The Sentinels shipwrecked

The dark girl turned to him – her own two eyes were a startling contrast to each other – and she bristled at his figure. Smokestep did not step back. He watched her with a calculating stare, glued to the points in her body that were tense and prepared. In a moment, she seemed to soften some, but it was replaced with a swift rage. The young Captain was mesmerized by her. She embodied the wild fire that had ravaged the forest; she stood as the darkest decimated point in the sentinels, and he was entranced. Foolishly, he held his ground and drew his head upward to show that her sharp manners would not offend him or frighten him into running away. The forest was still a neighbor to him, even though the residents had long since vanished from the grounds. He was brash and cocksure, not knowing how sacred the forest was to the wolves who had once called it home.
 
“Yer alright,” he spoke in a soft voice and his tail waved gently at his rear. “Ye lived here?” the pale young man then inquired with a swing of his muzzle to the forest. It was a guess, but she seemed possessive enough of the land that he would have wagered all his treasure on a deeper connection between the shadow and the woodland. With her wild gaze and the sharpness of her features, he took a risk in stepping one pace closer, but he paused with enough distance between them that she might scent the brine against his coat and know he belonged near to her home.