Gone.

Locket listened as the Chief called their names, but he knew all too well, their enemy played the game well and their own leader had been caught sleeping on the job. Romani, Madyrn, Maskan... For all Locket knew, he was the only warrior of this herd left standing. A herds greatness was often measured by it's military might yet he stood alone amongst the fray with but a youthful leader to follow into war. Yet to war he would go if their enemy came, much Archibald had taught him in their last spar and if one thing it was never to run. Even if he must fight unknown faces, for pride if for nothing else. There was always a reason to go to war.

Cascades of curly mane dance in the dangerous sky as he comes finally to gaze upon Jackal the King of Thieves, his body like flame against his angry backdrop. There were others, Paladin who seemed less inclined to go to war and more inclined to flee in the face of family. Locket looked over the dun but said nothing, he knew next to nothing of their Storyteller, he had no right to judge him even if his words did speak of cowardice. Locket knew nothing of family, a beggar from birth, never troubled with the emotion that was 'family'. Though others voiced there disagreement, he noted the name of the alabaster femme with a pretty face, Nadira. An apprentice of their stolen healer, maybe the only one here who knew how to heal if only a little. Locket nodded his head once to her in friendly greeting. The other was their Mason, Aaron, who seemed a little more vexed with Paladin and Jackal than others. He wondered what ailed him, was there bad blood here or was it nerves of an impending war getting to him? How should the panda boy to know, he knew little of his herd as it changed so quickly in such a short space of time Locket had barely been given chance to breathe. It seemed in a flash that he was promoted to the ranks of warriors, not the he minded, Locket was proud to stand as the militant symbol. Even if it was just him.

"'ocket, warrior, reporting for duty, Chief Jacka'." The 'L' sound always got to him. With an elegant proffer of his head, the Arab stood boldly forward in the line of unknown faces, fit and ready.