It was one such early morning, the sky just lightening with the rise of the sun, that found Smoke performing a patrol herself. The air had not yet warmed, and held the night's cool for some few hours yet. She had grown tired of organizing and directing things, doing the things that leaders do. She wanted movement, something to do. So she walked the borders, muzzle low to catch unfamiliar scents.
As always, she was never alone. Above her Zaffre fluttered from branch to branch, a figure that seemed alternately a reminder of the deepest night and a harbringer of the midday skies. At times he dove, ending some small life with a rustle and a muffled squeak, before reclaiming a lofty perch to crunch on a rodent snack. Neither were concerned about encountering a threat, or a stranger. So they were both relaxed, dropping the casually alert stance they generally maintained when roaming beyond the Foothills.