Dragoncrest Cliffs heaven will be a grand piano of baked potatoes

Birds were not easy prey. For as much time as he had spent hunting them, there were only a few types that he felt he actually had some sort of strategy for capturing. Those were mostly the ground-based ones, though he was feeling pretty close to making some headway on catching waterfowl. Birds of flight, however, were something else entirely. And so, of course, those were the ones he spent most of his time hunting.

For any who witnessed this particular hunt, however, they would be a little skeptical in thinking it was a hunt at all. Artaax was seated at the base of a tall tree with his muzzle pointed overhead. The limb forked into a few separate branches, but at the crossroads sat a nest. The boy stared shrewdly at this nest, which had long since been abandoned by the feathered family that had created it.

Had Bobby been around to witness this, Artaax would have been in for a seemingly endless onslaught of mockery. But since he was currently unaware that he was being stalked, the hompleia had given his focus completely to his silent analysis, thinking himself safe to assume that he would be spared from any judgmental witnesses.