Three ships flew overhead in tight formation. Their shadows flickered across Grutuk's iris as she calculated their probable landing zones. Satisfied, she rose from the tangle of blackberries where she had been hiding, the thorns scraping harmlessly against her ivory shell. Xavol sat quietly, one dark claw scratching idly at the dirt. He had drawn the old runes, once powerful symbols of tithing, now nothing more than shallow scrawls. Grutuk nudged him. "Time to get to work," she said. Xavol rose slowly, then kicked away the drawings with his foot. He hissed and clacked his jaws. "You always say that," she sighed, and the two headed toward the trees to wait for the Guardians.