Warrior Eevees #1: The Storm of Fire

8- The Attack

The grey clouds were finally split open by dawn. Slashes and streaks of pink morning sky had cut through the clouds, and the Forest Tribe was delightedly basking in the rays of sun. Although the river had yet to go down, and the prey had yet to return, Emmy and Sycamore skipped through the forest, simply excited to hunt in the sun. The golden light streamed through the leaves in shafts that seemed dazzling after so many days of uninterrupted storming.

Her pelt felt light and fluffy without the rain soaking into it. Sycamore's two-colored eyes glimmered in the early light, his leaves spread to absorb the sunlight. There was only one dark speck on the sunrise, the dark shape of the Braviary, floating high above the territory.

"It hasn't bothered us since the day you arrived here," Sycamore said nervously. "But it is a Flying-Type, of course, and I don't like how much time it spends over our territory."

"I don't think anyone does," Emmy said, watching it circle lazily in the sky. "But there's nothing we can do about it."

And so, they carried on with hunting as the sun rose, trying to ignore the looming predator high overhead. Hunting was proving as fruitless as it ever had since the flooding began, although Sycamore insisted that the prey surely would want to enjoy the sun as much as the Tribe and would soon be thick on the ground. All that Emmy had scented that morning was leaves, rain, and flowers. She lifted her nose to the wind to try again, although she hardly cared in the beautiful weather.

"Sycamore, what's that smell?" she asked him.

"What smell?" he asked, half-buried beneath a fern to lap water from a puddle.

"The one that smells like..." Emmy trailed off, trying to figure out how to describe it.

It was dry, and dusty, and filled with the thick, bitter tang that every living thing recognized instinctively, the smell of smoke. Emmy opened her mouth to tell this to Sycamore, but he was standing alert, his eyes wide and his ears pointed at the sky, quivering.

"That's the scent of the Sand Tribe," he half-whispered. "We need to get back to the village right now and tell Hollyhock."

He took off across the forest floor, racing with his belly fur practically against the earth. Emmy rushed after him, each of his strides was two of hers, and batted at his tail with one paw.

"It's probably just blowing in on the wind," she gasped.

"No," Sycamore insisted. "That scent never crosses the plains."

That was all he said. It was all he had the breath for. By the time they burst back into the clearing below the village, he and Emmy had to slump against the base of the Great Oak before the climb could even be attempted.

"What's got you two tearing the forest up like that?" Dogwood's voice drifted down at them from where he perched at the prey storage.

"The Sand Tribe!" Sycamore yowled. "The Sand Tribe's scent is on our land- Where's Hollyhock?"

"Out on patrol," Dogwood scrabbled down the tree trunk upside down, his yellow eyes suddenly bright with fear. "Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure," Sycamore panted. "The Sand Tribe's scent is on our land, they could show up any moment!"

"Maybe they're just here to talk," Dogwood tried, but Hyacinth's yowl cut him off.

"For Arceus's sake, Dogwood, have you gone crazy? Even if they are, we need Hollyhock here, which way did she go?"

"She was patrolling the border with the Plains Tribe," Dogwood said. "She-"

But at that very moment, Hollyhock raced into the village, followed by Frond, Aloe, and Thorn.