Redhawk Caldera Crunch time

Towhee squinted across the glaringly bright and snowy landscape, her internal monologue quiet for the moment, her usually roiling emotions simmering innocuously at present. It was the proverbial calm before the storm within the mercenary's breast. They would march within days, the battle would be fought (and won), and then...

Then life would go on, without Phox. This thought caused her jaw to clench and she turned, picking her way toward a stockpile. It was difficult to eat, though Towhee knew she must stay nourished if she wanted to be in fighting shape when the time came. She had made a point not to eat anything with her wayward brother's scent markers on it.

When she arrived, she found she wasn't alone. Ears flicking, she regarded Quixote coolly. "Hey, Quixote," she said, putting a strange emphasis on the first syllable of his name to prove she'd understood his previous correction on its pronunciation. Her lips curved into a tight smile, but only for a moment.

She approached the snow-covered cache, dug at it and began nosing through the contents. She found a frozen stoat drenched in Phox's smell. Her stomach clenched and she rather abruptly tossed it in her pack mate's direction before resuming pawing through the proverbial refrigerator.