Redhawk Caldera I'm the holy water you can't live without

The sky was dark and stormy, but a lack of unsettling anxiety told Nightjar this storm was much less severe than the previous one. There would be no spinning wind or trees flying around. The standard thunder-and-lightning variety was all they could hope for, and he wasn't afraid of thunder or lightning, so he continued pacing around the inner rim of the caldera.

The water level had fallen considerably, but he was unobservant at the best of times and hardly noticed. His attention was instead on a muskrat perusing the shoreline, somewhere in the distance. He had spotted its dark figure from far away, a testament to the power of his senses, and had been closing in on it for close to ten minutes now. He moved slowly, deliberately, but without much stealth. He had no use for that; if the muskrat thought he was harmless, it wouldn't flee. He kept enough distance to give it that impression.

It was nervous. Nightjar could smell it. It should be. That was its lot in life: to be nervous and on edge until some greater creature like himself snatched it up (or tried to, as his success rate was about 11% at his age) and ate its innards for breakfast.

The night snake's mildly venomous bite had left him feeling a little out of sorts for a solid twelve hours. Once he had rested and the dizziness had finally passed, Peregrine went in search of water. When he arrived at the caldera, he found he was not alone. He almost called out to his son, but then he recognized the predatory behavior.

The Alpha's lips pressed firmly together as his jade eyes swept the area. He spotted Nightjar's prey: a muskrat. His lip curled and the black wolf settled on his haunches before slowly lowering himself onto his belly. He remained very still and quiet as he observed the youth's hunting skills. Nightjar had proven to be a fearsome killer before. Whether or not he succeeded today, Peregrine would not be able to resist trying to recruit his eldest as the caldera's next Gamekeeper.

The muskrat fidgeted and Nightjar slowed, turning his deliberate walk into something of a slow trundle. His huge paws swept quietly over the ground, his weight seemed to surge forward with each step so that his overall form was more bear than wolf, his whole body hitching every time he placed a foot down. His bright silver eyes remained fixed on his quarry and he parted his jaws to pant lightly.

He was so focused that he didn't notice Peregrine in the distance. That was probably just as well; his father was the alpha male and by rights could take any kill Nightjar made, which in turn would discourage success or else encourage food aggression. It wasn't his father's nature to steal from anyone, much less his children, but a wolf's nature didn't always dictate what they would do. Sometimes their wild soul took over, did that for them, and being as in tune with it as he was, Nightjar usually took no chances.

But luckily he hadn't spotted Peregrine and so there was no reason to falter. He took another slow step, paused as the muskrat seemed to flinch, and then took another. Slow, steady, and deliberate: much like everything else about Nightjar, really.

His son exhibited a patience and instinct that didn't necessarily surprise Peregrine, yet it pleased him immensely. Like his adopted older brother (Pura), Nightjar was a wolf of few words, a feral creature who tapped into his instincts more sharply than most wolves the Alpha knew. Although not necessarily as outwardly ambitious as, say, Wildfire, he was undoubtedly incredibly driven. Peregrine could actually picture Nightjar growing up to one day take his place as Alpha male of the caldera. He could uphold his parents' mission to restore the natural order and behave like wild wolves.

So he toyed with the idea of selecting not just a Gamekeeper apprentice but possibly even an heir as Nightjar closed in on the muskrat. Overhead, the sky was roiling, yet both wolves ignored it in favor of the hunt. They could have been frightened by storms following last month's twister of terror. However, Peregrine sensed that nothing like that would happen again, at least in his lifetime. This was just your everyday summer storm, something which, at best, he enjoyed and, at worst, he ignored, like he did currently.

A peal of thunder roared across the open sky in the wake of a cloud-veiled flash of lightning, drawing the boy's attention momentarily, but that was it. Until the storm raged fully, he had no reason to leave. Even then he would only seek the shelter of the trees and would resume his practice, either by pacing the borderlands or fighting someone or continuing to hunt as he did currently.

The muskrat took a few steps closer to the water and Nightjar froze once more. He was within a few yards of it, easily in sight and yet the muskrat was unsure. The wolf was giving no obvious indication of his intentions, but prey animals were naturally skittish and this one was no exception. It was right to be, for in that split second Nightjar loosed a growl and began to lumber in its direction. He was too slow to be effective, however, and the muskrat escaped into the caldera's lake, though it was closely followed by the snapping tank of a wolf that was a nearly full-grown Nightjar.

He went far enough for the water to reach his breast, but chasing such a skilled swimmer was futile. He stopped, water churning and bubbling around him, and watched the muskrat's head bobbing above the surface as it fled to the other shore. He stood there for a minute longer, just watching, before he turned around and finally noticed Peregrine.

Nightjar stared back at his father for a moment, then snorted and shook out the fur on his neck as if to say, "oh well."

The Alpha's ear flicked when the thunder and lightning made their appearance. That was all. The rest of his attention remained fixed on Nightjar as his son closed in on the muskrat. The critter eventually made a beeline toward the water. Although the pup gave chase, he could not possibly compete with the muskrat in its natural habitat. He acknowledged the futility of pursuit, backing out of the water. That's when he noticed his father watching from the ridge. Their eyes locked.

Peregrine pushed himself to his feet and loped down to meet his son, his tail waving above and behind him. "Four out of five hunts end in failure," he said to Nightjar. The young wolf did not seem overly discouraged, so he didn't press the point further than that. "I was watching you. You show a lot of promise as a particularly skilled hunter. Have you thought of following in my footsteps and becoming a Gamekeeper? You know I'd love to mentor you."

Four out of five hunts end in failure, said his father, and while Nightjar wouldn't commit that fact to memory, it did line up with his observations. Slightly more than that failed for him, more like five of six or six of seven or maybe even every single one, but that was all due to his inexperience and youth. One day, maybe he would shorten the gap as well and succeed every now and again.

Yet when asked whether he'd ever considered pursuing the trade, Nightjar honestly answered, "no." His father was a master gamekeeper, and Nightjar didn't mean to offend him with that comment—truthfully, he didn't make the connection, even though Peregrine said it himself. One of Nightjar's peculiarities was the way he viewed trades, especially ones that others deemed useful, like gamekeeping. Unlike fighting, which all wolves could do but not all wolves agreed to, or healing or naturalism, which were specializations, hunting was something that was not optional. A wolf that couldn't hunt was as good as dead. The same logic could be applied to being a warden, but Nightjar felt that was even more optional than hunting, since being a pack wolf was almost optional in good seasons. To specialize in hunting was a lifestyle choice, but very much unlike many a logical wolf, Nightjar saw the trade as pointless because everyone can and did do it.

He told his father as much: "everyone has to hunt. Everyone can hunt. Everyone's a gamekeeper." There were other things involved with being a gamekeeper that he didn't know as much about, perhaps skewing his views. He thought all they did was hunt. Then again, Nightjar would sooner leave a corpse for the scavengers than bring it home, where its scent could attract competitors and carrion feeders. That fact alone would make him a poor contender for gamekeeper even if one factored out the hunting. On top of that, he was probably the slowest runner in the pack, definitely not good for chasing fleet prey.

He took no issue with Nightjar's honest answers. He knew his son quite well and his no-nonsense attitude actually brought a smile to the Alpha's face. There was part of Peregrine that aspired to be more like the boy, a creature of few words but sharp instincts. Of course, he knew he was too temperamental and sentimental for that, though he was glad to find the quality in his own offspring.

"You're not wrong," Peregrine replied, "though not all wolves can hunt. The young, the old, the sick... they can't hunt for themselves, so they rely on the pack to provide for them. That's what being a Gamekeeper is all about: keeping your pack mates fed. It's mostly about being a decent hunter but it's a lot about knowing how and where to store meat. More than that, it's about work ethic and working for the greater good. You see, the young will eat the food and grow up to be strong members of the pack. The sick will eat the food and get better, becoming useful once more. And the old, well, they did their fair share and we keep them nourished out of love and respect."

He wouldn't push the trade on Nightjar, by any means. He knew better than that now. So Peregrine didn't try to sell it further. He would let his words sink into the pup's brain, then waited to see if he had any other questions or comments. The Alpha would be happy to field them. After all, he was not only a Gamekeeper, he was a proud Caretaker too. It was his job to mentor the pack's youth, to guide them, and he took that job most seriously with his own three children.

He could understand nourishing the young was important, and could agree that it was a pack wolf's duty to their young to do so. He could understand preserving the old who once contributed so much, but less so. When Peregrine mentioned the sick, however, his conscience entered into a brief conflict with his wild beliefs. While it was common practice at the caldera and apparently everywhere else to nurse the ill and injured back to health, Nightjar couldn't help feeling that it was a burden to do so. To give good meat to a wasting soul.

Ever the forward youth, he abruptly asked, "shouldn't they die if they're too sick to feed themselves?" Sick prey animals died at the fangs of their hunters, and wolves specifically sought the sick because they were weak. It was Nightjar's belief that this was true not only of prey animals, but of all animals, wolves included. "They take food from the healthy," he callously reasoned. Although not entirely without conscience or heart—Nightjar had both of those things regarding the healthy and hale wolves of the caldera—he was also a creature exclusively of logic. Pragmatic, but guided by instincts in it. What he said wasn't offensive in his eyes, just a fact of nature, though he cautiously watched Peregrine for any sign of disturbance.

Although he didn't take offense at his son's next question, it took him aback a little. "Everyone gets sick or injured at some point in their lives. If we didn't take care of each other, we would all die and the species would go extinct. Besides, we wouldn't be pack animals if we didn't all give and take a little. And those who are hurt or ill, they get better and then they give back. It all balances out in the end," the father explained, hoping that made sense to the pragmatic, instinct-driven Nightjar.

"That's what trades are all about: balance," Peregrine continued after a moment. "Each of us has strengths and weaknesses. We all complement one another. For instance, Raven's not the best hunter but she gives back by providing medicine for the sick. And you don't know much about that but you provide meat. If we were all the same, it wouldn't make for a very good pack dynamic. Plus, it would be boring as hell."

The storm was rolling in right overhead now. It would be hard to make himself heard soon. Well, that was more than enough words for now anyhow. Maybe the two of them could resume hunting together or perhaps Nightjar would head off on a patrol soon and wouldn't mind if his old man tailed him. Peregrine remained still and silent, giving his son a look as if to ask, What next?

While Nightjar would steadfastly hold to his belief that any animal too sick or injured to fend for themselves in some fashion was wasted effort, Peregrine's explanation appealed to his only sense. Wolves were pack animals. They had an obligation to one another to take care of one another. He felt that only meant the hearty, but maybe it was more complicated than that. Whatever the case, no one would ever see him taking care of a brutally injured or extremely sick pack mate. Minorly sick or minorly injured, sure... but he hadn't gone to see his aunt Dove after the hunt because she was already dead in his mind, and he would carry that philosophy with him always.

The comparison to Raven went over his head. His immediate family was very different than the rest of the pack; the benefit of aiding them outweighed the benefit of helping others, even those who were like family. Nightjar would sooner feed and nourish Raven than Elwood, for example. But he didn't say anything. He was tired of talking, and merely rumbled to acknowledge Peregrine's explanation. A subtle nod.

Then his snout tilted to the sky, which was boiling now. The storm's belly hung over them. Nightjar huffed to his father and then set off toward the borders with his tail waving, a sign of welcome for his father to join him if Peregrine so wished.

Nightjar didn't answer him verbally, though his body language left nothing to the imagination. Peregrine smiled to himself and trotted after his son as he headed toward the borders. Again, he found himself appreciating his son's attributes, from his mastery over this most feral method of communication to his determination to perform his duties, rain or shine. It was probably safest out in the open anyway, what with the lightning starting to brighten the sky every few seconds. The Alpha wolf hastened his step, matching Nightjar's pace, and father and son traipsed away with the storm hot on their heels.