The Sentinels no roots

Ford thought it almost an odd thing to say, that this man believed he might never find the lapping waters of the oceanside. It seemed as though the sea had a way of reclaiming whatever it was that it felt belonged to it. For all of his traveling, the young Mayfair-Cairn had been returned to the water’s edge, and he knew that he would not stray far from it again. Whether it was that he felt he belonged there, or that he could not pull far away from the grasp that the swell had on his being, the brute belonged to the water.
 
There was a quiet request to be taken to the bay. The warhound latched his sights to the stranger without asking for anything further. One way or another, the cream and chocolate fellow would have found his way to the seaside. It would have been best if Ford had been the one to oblige in the request. With a low nod of his head, the titan turned away from the ashen forest and began to prowl toward the land that he had claimed for himself and the others of Stormrift.
 
“Are you of the ocean?” he inquired with a glance toward his companion.