The Sentinels but i know you too well

this place was supposed to be home; the charred trees silent sentinels to days that had long since sunk into ruin. an old doom clung angrily to the grizzled realm, as bleak and as grey as the burnt forms of lifeless trees.  

to rannveig it wasn’t the home he had envisioned. how had his mother, so soft and fair, been birthed from this desolate place? how had the clay that made her so finely wrought sprung from these devoid halls?

seeing dalia was a welcome distraction. rannveig had decided she was likeable, and therefore worth his time. she had taken the brothers’ weird quips in stride, emanating a poise that delighted the Mayfair-cairn.

she was not alone; rannveig slowed to a respectful stop, feeling a rill of fur climb on his back. this was not his home, but somehow the idiot felt protective of it - yet it appeared the agouti that had approached dalia was not there to harm her. or anyone for that matter, thought rannveig as he judgingly observed the man’s limp.   rannveig flashed on a smile, and then promptly turned it off as he faced the pair: ”cheery place, isn’t it? you can definitely tell it’s where ford gets his personality.”