Roar, Lioness. Roar

Home of the Pride

"Reavers reap, they never sow.

Reavers take, they never make.

Burn walls! Burn walls! Burn!"

Patch and Tick harmonize as the hunting party climbs the pass cutting up through the rocks. Anya and Bria follow behind them, carrying a flank of skinned and cured waste beast meat between them. Verlaine watches their rear for any sign of pursuit through her new long range scope. Rebel walks in step with Latisha, the enigmatic slave girl walking between them.

Latisha watches the girl. She moves with her head up, watching her surroundings and planning her next move. More like a predator than prey. The girl piques the huntress's interests in a way things rarely do. When the opportunity came to sell the desert bike and the bed warmers, Latisha made a last minute decision to keep the girl. She traded one of her own knives, a tin of tallow, and a half-empty bottle of water to cover the price for the bullets Verlaine had hoped to buy with her loot.

In that way the girl passed to the huntress.

The Yellow Sun were never slavers and over the last year, they'd raided less and less. In the eyes of some of the other clans they barely deserved the title of reavers any longer. The Yellow Sun is one of the largest clans, their territory has held against every assault ever made to unseat them. Many remember their past might, but many more are noticing the shift in them, the change a year has made. Those looking for it can see the growing gap in their armor. Latisha is looking for it and sees the signs as clear as day.

The party reaches the top of the pass where a pair of wood and stone towers stand vigilant watch. Silhouettes shuffle about in the dark confines of the lookout decks. Sharp eyes watch the ladies approach, observing and judging.

"Hail, Wildcats!" Bria shouts.

"Hail!" responds a gruff voice from within.

A tall woman emerges, her black abaya long and flowing. Her eyes are cold, harsh even for a reaver. She is a mean spirited woman with a taste for violence and a notable skill with bolas. All of the clan's perimeter guards are elite warriors, bloodied by combat or great deeds. The Lioness has dubbed them Wildcats, and afforded them great honor among their peers.

"Hail, Huntress Latisha."

"Hail, Lexca."

"We were expecting your pack to return much earlier. Instead we received word from Market Town of trouble that concerns the clan."

Latisha curses under her breath.

"Good," she says. "I like my presence heralded. It strikes fear in my enemies."

Lexca chuckles. "Indeed, cub. Indeed."

Laughter emerges from the darkness of the towers.

"I just hope, for their sake, those enemies live without and not within." Latisha's words silence much of the mirth at her expense.

Lexca stands a bit taller, her posture stiff. "We are all hunters under the golden crown."

"It would be good if we all remember that." Latisha has hated Lexca since suffering abuse from the woman in her youth. The urge to shoot her dead makes the bottoms of her feet itch.

"Latisha."

Rebel's voice cuts through the haze of violent thoughts and the red tint spreading across her vision. Latisha looks back and realizes she stands at the foot of the watchtower ladder with no recollection of taking steps toward it. She glares up at the black-clad wildcat staring down at her. Lexca looks unbothered, possibly eager. It only helps to antagonize Latisha even more.