doubts and plagued by his own temper, but after a short while he began the march toward the edges of Donnelaith. The sands that clung to his fur had bathed him in a pale gold coloration that stretched from his elbows down to his feet. The salt from the ocean had spattered along his chest and belly, fading in with the silver of his ribs.
 
Throwing his glance upward toward Deirdre, the dark creature smoldered. A slight cant of his skull was the request to know what it had been that compelled her to call to him.