The Sentinels where the handouts grow on bushes and you sleep out every night

All welcome!

NOTE: Each of the traveling threads is a day apart. ♥ This is day three, March 23, 2017.

A light spring rain began to fall on the morning of the third day, and Lotte, feeling herself uniquely qualified to do so as a former Donnelaith resident, led her wolves into a part of the sequoia grove that had remained intact despite the fires. When the next round of sentries had settled into their patrols, she did her level best to rest as she knew she needed to. Tucking her body against Arturo’s, she poked her nose into the hollow made by the curve of his stifle and the pillow of his flank and closed her eyes — but she was assaulted by a restlessness she could not fight. Tossing and turning, she huffed a soft sigh and rose, walking through the wood with a chilling feeling riding up and down her spine. She felt as though she was walking over corpses — in a way, maybe she was. Deirdre lived in her memory, gliding through the hallowed halls on silver-gilded paws, and Lotte could not help but remember the way the trees had seemed so sentient when the lily-white witch queen had spoken to them. She trusted in the spirit of the Mayfairs to keep her Family safe, but the discomfiting prickling that danced along her skin made her irritable and set her on edge.

“Spirits of my fathers and mothers, I call to you,
and welcome you to join me for this night.
You watch over me always,
protecting and guiding me,
and tonight I thank you.
Your blood runs in my veins,
your spirit is in my heart,
your memories are in my soul.

With the gift of remembrance,
I remember all of you.
You are dead but never forgotten,
and you live on within me,
and within those who are yet to come.”

She sang Emaleth’s song to comfort herself, but allowed her voice to carry across the sands to the bay, across the charred earth to her Family. What she felt was a deep reverence and a deep sorrow, but she kept her voice soothing and reassuring, hopeful and light. It was her assumption that the wolves of Teaghlaigh were content, satiated by the thrill of the hunt and the meat in their bellies.