The Sentinels no roots

The sentinels were – ideally – a natural guard against the sanctity of their bay. The desolation had created an eerie and otherworldly sort of place that was a deterrence against travelers and trespassers alike. Tragedy had provided them with a blessing in disguise, and time would correct the harsh lashing against the wild wood. By the time that the forest had returned to its greatness, Stormrift would have found itself at the peak of its existence; it would not have needed the ghostly remnants of the trees to provide protection.

In spite of this, Ford could not help but to find himself among the ashen corpses. It was as though he felt a natural need to tend to the woods. Loyalty had been impressed on him since birth, and he knew that his mother's love for the sentinels was deeper than most anything that he had ever felt. It was only right that he should tend to her homeland if she could not do it herself.

So, the stranger who had caught his attention had made himself into a possible threat. The titan was not certain of this, but he closed the space between them in a few great strides and drew his crown upward. With a carefully calculated furrowing of his brow, the warhound searched the features of the mocha-tinged male. The scents that clung to the other's pelt were foreign to him – he had not been there long. “You know, you're close to paradise... as unlikely as that seems in a place like this,” the brute finally remarked. His voice was a smoky baritone as it left his throat, and he turned his head toward the bay – through the trees.