Guardians by Design - Land

“Gotcha…” said the banded assassin, holding the tip of her weapon to the helpless opossum’s throat. Her other hand gripped the victim’s, twisting it behind his back.

Gasping desperately, the opossum exposed razor-sharp canines. Saliva frothed in the corners of his mouth as he tightened his grip on the wrist that wielded a weapon. Heat radiated from her white-knuckled grip towards his throat. She could feel his heart thump through his back as she pressed her knuckles deeper into his spine.

The tip of the tooth-dagger prodded into his neck, centimeters away from his carotid artery. Steadying his breathing, he attempted to calm himself – should he expand his skin any further from deep breaths, the tip of the bone-knife would easily pierce his taut throat.

Releasing his grip from her wrist, the opossum slashed at her face, hovering just over his right shoulder. Dodging his barrage of hacking slashes, she kicked him in the back, sending him to his knees. By the time he turned around to find her, she was gone.

Numerous shadows were cast through the dim room by vertical ripples in the wood walls. Burrowed with haste, the walls had never been filed down evenly. Every protruding section offered a suitable hiding place for the assassin attempting to claim the possum’s life.

Quickly crawling on all fours, the opossum scurried to the closest nook, then backed himself into a corner. The gnawed surfaces of the unfinished project were rough and unforgiving, and upon backing in too far, he gasped at the pain of gathering a splinter in his hind end.

The assassin’s pupils dilated, allowing her to track her frantic prey during his escape into the darkness. Back to the wall, she watched him extend his arm to pat the ground surrounding him. Miraculously, his small paw fell on the hilt of a weapon made of tooth and wood. It was one of her own; dropped during the tussle. She smiled.

Hand shaking from adrenaline, he desperately extended his paw towards the same weapon that had recently been placed against his throat; now abandoned in darkness. She seized the moment. Just as his fingers wrapped around the hilt, her black hand shot from the shadows to meet his. A light, open-palmed slap was all it took to send his hand into blinding pain. The sharpness of the throbbing ache forced him to release a howl. Though no flame had illuminated the dim room, his hand had been ignited in an instant.

“Nettles!” he cried, his previous yell still reverberating off the dense walls surrounding him. The possum turned back to where he had first spotted the dagger. It was gone. His hand shook violently from the searing heat that threatened to burn flesh from bone. He braced, extended arm quivering in pain. Watching him fight an internal battle, she commended him for resisting the urge to squeeze the throbbing ache with his opposite hand – it would only spread the toxin further.

His jaw relaxed, unable to prevent the desperate pants leaving his chest as his head swung side to side, scanning the room for his attacker. A light scraping came from the walls above him – claws on wood. He didn’t have to look up to know who made the sound. The assassin cursed her carelessness quietly – she had given away her position . Suspended above him, she clung between two pillars by two paws on each one.

The possum turned his gaze to a pile of rubble against the wall opposite himself. This would be his only moment to attempt an escape. He won’t be able to run quickly on three limbs – but a three-legged hobble to safety is better than waiting here to die, the assassin thought. She watched the opossum’s shoulder muscles twitch through his fur, just before he dug his hind claws into the soft wood to get a leaping start.

“And this is where you would die…” Festelda said from above. Limbs spread, daggers still in hand, she was indeed suspended above him, looking directly down. Should she drop, she would be able to land daggers-first on his back, sinking them directly into his shoulder blades.

Forcefully pushing her hind legs from the vertically protruding wooden arches, she leapt from her perch and softly landed on the ground in front of him. Woven vines and roots lazily pulled away from each other, allowing sunlight to pour into the primitive room. A group of training assassins lining the far wall let out a round of applause as Festelda helped the pitiful ’possum to his feet. Gritting his teeth, he accepted the assistance – without the hand still constricted in burning pain.

“Well done, erm, little buddy,” Festelda said, inconveniently forgetting his name. “So, what technique did I use to overpower my target?” Festelda asked the class consisting of possums, badgers, marmots, and even a couple squirrels. About a dozen total, they stood respectfully, backs to the wall closest the exit.

“Cornering,” one badger replied. Diligently taking mental notes, he wore a sinister grin.

“Can you elaborate, Henden?” Festelda asked the badger.

“You intimidated your enemy. Enough for him to back himself into a corner; thinking the solid walls would protect him. Should he have a roof, it may have worked. But you were able to get the high ground, Festelda,” Henden recited from previous instruction.

“Yes,” Festelda projected to the class ecstatically. “Roofs are the important detail here. I know that our instinct will strongly persuade us to squeeze into physical protection. But when there is a predator breathing down your neck, you need to be sure you have all sides covered.”

The possum whimpered, sitting back on his hind legs. Using his pink, bald tail as support allowed him to clutch his stinging hand.

“Oh, right. So sorry!” Festelda said, procuring a counter toxin Brenloru had provided for her instruction.

“Where did you get the daggers?” Henden hissed as Festelda patted the counter toxin onto the possum’s paw, careful not to rub any of the nettles on her own hands.

“They are a keep safe of mine…” she replied flatly. “At one point in my life, my claws and teeth no longer felt sufficient. That’s why I have these now.” Her response was half-hearted, preoccupied by studying the results of Brenloru’s questionable counter toxin. The opossum’s hand continued to quiver, but his sobbing had waned.

Henden hadn’t taken his eyes off her weapons. They had glazed over, and his facial expression remained unchanged, suggesting he hadn’t heard the answer to his own question.

“Okay, Henden,” Festelda said, calling for his attention. She sheathed her daggers to hide the distraction. “What would you have done in a cornered situation, assuming you had found a hole, or tunnel to back into?”

“Jump down and meet the entrance head-on. Evaluate if I am small enough to squeeze through,” he replied, locking eyes with her. His body was rigid – he hadn’t budged an inch since her demonstration began. “If my whole body won’t fit, I would try to claw him out.

“As – as the victim? I don’t understand. Like I said, you’re already in the hole.”

“Oh, heh. I thought you meant as the predator,” Henden replied in an icy tone. “Figured it might be effective to put ourselves in the mind of the attacker to foresee actions and adapt to our enemy.”

The room fell silent. A chilled, early-spring breeze passed through the gaps of the roots that acted as a perforated wall.

“Oh, I see… just a misunderstanding then,” Festelda replied. “Now, let’s try to stay focused on the perspective of the prey. We are pretending that we are defending ourselves. Not attacking.”

Henden shifted lightly. His eyes darted back to Festelda’s waist where she had sheathed the dagger. Festelda scanned the room to examine other student’s reactions. Perhaps Henden did have a point? Should she explore the ‘other perspective’ of an attack? I suppose he makes a convincing argument. Wouldn’t hurt to be one step ahead of your enemy, she thought.

No – the other students appeared equally uncomfortable. She wondered if Henden had a particularly nasty reputation.

“Can anyone tell me what I used to disable my ‘prey’? Festelda asked the class, attempting to change the subject.

Henden cracked another broad grin that exposed his canines, but a squirrel answered before he could. “Nettles?” she asked sheepishly.

“Yes, good. Nettles,” Festelda replied to the squirrel. “Easily harvestable. Abundant in the spring and summer. Non-lethal in small doses, but highly irritating.”

Henden seemed to be focused for now, but had yet to take his eyes off Festelda’s waist. Her belt stood out proudly against her lighter-than-typical fur color for her species. A tannish brown, she chalked her odd complexion up to simply being unique. That, or nature had ‘blessed’ her by marking her with lighter shades as a symbolic gesture of her resistance the darkness that is the consumption of flesh.

“And how did I draw my prey out of hiding?” Festelda carried on with the class as normal. She could still feel Henden’s gaze burning through her.

“You discarded a weapon where he could see it. It caused him to expose himself,” a particularly chubby marmot chimed in. His ‘s’ sounds were enunciated with sharp whistles.

“Yes! Or as I like to call it: bait.” Festelda paced towards the back of the room where light failed to reach. Shadows lightly shrouded her. Hopefully Henden’s attention would be drawn away from her weapon if it was obscured. “Never allow yourself to be baited. Predators may use food or tools as motivation to draw you from your hiding holes. Don’t fall for it!”

“Before next week’s class, I want you all to visit Parsun the Keeper,” Festelda continued, walking amongst the flickering light. “Explore his stock room. Provide yourself with visual aid of –”

“Ouch! Stop that Henden!” cried the only other badger amongst the group. Henden had taken to pinching and nipping at the younger member of his species.

Henden whipped his focus back to Festelda like a cub picking on his little brother for as long as he would allow it.

“Visual aid of what?” a squirrel chimed in, trying to keep the class moving through the disturbances.

“Visual aids of…” Festelda was barely able to finish her sentence. “Visual aids of poisonous plants… I want you all to know what they look like should you come across them in the forest.”

Henden was still feigning interest, wearing a mocking grin.

“That concludes this class,” Festelda announced abruptly. “Remember, stay safe if you must leave the Homestead in the winter. Always travel in groups and keep eyes on every angle. I will see you all next week.

Heading straight for the exit, Festelda firmly brushed by Henden, who kept his eyes locked on her. She discreetly kept her tiny paws clutched on the sheaths of her daggers, ensuring they were held in place. I need to keep an eye on him, she decided. And hide my weapons for as long as I reside in the Homestead.

***

Nearly a week after Festelda’s troubling class, Dahj stood in the rock archway that led to the farming plots he had frequented. It seemed to be the only thing to take his mind off the daunting journey ahead of him. His biggest struggle had been feeling worthy enough of the title of ‘Guardian’. I was just a bison in a previous life… he thought. What in the world led me to this? What would my mother think?

He rolled the depleted appendage around in his hand, disregarding Brenloru’s scolding comments. It was pitiful and fragile. Mostly made of rubble and only about a half of a foot in length, it laid completely still in the palm of his hand. Lifeless and plain, it resembled an odd trinket crudely carved from pumice that one may find at an herbivore’s swap meet. What did I do to deserve such a role? My species migrates and eats… that’s it. I’m not the one to end the predatory threat of this planet.

“What are we planting today, Dahj?” a gopher asked him, drawing his attention away from the unmoving appendage. Half of the digger’s body still submerged in dirt. The gopher’s black, beady eyes gazed at Dahj, patiently waited for the massive beast to return his focus to the task at hand. Proficient in digging, the gopher had been assigned to the farming plots against his will. His main task was the development of irrigation ditches using depressions of straight lines throughout the cave.

A narrow crag ran through the roof of the largest farming cave of the Homestead, allowing sunlight to bathe the musty plot of subterranean land. Water and snow would drip through the crag, but the cold air was prevented from entering, shielded by the wall of warmth provided from the activity of creatures within the Homestead. Their rapid movements acted as a natural furnace that heated the tree fortress. Seasons still had their natural effect on crops and their respective yields here, but the greenhouse effect encapsulated under the dome-shaped cave, paired with natural heating allowed the animals to trick certain plants into season.

“Root crops, again?” the gopher inquired through two long, yellowing front teeth.

“No, there’s… something else I’d like to work on today,” Dahj replied with a forced tone of optimism. Within his side pouch was a handful of raspberry seeds he had taken from the Stock Room.

Those are never gonna grow at this time of year, even in the underground farming plots! Parsun’s shrill voice rang through Dahj’s head. You’re wasting your time, bison! He chose to ignore the negativity, however, knowing of at least one resident that would be ecstatic to receive berries in the middle of winter.

“Daisies? I love daisies!” said the gopher excitedly. Perhaps focusing on the crops he did desire would motivate him enough to get back to work.

Great, something else I can add to the list of ‘food residents want in the winter’, Dahj thought with a huff. “No, no little one. I’m sorry. Maybe next week. Today I’d like to try raspberries!”

“Berries! At this time of year? Even in the – ”

“Yeah yeah, winter. Underground. Proper conditions,” Dahj said dismissively. “Parsun already gave me an earful. Just humor me, will ya?”

The gopher obliged. This was his only role in the Homestead, after all, and he was good at it.

Assuming a position on all fours, Dahj used his large, leathery fingers to excavate the moist soil. The hunch in his back forced his head to hang low enough to smell the earth he knelt in – to raise his head to a level position would cause his neck a tremendous amount of strain. He only lifted his head when it was necessary to communicate with the badger digging rows in the soil, regarding where they would plant seeds.

Despite being frequented for various crops, the dirt smelled healthy. Rich and nutritious, it reminded Dahj of the first bites he would pull from the soil upon returning to his spring feeding grounds. Nostalgia offered the presence of several bison surrounding him; silently severing blades of rich grass that nourished their famished bodies. He scoffed at the novelty of the herd planting their own food. Had they harnessed this capability years ago, migration would have been unnecessary!

Working in a straight line, Dahj brushed past potato stalks and a rosemary bush that released a calming fragrance when disturbed. The scent reminded him of Brenloru. The moose smelled more of a plant than he did animal. Dahj could almost hear the sound of Brenloru’s mortar and pedestal grinding together after selecting herbs to feed it with.

Forcefully twisting his neck, Dahj peered through the rows of varietal stalks surrounding him. He had never seen the land from this angle, and found it amusing that he must resist consuming any, if not all of the food right then and there.

His fingers grew numb from scraping at harder earth beneath the soft surface. I should have had that possum make me a shovel while he was at it…

The sound of dripping water was becoming more frequent. “Do you have the seeds? Steady stream of water coming through right now – might be a good time to put them in the dirt,” the gopher noted.

Dahj removed various large stones from his channel and shook the pain from his fingers. “Yeah, right here. They already look juicy!” Leaning back to a kneeling position, he plucked the pouch containing seeds from his waist before emptying the contents into the palm of his opposite hand. One by one, he shoved them into the canal the gopher had assisted him in digging.

Unamused, the gopher watched Dahj stand back to admire his work. Only allowing his head to poke out of the soft dirt, the gopher didn’t seem trusting enough even in the Homestead to expose his entire body. “What are you waiting for? You know its gonna take some time, right? What is this, your first time growing?”

“Maybe…” Dahj said. After returning the seed pouch to his belt, he knelt next to the freshly-planted raspberries. With a lot of focus – whatever that meant – and a little bit of hope, he placed his hand, open palmed, on the flat bed of freshly-churned soil.

A tingling sensation passed through Dahj’s hand as he pressed lightly on the dirt. The gopher gasped and fully retreated into his hole in the blink of an eye as multiple small tendrils sprouted from the ground. Tenaciously working their way between his fingers, they quickly reached towards the crag that provided sunlight above.

Dahj laughed in excitement. The gopher had not returned – perhaps his tiny heart had failed him. Pressing firmly on the soil seemed to accelerate the growing process. Within moments, the tendrils had hardened into stems. The stems grew long and rigid before branches forked from the stalks. Leaves quickly opened to absorb sunlight, providing energy to the plant soon to produce berries as the bush extended vertically.

Solid white, texture-less berries populated the rigid branches that had already surpassed Dahj’s kneeling height. Greeted by winter’s limited sunlight, their white skin turned to a pale yellow, then a deep shade of orange, then red. The complexion of the quickly maturing fruit deepened as tiny white hairs grew between plump pockets of flavorful juice.

Mystified, Dahj held his open-palmed hand firmly in place as the berries continued to rapidly populate the bountiful bush until – one burst. Dahj sputtered as raspberry juice splattered across his face. Then another burst, then another. They were growing so big, so fast, that their thin skin could no longer contain the rapid growth. Dahj fell back in laughter as he wiped skins, seeds, and sugars from his face before licking his fingers clean.

The moment he had removed his hand, the plant stopped growing. Plump berries that had grown to their limit remained precariously suspended from branches sagging under their weight. The fruit now closer resembled an apple than a berry. Dahj remained sitting, waiting for it to continue its growth spurt. It didn’t. The leaves lightly moved in the breeze coming from the crag in the ceiling as a couple of the over-grown berries fell to the ground with a light thump.

Do I really have to be?

Rolling on his hind legs towards the plant, he firmly grabbed the base of the bountiful shrub. The plant resumed its growth as sticky berry juice dried to Dahj’s beard. The fruit swelled until the pressure was too great, then burst. The sensation, the sound, the scent sent Dahj into a fit of laughter. Okay, okay! Enough, he thought and pulled his hand away to halt the spread. I need to get these ‘red squishies’ to a lucky recipient.

***

The young chipmunk’s small jaw hung loose beneath his beady eyes; now wider than his species was typically able to manage. The look on his face expressed an emotion beyond shock and pleasure. Frozen in place, his rigid body looked as if it was still adjusting to recent time travel.

“How did you…” the chipmunk’s mother asked, sitting beside her stunned son. Wearing a similar expression, she looked as if she had just witnessed a phenomenon and a half. She glanced at a small hole dug through the wall that acted as a window. Just as a precaution; she wanted to make sure she hadn’t severely lost track of time and found herself in the middle of spring.

“Advanced farming techniques, and a little bit of luck,” Dahj replied as he donated a pile of plump, fresh raspberries to the mother and son. They fell to the table with a light squish. Juice ran from the bursting berries across the rough surface of the wooden table, permanently staining it.

The young chipmunk’s hand shook as he reached for the largest raspberry he could lift. Without looking up, he buried his face in the side, sending a cascade of spring’s nectar down his furry chest.

“Oh, jeez. Oliver!” his mother shouted. “That’s sticky! You’re going to need a bath now!” She reached for a taste of warmer weather as well.

Oliver didn’t listen. In an instant, he had advanced time by several months and enveloped himself in the intoxicating pleasures of spring. The bite caused the songs of birds to ring throughout the room. Grey clouds were pulled away, no longer inhibiting the rejuvenating rays of sun’s light amongst blue skies. The snow outside had melted, revealing full fields of green. A warm breeze carried the pedals of recently blossomed flowers over his head as he bathed in nirvana.

Dahj let out a booming laugh at the massacre of red splatter across the old wooden table before the satisfied chipmunk. Humor quickly turned to concern as he worried that the child would not come out of the raspberry in time to take a breath.

“I’m glad you like them, little one,” Dahj said before turning to retire within spine of the Homestead. The chipmunk did not respond.

Although impressed with his ability to grow plants on demand, he decided to reserve the skill. Should Parsun discover his ability of nearly instant farming, he may never allow Dahj to leave the underground plots!

***

Reblex wandered the hallways, overcome with boredom. He found the Homestead fascinating, but had quickly grown tired of the underground lifestyle only a few days after ‘awakening’ here. His species was more accustomed to tall mountain peaks under open skies in a previous life. The sensation of cold stone beneath his feet only made him want to climb higher. Alas, he was constantly under the wooden roof of sprawling tunnels.

Taking to eating out of boredom, he made his way to the dining room. A simple wing of the Homestead, it featured rounded, wooden walls with a few tables in the center. Tables that seemed to be crafted from a singular piece of wood. Their legs were crude and jagged; teeth and scratch marks were clearly visible. The shape of the tabletop was questionable; it was unclear if the crafters had decided on square, circular, or had changed their minds half-way through construction. It seemed as if a group of beavers had retrieved a singular piece of wood, then relentlessly chewed until they had a hunk of wood that resembled a table.

A thin stream of frigid water ran straight through the middle of the room, hastened by the slanted elevation of the floor. It fed in from the side closest to the mountain, and towards the porous wall made of thick roots on the opposite side of the room. The stream consisted of freshly melted snow, provided by warming peaks high above the Cedar Homestead. Reblex hydrated himself from the in-house water source before scanning the room for somewhere to sit and kill time.

The smell of decomposing vegetables and plants lingered in the air from forgotten leftovers. Reblex scoffed at the thought of animals being too lazy to clean up after themselves in a public setting. Nothing offered sounded appetizing. He had struggled to satisfy his hunger since moving into the Homestead – perhaps because of the claustrophobia, or the plant’s shelf life. His body was craving something that the residents had yet to supply, but he wasn’t sure what it was. Something… fatty? Like a nut. Or fleshy, like plump berries.

Various small mammals populated the room, fiddling with seeds and dried legumes as they chatted with each other, making small talk out of boredom. Lacking the desire to talk about the weather or cabin fever, Reblex turned to leave the room when Festelda caught his eye. She had taken to a small corner in the back, concealed in the shadows. If it wasn’t for her fiddling with daggers made of teeth and the dominance of light brown fur highlighting her body, he may not have noticed her. Her bushy tail hung from the chair she was perched upon. The tip flicked slightly as Reblex crossed the room wearing a grin. His approach seemed to inflate the striped tail further.

“You know, you’re quite striking with so much white fur – even in the shadows,” Reblex mocked as he walked across the room.

Festelda simply scoffed in reply, seeming distracted. “We’ll see if you notice me when I’m sneaking up on you… ram,” she said sinfully, poking the tip of her dagger with an index finger.

“So, did you have to kill the animal to get those?” Reblex asked. He approached the table to take a seat across the raccoon.

Festelda flinched, then dropped her eyes to the surface of the table between them before shaking her head. “I don’t believe in killing,” she replied without looking up.

“Just trying to make conversation,” Reblex said bashfully.

Festelda looked up and sighed. “Sorry, I just had a really awkward class last week. Still lingering on my mind. Someone that I’m not sure can be trusted had a lot of questions about the same weapons. Guess I’m just on edge. The thought of being interrogated again sickens me.”

“I see. Someone that lives here? I figured anyone that resides in this tree is already trusted.”

“That’s what I thought… Yet, some species are adjusting differently than others. I have seen it before, trust me. Sadly, many more will succumb to the evil persuasion.”

“Well… you can trust me…” Reblex said. He placed a hand on the table shared with the cloistered raccoon. “I mean, I’ve barely gotten used to my hands, and I don’t have any sharp teeth!” Grinning broadly, he revealed teeth strictly designed to consume flora.

“I guess you’re right, ram. When I was much younger, a mountain lion attacked my village. Thought he could pick off a few of the weak. He chased a few into trees. This was just after the transition in my species.”

Reblex raised an eyebrow, cautiously becoming aware of her honed teeth.

“He managed to injure a few of us, but we were more aggressively defensive than he expected. I have never seen my pack fight like that. Growling, slashing, biting.” Festelda’s index claw dug into the softened surface of the wooden table.

“So why did you get the teeth?” Reblex asked.

“I tried to help the young. Wrangled them to the trees to keep safe. Then I saw the lion injure my father. I just kind of… snapped.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in killing?” Reblex said with a smirk.

“I don’t,” she replied dismissively, “but when it comes to my family, it’s not about killing. It’s about survival.”

Festelda stood up, leaving her small daggers on the table. “Dropping from the branch above, I slashed at his eyes, bit his neck,” she said, circling behind the ram. “Lastly, I opened his throat with my claws – a recent addition to our physical make-up – spilling his blood in front of my father.”

Reblex leaned back in his chair.

“I retreated to a tree. Sitting with my back to it, I wept as I inspected my hands, covered in blood. I never wanted to be like that – I had resisted it for so long. As I witnessed my family turning to the consumption of flesh, I fought the urge, never spilling the blood of another animal until that day.” Her hands shook slightly as she looked at them, as if imaging them to still be covered in blood.

Festelda turned to retrieve one of her daggers. Turning it over in her hands, she inspected the hilt. “In my absence, my brother removed the animal’s canines. Later he helped me craft these. They represent my dedication to the protection of my family, my species, and this land.”

“Impressive,” Reblex muttered. He picked up the dagger that Festelda had left on the table and touched the sharp tip. “I’m more of a blunt force trauma guy, myself.” His eyes flicked upwards, gesturing towards his horns. “So, this is why you want to be a Guardian?”

“I suppose. I do care deeply for the herbivores, and feel that my blood relates closer to theirs than that of a carnivore. After my pack made the transition to seeking flesh, I felt I didn’t belong. I no longer had a home… I am very grateful for this place, and happy to call it my new home,” she replied.

In the time it took Reblex to blink, Festelda had quickly snatched her dagger back out of his hand, causing him to flinch.

Nodding in agreement, Reblex felt he, too, had nowhere to return to outside the Homestead. “Do you trust him, Festelda?” he asked after a short pause. “The Designer.”

“Well sure,” she said hesitantly. “Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know. It all just seems too good to be true.” Reblex turned away from the table to observe the other animals in the room, who remained focused on their meals or conversation. “One guy? Created all of this? It just doesn’t add up.”

“I mean, he said he had help. The elements shaped the earth we know, and the designer of the carnivores helped to create various species.”

“A comment he made – something to do with trial and error,” Reblex continued, recalling the first meeting with the Designer he had attended. “Us rams, we are some of the few species that populate the mountains; as high as the land can reach. I have heard tales of horrible, pitiful creatures that are kept up there. Left alone, abandoned to die. Creatures you have never seen in your life. Creatures that shouldn’t exist, and barely do in some of the most remote parts of the planet.”

“Why are they there?” Festelda asked, leaning forward.

“I think that they’re experiments. Failed test subjects. Models unsuitable for this planet,” Reblex replied sternly. “My greatest fear, however, is that we’re just the current generation. A new wave of ’test subjects’, to see which will be most successful. That’s why there are multiple species to represent the ‘Guardians’. Moose, bison, ram. He is testing us.”

“But, I haven’t seen any raccoons… and to be honest, I feel I have done noble things in my lifetime! Things deserving of a chance to be a Guardian,” Festelda said.

“Raccoons have become omnivorous. They have slipped away from his control. Perhaps you no longer qualify,” Reblex suggested.

Festelda looked defeated. “I’ll change his mind…” she said under her breath.

“I want to see this place. I think I know where it is,” Reblex said in a low tone. “I will take you there. I’m still a strong climber, even with my new body.”

“How long will it take? Don’t you think our absence will gain attention?”

“Everyone is basically hibernating. Dahj and Brenloru are distracted with logistics and preparing for the journey ahead of us. I think we can be back in two days’ time,” he promised.

Overcome with curiosity, Festelda agreed, fighting the fear of what they might discover. “I’ll need to stock up on a few things,” she said, lazily pushing her remaining meal around on the table like a picky cub. It consisted of seeds and nuts. Only dried foods remained in the stock room this late in the year; hard foods that crunched and chipped when eaten. Spring was just around the corner, and many were looking forward to juicy berries and fresh grasses.

“I think I know of a spot where I can get some oils and powders before we depart,” she said with a wink.

“Great, then get some rest and meet me in the morning. We leave before the light arrives.”

“You’re not going to get anything to eat?” Festelda asked as he rose from the table.

“Nah, nothing sounds good right now,” he replied, gazing at the meal she was unable to finish.

As Festelda headed for the exit of the dining room, she mentioned the importance of her practicing walking on two legs. Reblex encouraged the slow improvement in her own posture, assuring that it would be beneficial to her in the Designer’s eyes.

As they took a left turn, the sound of claws scraping on wood caused the pair to freeze. The sound of creatures – struggling – down the hallway to their right.

Festelda’s widening eyes were accompanied by a shriek as Dahj and Brenloru rounded the corner.