The Sentinels a winged victory for the sullen

The warhound watched as his silent companion seemed to take in the words that were offered. His initial assumption seemed to have been right; the fellow couldn't talk. That didn't bother him as much as it should have, as he didn't see there being any difficult conversation that they would find themselves in. The smile of encouragement was a good sign that the buttery-colored stranger was not at all perturbed by the premise of receiving a makeshift name from the titan in the woods. The skeletal wolf furrowed his brow for a moment, drawing on what would suit the mysterious figure, when he realized where they were standing seemed as though it would provide a decent moniker on its own.

“You know, my mother used to tell me stories of this forest when I was just a young boy. She said that there were good spirits that roamed here... before the fire took it, that is,” he offered some background with a thoughtful frown that drew his dark lips downward. “It seems only fitting that I would find a mute in the ashes.” Then, hoping that he would not offend his companion, Ford curled his mouth into a ghostly smile. It was almost surreal that he would have crossed paths with someone of that sort. Deirdre would have spoken kindly of the boy, he was certain.

“I suppose I'll call you Sentinel.”