Redsand Canyon days of creation

Another morning, another day without any trace of Donovan and Nemisis, and if Finley herself took one more trip outside the territory—as if that’d offer any answers—she might as well never come back. The previous day’s hunt had been a welcome respite, but it lasted long as a stationary tumbleweed. But she could afford to be less conspicuous. Already she wondered if Renard had noticed anything, masked as their conversation had been, and Finley would be damned if she got exiled on the basis of disloyalty.

If Colin had any similar qualms, his trail up north towards the Pass—the “meeting” site, of all places—gave no indication. Finley followed anyway, head high. She’d left their last meeting quite refreshed, despite the circumstances; perhaps he’d be up for another round. It did not remotely dawn on her that he might object to having his morning lounge interrupted by an unwanted invitation; warriors ought to be on guard, after all.

He came into view among the trees, and he was not alone. Finley had approached from a less secluded vantage, and across from her entered another familiar figure. Renard. Ah. The hell was he doing here. Perhaps he’d been wandering as well; from this distance Finley couldn’t read him, nor could she tell if he’d noticed her own presence.

Their positioning might have suggested the surrounding of prey, with Colin as their not-quite-cornered target. Whatever demand-masquerading-as-hello Finley had been about to offer, away it flew unspoken into the open air—replaced by an actual greeting, throwaway as it was. “Morning, Colin.” She was not hidden, and she did not take her eyes off Renard. The least she could offer was that she, for one, would not be stalking him. (Fighting, maybe. Later. As Finley did. But somehow it, among other troubles, had become the last thing on her mind.)

social distancing colin sandwich