The Sentinels revenge is in the creator's hands

ford did not like assumptions. to velen, he was a direct beast who preferred plain words, and as few of them as possible. his intellect was devoted to conquest, to claim, to enforcing the lineage of their clan, a cool hunger driven by a savage pride. thus, when the spooky little gremlin of a wolf uttered everything, velen's features hiked into a quick lol yikes expression. this was not going to go w —
nope, velen added to himself, watching ford snap forward with a speed that his massive frame concealed. the titan's fangs clashed, and to the dredge it was the metallic crash of warhound teeth that arched his own hackles in a feral spikespine of pride. she skittered; melting into the shadows, surely wrought with fear. velen had no qualms admitting ford had terrified him in the past; it was why he followed. no other creature commanded his respectful fealty so — not even skellige.
the idiot spoke, attempting to mock them after her near brush with death. velen glanced about the scoured forest, the ash rising from the quick movements. neuter? a hair closer and her blood would be staining donnelaith. a feeling rose within him, something massive, mocking; scorn; a long, baleful laugh of pure derision poured from velen's throat now. 
you are weak.