Sentinel has saddlebags full of stones.

All sorts of stones.

Small, smooth pebbles from underground rivers. Specks of quartz carefully sifted from subterranean sand. Blue minerals that glow in the gloom. Ones that taste of salt and metal.

There are stones that are shaped liked hearts, or streaked with stripes. Geodes that, when smashed with a strong hoof, split open to brilliant amethysts. Granite flecked with mica.

On the surface, when the young puck follows his father to a glade flanked by boulders and dying elms, Sentinel arranges his collection with childish specificity: each in its own place. The stones go next to the feathers, left behind by wild birds who know nothing of the dungeons. The Very Good Sticks are in a pile at the foot of his grassy bed. His shells are in a cracked clay pot.

While Gargoyle shoulders the finds of substance—herbs, artifacts, gold—Sentinel is always keen to tag along, waiting for the dungeons' next gift.