River dared not breathe. She listened hard for the signal she knew had to be coming. Then, as if on cue, a hoot came floating across the still night air. Time to act.
The super-continent of Sklavia used to be a multitude of islands. 67 of them, to be exact. After the Great Merge, those 67 islands were all squished into one big super-continent, and Sklavia became a melting pot of cultures and languages.
Not making a sound, River climbed up onto the building's rooftop. Her balaclava itched. She resisted the urge to scratch or sneeze.
In 1290 BCE, the now landlocked, once island-nation of Micidona, led under Alexander the Great, began conquering neighboring island-nations. As Alexander conquered and Micidonia expanded, this territory was slowly being known as the Republic of Alexandria.
She scanned the streets below. Not many enemy troops. Another owl's hoot drifted lazily, carried this time by a slight breeze. River did not like this meager, dry, desert breeze, but it was preferable to the 120-kilometer-per-hour blizzards of the Olps. She'd been sent there on multiple missions and had no intention of going there ever again.
River did a head count of the lopsided, leaning tents. They had been haphazardly erected using bone-dry twigs and cloth so patched and dirty it was unrecognizable. River felt a small twinge of satisfaction: the enemy was definitely running out of resources. And warriors.
The owl's hoot sounded again, more urgent this time. River silently drew from a small leather pouch on her waist, a small, cylinder object. A bone flute. She raised it to her lips and blew. A nightingale's warble played high and clear, albeit softly. She stopped after playing the passage three times. Three owl's hoots came in reply. Alright. Data has been gathered, and the mission is complete. Time to head back to base. Two shrill chirps escaped from her flute. Affirmative. With not so much as a rustle, River bounded silently across the rooftops and disappeared.