The Sentinels the carving of the way

Is that me? the man asked as she swiveled herself to face him - yes, he was man - and although she did not smile, nor the heavy weight lift from her young eyes, her voice was strangely strong, wrapped in a curious, rich accent that spoke of lands not from here. It is. Wanderer returned, and she dipped her head. You are one.

She stared down at the heavy notch, noted the wood that had scraped off from her motions. It was clear that it was a marking-stick, a staff of sorts, meant not for herding sheep but for counting wolves. It was a habit that Wanderer had picked up - marking wolves - for from this she knew the faces that she had seen and those who had ever passed her by.

Wanderer tilted her head slowly, decisively. Was she waiting for something, she wondered also. She sat here and stared as tides lapped at the shore in barely-disguised hunger. Aimless, goalless, she was truly a shadowed ghost drifting without meaning. She tracked his eyes as she looked at him, finding the minute shifts towards the angry sea interesting. What did he have for him there?

Am I?

Pensively she straightened her head. Everything. Nothing. Who are you?