The Sentinels “hope” is the thing with feathers

His company draws close. There likely wasn't an insidious notion in the stranger's heart. No, not then and there. Natjuk receives him rigidly, succinct in who he has associated with. His is a natural musk, reeking of salt, stone, and tidal wind. Not all that noteworthy. The male is quick in his assessments, withdrawing and resting his interest elsewhere.

Donnelaith. A delicate title, rippling with sublimity. It is plain to see Donnelaith did not survive the inferno but a prince yet lives. The life that prevails shares plenty in common with the juvenile: he and the ramshackle forest persist. Natjuk looks down, floundering for words. The boy had mentioned his mother. Always the grim pessimist, Natjuk assumed she had perished in the blaze. Awful starter, that.

Can you tell me more about Donnelaith? There is power in stories, in history.