[Strelles] Strike the Match

Prologue: The Sign

The late night moon shone brightly overhead, brilliant silver bands peaking through the small gaps between the leaves in the trees casting pale shadows on the forest floor. The leaves rustled as the warm wind breezed through them, nocturnal critters scampering along the branches dislodging twigs as they went. A small mouse stiffened by the twisting roots of one of many oak-trees that made up the forest, straightening up in the night. The seed it clutched tightly in its palms dropped as it sniffed the air, ears twitching for the faintest of sounds. Though it saw nothing, the creature didn't trust the silence; darting off into the brush - there would be other nights to forage.

The tortoiseshell tom tensed only a tail away from where the mouse had been, resisting the urge to chase it.

That's not why we're here, he reminded himself, sinking his claws into the churned up dirt beneath his paws. This was a stakeout not a hunting patrol.

"Mottledstrike."

He turned his head to meet the pale green eyes of his factionmate, approaching him with a serious air that Mottledstrike always felt strange seeing on him. He flicked his tail, inviting the brown tom to move closer and crouch beside him.

"Thrushheart," Mottledstrike murmured, careful not to raise his voice. "You seem concerned?"

The tom gave a terse nod, not quite looking at him as he fixed his gaze beyond the bushes, "It's not like the Shorerisen to be sneaky with their arrogance. When they take claimed territory, they usually crow about it from the peaks of the mountains - they don't mark all over our territory in the dead of night."

This isn't The Styrman's style, Mottledstrike agreed grimly to himself. The powerful Shorerisen leader took pride in the strength of his legionaries and preferred small but visible skirmishes on the border between legionaries - especially ones of higher ranks - to claim larger amounts of territory. This whole strategy felt more like a Fennyield move.

"The Shorerisen have always been obsessed over The Suncairn," Mottledstrike mewed, though he knew it didn't go far enough to explain the flagrant trespassing that had been occurring. "Still, that's why Our Storm has us out here. If The Styrman has really changed his ways, we must be alert."

"I can't believe they still want the Suncairn so badly after all this time," Thrushheart grumbled. "Riversoul saw that the Stormborn needed more territory to survive - and they try to steal it back for lounging? "

"Who knows what goes on in those otter-skulls," Mottledstrike said, with a dismissive flick of his tail. "The Suncairn will probably always be something the Stormborn and the Shorerisen argue about."

"Souls I hope not," Thrushheart said half-heartedly.

Mottledstrike flicked his tail, sending his factionmate to check on the rest of their patrol. He'd chosen a combination of swift and powerful legionaries - Cedarfur and the newly named Urchintail would be difficult to be grabbed if it came to a fight and Tigerslash was always a good guard to have on paw. The legionary could be gruff but his size and dedication to the Stormborn's defense had most of their enemies running scared when they saw him.

Mottledstrike opened his mouth, attempting to sort the distinct oily scent that the Shorerisen had smeared all over their border from a fresher trail that would identify an approaching patrol. He wrinkled his nose at the same time that he spotted Tigerslash's hackles rising

Shorerisen, he thinks furiously to himself; eyes locking on the approaching cats that emerged from the river. Their bodies were shimmering, the oily coats that were distinct to the Shorerisen's waterproof coats turning silver in the light; finned tails lashing low near the ground. He bared his teeth in angered frustration even as he flicked his tail out to command his patrol from darting out immediately.