The Sentinels donnelaith

She had claimed this place as her own, knowing somehow that it had always belonged to her— and she felt a kinship with it, for the blackened trees mirrored the remains of her own heart and memories. Once, a forest stood stall and proud, filled with life and song; but it had been razed, forgotten and abandoned. Emaleth tried to imagine a life before, surrounded by family and magic and light. She knew not how close to the truth her imaginings were. But that life had been swallowed by darkness, and so had she.

Emaleth had found a den at the forest's heart, filled with herbs and trinkets she knew had been used for rituals of magick— light and dark. It felt familiar and homely, filling her with a peace she hadn't known before. She slept, then, deeper and more soundly than she had in some times— and Emaleth dreamed.

She chased the white shape through the tall wood, their laughter ringing up through the trees to tangle and echo amongst the canopy of leaves. They danced and wove through the trunks, chanting and singing, and Emaleth could feel the magick swell and fill her soul. This was their place, always; the forest had birthed them, and they fed the trees with an energy source more valuable than water and air in return. Their relationship with Donnelaith was symbiotic. They could feel the trees, and the trees could feel them.

But the witch could not catch the white shape before her, and as she fell further and further behind, the mood shifted. A wrongness settled in her bones, and she ran desperately to no avail as the white shape disappeared and the laughter became screams as the forest began to burn.

“Emaleth,” the trees cried out, but she was unable to save them.

The dark she-wolf awoke with a start, her name burning in her ears. Seeking comfort— the once welcoming den now feeling rather nefarious in the wake of her nightmare— Emaleth wound her way through the fallen wood to return to the fairy ring. But as she approached two figures materialized from the mist, and the dark witch kept silently to the shadows. A possessiveness still bloomed in her chest, but the reverence that seem to hang around the pair stilled her; it was a sacred place, and so long as they were respectful, she would not interrupt their private devotion.

Neither would she retreat. From the safety of the shadows, the wraith of the wood watched.