Barrow Fields the lark in the morning

she lifted a paw to climb the strange mound, to roll in the feathers left behind by her quarry, but a drunken voice interrupted the swiftly falling silence and kestrel paused. she turned her head, unalarmed but interested in potential company, and she watched the voice’s owner approach with little concern.

kestrel offered him a grin and a shrug, does a wolf need t'be mad to scare the piss out of prey, then? not that she made a habit of eating birds if she could help it. her brogue was thick, voice low and husky. she watched as he sized her up, then took measure of him in turn. she envied the strength she saw there, knowing that even when the last of her adolescent lankiness was gone, she would never be as... muscular or hardy.

not really understanding his question and so choosing to ignore it, she presented one of her own, d’ya know what these weird hills are for? looks like a pack buried two moose a piece under em, but i can’t imagine needin this many caches. an' they look auld as feck.

editted to fix accent