Redhawk Caldera No cat calls, no tag teams, no mascots

Rain slicked down the broad Redhawk's mottled coat as he loped up the shallow rise. Having spent a productive morning along the borders, Nightjar sought the relative safety and comfort of the pack's core, and a little shelter wouldn't go amiss, either. He would not step foot into a den or a cave without a damn good reason, but the trees ringing his litter's old rendezvous site were a perfect substitute, and that was where he headed.

Or it was where he was headed, but instead, he found himself passing near to the whelping den Fox was using this year. While he knew both instinctively and because he was told that even he was unwelcome to meet his young siblings (as much as he hated that), Nightjar couldn't help craning his head from afar and fruitlessly trying to peek into the dark hole that Peregrine stood guard over. He was far enough away that his father shouldn't take issue with his presence, but there was no telling with Peregrine. It was a wolf law ingrained into their very being—the father of a newly birthed litter was fiercely protective, and the mother even moreso, even against their own grown offspring.