The Sentinels shipwrecked

The shadow silenced his initial few words. Smokestep could not help but to smirk wildly at the swift snapping of her word. The dark ink of his lips curled upward, and he squinted at her. She looked alright from where he stood, save for her initial hunched frame and the inclement edge in her eyes. The young Captain thought, for a moment, that he had crossed paths with a siren who had lost her way. She was close enough to the edge of the sea that she could have called it home, but there were things about her that were so distinctly earthy. Smokestep knew that she had to have belonged to the wood.
 
As he had drawn closer, she moved to close her fangs around his throat. He did not budge, or flinch, but steadied himself in preparation for her to find purchase in the tender flesh around his neck. Something in her froze and he watched with a glint in his crimson optic. She had been held back by something, though he would not have been able to estimate what it was. “Wot’s yer name, lass?”