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

"Probably," Peregrine answered with humor. "They are very impressionable, especially when they're little. Just be careful not to wind up on their bad side. I could see them ganging up on you, chasing you off a cliff or something," he joked, then paused and laughed out loud at that stupidest of mental images.

Right then, the pack's eldest pup—nearly an adult, now—peeked his head into view. "Hey, Eljay," the swarthy leader called in welcome, still situated so that he blocked the den's mouth. He really didn't think either his son or his nephew would try to get at the pups, yet instinct still spurred him to be on the defensive.

"I'd tell you their names," Peregrine said in the next breath, eyes flicking between Nightjar and Eljay, "but they don't have any yet. It's your mother's—our—tradition to wait until they're a few weeks old." He paused, then lowered his voice and added conspiratorially, "Although I call them Hamburglar, Mashed, Potato and Smol." Cackling, he returned to his normal tone and timbre as he declared, "Four healthy baby boys."