Blackfeather Woods There might have been a time

Backdated to the fourth, early morning.

The calls of the crows awoke him that morning, their cries ringing out all around him as they engaged in an argument with the ravens; tensions were high since the news of the war reached them, causing the two flocks to often go after one another. Shutting them out, he rose from just within a tunnel’s entrance and stretched out his body, joints popping and bones creaking whilst his muscles warmed. He turned eastward and began moving that way at a steady pace, intending to get a drink from the creek and then start his morning off with a leisurely stroll—which, like most days, would double as a patrol. It was good for him, keeping his body in motion, despite the pain that it occasionally brought with it; never did he show this, always standing just as proud as ever, essentially ignoring his aging body to keep from reaching the same state mentally.

At some point on his way, a crow swooped down and glided alongside him for a short while, attempting to converse—if you could call it that. It was more like a series of complaints—aimed at the ravens, of course—all of which were ignored by the Inuk, which soon led to the crow’s abandonment of the conversation altogether. So, by the time he’d reached the end of the creek just beyond the treeline, he was alone. Leaning down, he took a few mouthfuls of water, rehydrating his mouth and fully ridding himself of any lingering sleep. Though, still, once he was finished he continued to linger around there, just within the outskirts of the territory; not yet ready for his patrol, he instead watched the slow rise of the sun, enjoying what little warmth it had to offer.