The Sentinels “hope” is the thing with feathers

his presence well-received, velen advanced to take in the stranger's own unqiue fragrance. earth, no clarifying pack-scent that suggested this was anything but another loner. the stormrift creature lashed his muzzle with salmon tongue, turning his attention now to the sprawl of ashen, cold forest housing the bones of his grandfather.
"this used to be a pack called donnelaith," velen murmured after a time. "my mother was born here." slowly he extended a broad paw to sweep snow from the greyed floor of the ruined forest, wanting to see verdancy, but spotting none. like the stranger, however, he could scent it, and it reminded the former islander of life beyond the effects wrought by demise.