The unbalanced Sentinel watches as the Brigadier departs, keeping a wary eye on the sky above so she can call out to him if need be. More than once she opens her beak to sound out with some overly-paranoid warning, but the memory of the consequences the last time she'd 'warned' him that way forces Fletcher to hold her tongue. Soon enough, the old warbird disappears into the safe darkness of the Noctua trees.
Alone again in her territory, Fletcher turns about to grab the war talons and return them to their home. Deep within the hollow, in a little nook where more 'trophies' line the walls - trophies consisting of torn and broken feathers of all manner of Outsiders, arranged in perfect order as if the creature had been right there and then was suddenly spirited away, leaving its ripped-out flight feathers in place - a dizzying array of war-like paraphernalia is scattered. More pairs of war talons, some of them still crusted with old blood. Elaborate Sentinel armour, faceplates, items that don't look like they'd fit anywhere on a Sentinel body.. all pushed aside as she searched for this one specific pair.
Fletcher mutters to herself, a running commentary filled with meaningless and paranoid babble, as she sets to work tidying up the mess. By foot and beak she works, not bending her Will to the task at all. After some time Catcher and a few of his offspring come to assist, and the group works in (relative) silence.
Eventually, she will sleep. Right now her mind is too full of the night's terrors and a small ghostly face to allow her that luxury.
