Buchanan had not wasted any time getting started on his promise to Banner to further her feather collection — and by extension Stark by promising to make hunting a priority upon his acceptance — he had a mission that had happened to correlate well between what he wanted to do while also helping the pack as a whole. Surely, some of the birds could be stored away in the caches when Banner was done selecting the feathers from them that she wanted. A blur of brown and white caught the wraith's sharp eye and silvern gaze the color of liquid mercury zeroed in upon the fowl, studying it's fascinating plumage. It was a mottled black and browns, with white tipped feathers on some of it's chest plumage and orange tipped tail feathers spread out in a fan. Surely Banner could find a few feathers from it (it was a male spruce grouse but Buchanan didn't know that) that she liked, that were unique and interesting; though admittedly Buchanan had not asked her criteria.

Stalwart body swung low, close to the ground, his lips trembling with anticipation as he watched it, his breathing slow and rhythmic, like a runner about to start a race. His muscles pulled taunt beneath his mahogany fur as his gaze followed it as it moved from beneath a tangle of low hanging willow branches. Thus far, they provided average coverage for Buchanan but if he were to try to catch the grouse while it remained beneath a willow it would have been messy and difficult. He did not want to damage it too much because he wanted the feathers to be salvageable — not mangled and horrendously bloodstained. This made his need to be precise greater, to keep himself from mangling the body. A quick and clean death — the same technique he liked to use then he'd went after the targets that The Officer had pointed him at. It didn't always work when he'd been killing wolves — there were times when they'd fought back though none had fought as hard as The Officer had.

In hindsight, bird hunting was simpler in ways but harder in others. His prey was smaller and unless they were flightless birds could fly out of his reach if he didn't make an efficient and quick kill. Minutes passed and still Buchanan waited, patient until finally the grouse pattered it's way out of the thick willow branches and Buchanan sensing his opportunity lunged for it, aiming to trap it between his paws and grip the grouse's head between his parted jaws to snap it.

In recent weeks, he was slowly starting to look like he was growing into himself. He was still far too much leg, and not enough else courtesy the famine's lasting effects, but his features shifted gradually as he spent his days tracking beneath the willows. Thanks to it, and his steady improvement in rabbit-catching, he was eating decently and perhaps, just barely beginning to fill out more properly. He'd likely always have a leanness about his figure, one that no amount of muscle or hearty meals would be able to ease away entirely, but bit by bit, the boy was looking the part of Functional Pack Wolf.

Which was his goal, and why he did what he could. Often he only wanted to mourn and mope around near where his mother rested to mend, but slivers of motivation kept him up, going, and moving. For her he'd hunt, and for the pack, he'd hopefully get better at this all so that he could do more than just run down small, common game. And in his slowly-growing strength, came fleeting tendrils of almost-confidence in himself.

He still missed his siblings and father so very much, though, and he saw with his fiery eyes how much it hurt his mother to have them gone too. For her, he wanted to do anything.. including bring them back to their fold. But.. how? How could he do it when wolves far mightier than he had found nothing? 

While he roved through the willows, his  head was consumed by the notion when his nose began to quiver, effectively distracting him. Somewhere was nearby, so Silas' paws adapted to a quiet approach. This brought him upon a scene he did not immediately understand. It was a rush of motion -- bird, wolf, feathers, fur, and where they met.

This excited the aspiring hunter in him although he brought his paws to a careful stop. He watched the older male use his weight to trap the bird then go for the head once he had it, and Silas found himself oddly awed at this -- wasn't that difficult? He'd never seen a bird hunt so personally, and had never been able to get very close to them himself so he usually did not spend energy on them. But.. he realized now there was hope, and he had improved steadily already lately. Maybe there was something to learn here.

His wide-eyed gawking may have given his interest away more than he meant for it to.

The grouse did not suffer, Buchanan ensured that the fowl's death was quick with a jerk of his head, it's neck bones snapping in his light grip with the sharp movement. He let it's neck drop from his jowls and he inspected the avian for a moment, contended that he hadn't mangled it too bad. Precision and efficiency The Officer had always barked. Work smarter, not harder. If any good could have been salvaged from The Officer's training it was that Buchanan had became an efficient hunter: of all kinds of prey: venison, fowl, and wolf alike. Hunter and assassin weren't very different, and he was glad that his skill set could be applied to what would aid the Keep; and on the off chance that it was ever needed his skills as an assassin would remain honed, sharp.

Buchanan's ears swiveled to the side as he became aware of the others presence, his gaze of liquid mercury moving wildly until it landed on the boy in the distance clearly gawking at him. This was not the first time he'd been watched carrying through with the execution and for a moment he was reminded so much of Banner and the crane that he let out a soft chuckle. It still unnerved the assassin to be stared at so but he was learning. It was possible that this boy was one of the one's Stark had spoken of: Silas or Tambourine though given that the child had not been loud or uncouth Buchanan had a suspicion that Silas might have found him instead of the latter.

“Hello,” Buchanan greeted the boy, unsure of how he was meant to handle himself around children. He'd never really been in the prolonged presence of them before, never really had any experience with them, either. Although, Silas looked to be over his six month mark, still young but growing into his adult body. The fact that he wasn't so young helped to ease some of Buchanan's initial unease and worry. “I'm Buchanan.” He was making progress socially, at least. He'd abandoned (well, at least in the presence of pack mates, at the very least) single syllable answers and his silence; there was a suspicion in Buchanan's mind that he owed a lot of it to Banner, who besides Phiipa and The Officer (when the elder would let “the ghost” speak that was) was the first wolf that he had held any sort of conversation with.

Buchanan watched as the boy's posture lowered below neutrality and felt a sickening twist in his stomach. A sharp hiss of a gasp let the assassin's lips and he swallowed thickly the bile that had risen to burn in his throat. While Silas hadn't full blown submitted to him the sight even slight as it was, was enough to dredge up unwelcome memories. He didn't like it. The Officer had spent many years convincing and manipulating Buchanan into thinking that he was nothing but a tool: a weapon and to see the juvenile lower himself even if it was out of respect and that Buchanan outranked him it made his stomach roil. The very last thing Buchanan ever wanted was to become like The Officer: and that was exactly what he thought of. “Hey,” He gasped and gave his throat a soft clear. “You-ah, you don't have to do that.” He spoke to the juvenile, hoping that his tone was encouraging and reassuring instead of uncomfortable. He didn't want to have to explain why seeing anything so much as resemble submission to him made him on edge and uncomfortable. No, the boy didn't need to know just how much of a mess the assassin truly was and didn't need to know the terror of the stories.

A deep breath was taken as the boy introduced himself as Silas, confirming Buchanan's suspicions. Trying to distract his thoughts from the direction they had taken, Buchanan had given a firm nod. “Stark informed me about you,” Buchanan informed the juvenile. “Said you're an apprentice, right?” The dark wraith posed it as a question though, allowing Silas to either confirm or deny what the alpha had said for himself. Buchanan's brows furrowed and his gaze slipped to the grouse at his paws when Silas gestured towards it before his mercurial gaze slid back to the juvenile. What an interesting question, wondering how to go about answering it. It was as simple as “yes or no”, not really. Birds were one of the hardest prey Buchanan thought: if because they were so much smaller and had the ability to fly away and out of reaching jaws. The trick was to catch them unaware but as it was with anything: it was never foolproof, never a guarantee. There would always be the prey that got away. Failures were just as much apart of hunting as the successes. Yet, Buchanan didn't want to bluntly say “yes, it's hard to do” even for a veteran “hunter” such as himself and potentially discourage the boy.

“That depends,” Buchanan decided. “Birds are a lot different than your big prey, and even small mammals. It's kind of like hunting squirrels, I guess. They're small and if you're not quick and catch 'em off guard they will fly away. But it's not impossible,” Buchanan made a point to emphasize that. “If bird hunting is something you're interested in, or want to master my suggestion would be to practice on ducks or geese.” There was usually a lot of them in one spot, in Buchanan's experience with them, and they were relatively big and wouldn't pose quite the challenge of say, a small songbird. "I can help you, if you'd like." The offer was given, not wanting to just impose his teachings on the juvenile, figuring that offering him advice he hadn't necessarily asked for was probably imposing enough, as it was.

There was a distinct feeling of ease when the boy adjusted his stance. Buchanan didn't explain why any form of submission showed to him made him inherently uncomfortable and sick to his stomach — he wasn't sure that he could explain it in a way. Banner knew of his origins of course and Stark. It had been important to tell them, to explain to them why he was the way he was and to warn them that it was likely that flashbacks would occur. Especially since Buchanan wasn't sure of majority of his triggers. He knew talking about his docked tail was one. Apparently, so was the submission of a child. He hadn't gone into full blown flashback mode but he felt the familiar roil in his stomach, the sharp metallic taste in his mouth, the slight hitch in his breathing, the rush of cold and heat like a fever. Silas was speaking to him again and desperate for something to focus on in the hopes of avoiding a full blown flashback, anything that would distract him from thinking about it, the assassin zeroed in on the boy's words. Two simple words but they tried to work to keep him rooted in reality. In the present.

“That's good,” He deduced with a gasp to his voice that he tried to mask by giving his throat a soft clear. “Hunters are important to a pack.” All trades were important, Buchanan gathered, but hunting seemed to be one of the most important, in his opinion. It was how they survived, after all. “That's good, that's definitely a start,” Buchanan murmured with a sage nod of his head in approval. Especially considering most birds tended to be small. “It's the same tactics for hunting small game, only they don't scurry in holes or run up trees,” Which was kind of a relief but kind of wasn't at the same time because it seemed so much easier for them to escape when they could fly. “Mastering your small game skills will help you a lot when it comes to birds,” Buchanan assured him. “once you've mastered small game birds will be easier.”

Buchanan chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment before he asked, “Want to demonstrate for me your small prey skills? I'm sure we can find something small for you to hunt?” There was no pressure on the boy, no obligation. They were still strangers and Buchanan would understand any reluctance or refusal.