The Sentinels the carving of the way

This post is bad. I am tipsy. Kept vague because I did not know whether this should take place before or after the rallying howl. ♥

[table width=65%][tr][td]

Szymon made one final sweep of the charred sequoia graveyard, and when his search came up empty for what felt like the umpteenth time — empty of Qilaq, empty of Deirdre, empty of Skellige and Smokestep and Redshank — he decided that this patrol would be his last. He found no purpose or joy in underscoring the futility that seemed to lurk at every turn, for surely if any of the wolves he sought lived, they had left behind the ash and charcoal of Donnelaith’s ruins. Somberly he turned northeast, intent on returning to his mate and surviving children — but his eyes were drawn at once to a melanistic female whose abyssal fur cast a sharp contrast against the snow that blanketed the ground. At her paws lay a stick — an impressive prize that he wanted immediately, for he was a selfish beast and possessive of the coast and everything in it — but he spared only a moment’s notice admiring it before his attention centered fully on the wolf who claimed it.

Using Doe’s word, “Hail,” he uttered finally, his guttural bass timbre thick with weariness and the remnants of smoke. Intensely curious, he wondered what — or who — she waited for.

[/td][/tr][/table]