Dragoncrest Cliffs without the bad, the good disappears

Despite his appreciation for the gentle lull of sea sounds at night, Melchior had found it hard to find sleep, and so instead of laying uselessly next to his brother, he opted set out, getting to his daily task far earlier than normal. By the time morning had rolled in, thick beams of sunlight warming the chilled air, Melchior had already finish a patrol, and was in the middle of hunting some small game to help replenish the cahces. He had very little luck until he had happened upon a grouse scratching and pecking along the forest-side edge of Drageda's territory. Catching it was no great effort, for they were incredibly stupid to begin with, and the one he had caught seemed especially slow. It was a wonder it had made it past hatchling-hood, although it was rather disappointing in size. With a mouth full of feathers, he gathered the pitiful foul, and set off to return it to storage.

At this point, he was vulnerable, although it was not much of an issue within the pack's boundaries. His nose was filled with the scent of fresh kill, vision partially obscured by wayward feathers, so he did not notice that he was about to intercept a packmate. When he did across in front of her, he gave a small start, before stopping, and turning to acknowledge her. He gave a sheepish nod, and lingered for a moment, just in case she had something to say.