Redhawk Caldera Bones in the soil, rust in the oil

The lil' squirt didn't have much to say about it, so Peregrine thought a moment and shook his head. "It's a cool name but it just doesn't fit, you know?" he said, glancing sideways at the pup again before looking straight up at the ceiling in thought. "I'm still stuck on some kind of bird, I'll admit. There has to be—oh."

Abruptly, the perfect name floated to the surface of his mind as if it were a deep well of water. "Whip-poor-will," he announced to the quiet den air, once more pressing his cheek to the floor to gaze at his tiny companion. "They look a lot like nightjars. Your grandmother, Mo, used to test me sometimes when we hunted together, to see if I could tell the difference. I was never anywhere near as knowledgeable about birds, though."

Whip-poor-will, he repeated in his head, lips moving silently. Yes, it felt just right. He would have to tell Fox. He did not imagine she would mind much at all, especially since it fit neatly into both of their naming traditions. "Maybe Will for short," Peregrine mused.