The Sentinels “hope” is the thing with feathers

There is a patch perfuming of greens below, dormant for the winter. He's almost certain the plant is herbaceous in nature. Natjuk pokes and prods the area with his snout, the urge to dig striking him. To do so would bring about the plant's death, so he leaves it, ash and earth powdering his nose.

The chuff makes him jump a little. Natjuk faces the origin quickly, pushing down deep his contempt for being caught unaware. It shows nevertheless, in presence and expression. His fur bristles like quills for a few seconds before he has the presence of mind to chill out. There is no need to be so prickly. Not now. He is still too recent for rivals. Never can be too cautious.

A cursory glance reveals what the nose cannot: a youth of autumnal hide and sturdy build. Male. Seaside tenant. There are additional fragrances masked within his pelt, concealed by salt, sand, and draft. Natjuk aches to examine but he doubts the other would reveal his intrigues so readily...A swipe of his tongue is all that's given, contemplative.