[i]Memories of the night before trickled in.
Her head pulled back in a hungry howl moments before she struck her first target. Their bodies collided and she wrapped her arms about the other rookie. She snarled down at him as his own fierce will met her cheek in the form of a tightly pulled fist.

Her head lashed to the side after the blow but she only seemed to turn wilder, pressing one arm against his throat while the other battled against his unpinned arm. He needed to tap out. She could smell the faint hint of fear strongly masked in valor as she snarled against the sweaty nape of his neck. She pressed her arm hard against his windpipe. Cowl, accept dominance—these thoughts burned through her eyes and mannerism.

His fist hit the ground, angry yet beaten, still riddled with giddy adrenaline. Submission. She darted into the woods to acquire more wounds, more submissions. The night screamed a warrior rapturous beat.[/i]

Her morning begun in an absorbedly languid manner. As soon as light began to nuzzle upon the dark skyline, lids perked open. The sun had not yet begun to sprinkle glints of expression across the ocean during the calm and muted time in the morning. The leaves above crinkled in her vision, glistening between a sleepy silver and a dawn dulled green. She knew there was no real chaos at this gate, a man stood alert and watchful not 15 feet to her elevated right. She sniffed at the air, smelling her comrades of the Forest Gate, the thick mold of the cyclical land, and the dew from the coastal night nuzzling in the breasts of the organisms around her. She wished the great city didn’t taint her track on Silver Leaves, and those present. Though, she was thankful that the smells did not hint at intruders. She wasn’t in the mood today for battle.

The birds rustled awake to catch that defiant time particular worm just as she too began to curl and ruffle her still tense muscles. Her eyes opened wide for the first time. Pupils twitched and accommodated quickly and her glance instinctually traveled the length of the branch and into the bucket they called home when guarding the Forest Gate, property of the Silver Leaves; specifically, Drui’Maori, a branch of the Silver Leaves designated to dwell in the outer forest expanse of the Silver Leaves.

She rubbed her hands across the warm bark, confirming her bearings before tensing her arms and popping her wrists. She rolled her shoulders against the large tree frame, ridging her back against a few bruised muscles. She licked a pointed tongue across her lip and tasted blood. She was fully awake now and the dull throbbing hangover tempted both memory and numbness, but she remembered. The hum of the night still vibrated through her body, aching now more than thrilling without the bass of adrenaline.

The game was tradition. Anyone who chose to join the Forest Guard, even if it was just transitional, played the game. They called it “Capture Their Flag”. They divided the Drui’Maori involved and split the “rookies” amongst the teams and played war. It kept them alert. It kept them aware. There was intelligence in the games that those playing most assuredly failed to grasp. Yes, there was a large enough percentage of the population of Silver Leaves that preferred isolation and the dense forest that populating the ranks of the Drui’Maori was not difficult, but it could become dull. Just like any section of Silver Leaves there was expected awareness. The games enforced an ongoing awareness. A practiced knowledge and tact. An enemy in the flesh to placate the forever mental game of waiting.

She relaxed her muscles and curled upward until she was sitting on the branch, creating the gentle clicking caw of the Randabird to entice her fellow watcher. He nodded in affirmation, but didn’t turn back towards her. He was watching something. His demeanor almost appeared tense. She rose to grab the branch above her and peek over his head with her added height. Her form was crisscrossed with stains of greens and grays, some permanently tattooed circular and linear centric patterns, while other colors could be attributed to stitched clothing and the grime of two days watch. She would have giggled then, if that was something her people did, but the sound that escaped her was an ecstatic chipper all the same. She rushed to the veteran Drui’Maori Guhlaures’ side. 

“Now?”

The seasoned watcher looked down at the odd little wild’har. There was still blood staining the mahogany of her cheeks. Neither of them were sure if it was hers. “Perhaps they realized you skipped orientation?” A gentle smile flirted with appearing on his brutish countenance, but then his expression went stern, exerting a bred dominance. “It’s changing of the guard, not for us to question. Good luck.”

As they headed back to camp the mood seemed somber, but knowing glances shared among the group hinted that they were anxious, still the wired adrenaline junkies. Lin’s rival from the previous night lunged a playful push at her side. He connected and she barely stepped for a save, glaring back at him with a joking smile that barely masked the dominant “haha-okay-you got me-don’t you do it again” inflection. 

They were all tired. They had switched to a schedule that was not nocturnal, nor was it diurnal. It was something that they were not promised or forced into. As sleep and death, loathed and relished. There were four of them in all that had been relived in the changing, Lin and two others were rookies. The veteran made his way towards the mess hall so the other three subconsciously followed. The two boys talking steadily while Lin walked just a step before them. They seemed to be speculating on the reason for their sudden recall. Lin watched her surroundings; sniffed at the air: the wafts of the mess hall, the body fluids that couldn’t be burned out of the surrounding land. She allowed her gaze to roam, briefly assessing those around them, ranking her status, ranking their status together. Her thoughts rarely varied beyond physical verses.

As they entered the mess hall the Veteran's direction changed towards the higher ranking enclave. Lin and her two companions walked into the mess hall as a unit, still thriving off the games, off the woods. Their senses were still attuning to the obvious social nature of the mess hall and with the added dominant influence of Lin the pack like mannerisms riddled the group. Once they had some food they allocated a table, none sitting in a common fashion but rather a variety of stances. Crastel, the smaller human that made an excellent tracker and was sneaky as a mouse, knew his place among the more brutish new friends. He crouched over his plate. His exhaustion showed more than the other two. Dalk, the glory hungry idiot who left her cheek still aching straddled his seat, picking at his food as well as Crastel’s, when the latter became distracted with exhaustion. Lin leaned with the wall against her back, resting against long beaded dreadlocks that hung from her head. She knew she would need to sleep soon, she could feel it in the weight her body pressed against itself.

She watched for Iano while picking at her food. The other two dared not touch the unguarded plate that rested on the table in front of all of them. She was thinking about last night. She was thinking about war. She was thinking about food and sleep, but she wasn’t thinking about why they had come back earlier than expected…even though that is all her companions seemed to be talking about. She wasn’t listening anyways.