The Sentinels Flower, gleam and glow

She laughs, the delightful noise bringing a broader smile to his curving lips. Despite her size, she’s easy on the eyes, though she’s a bit young for his tastes. His eyes smolder at the thought, though he quickly blinks them back to a focus. His dusty white ears cup forward attentively as she offers her name, then answers his question.

Something about her speech reminds him of those ladies who once tried to recruit him as some sort of spiritual guardian. Bushtit inwardly laughs at the cringey memory. Solenya speaks with the same would-be profundity, which always strikes him as odd. Perhaps that’s because he was raised by Towhee Redhawk.

Bushtit, he offers first, then asks, So it’s as much planting as burying? He gestures at the heap of dirt she’s just pushed over the objects. Huh.

He wonders what exactly she put in the soil—he only caught a glimpse—and the stories behind them, but her demeanor tells him Solenya doesn’t necessarily want to share the intimate details. His attention lingers on the ground for another beat before it once more bounces back to the woman’s hoary face.

Nothing, he says quickly, remembering to field her own query. I was just passing by and the trees, he says, tipping his head to look at the closest one, caught my attention. His head drops. So is this ritual your way of claiming the place? Am I technically trespassing right now?