Gyrfalcon's Keep damn birds.

I am sorry for the delay, Floof! I loved your post. It made me smile.

Hunger is what drove Banríon from her husband’s side and out into the territories beyond Teaghlaigh’s borders. She told herself it was because she did not want to take meat from the caches while Olive and Dakarai were still recovering, especially now that the misted druid was nursing three fat, healthy cubs — a fact that still rankled no matter how positively Lotte tried to spin it. The truth of the matter was simpler: she wanted fresh gyrfalcon eggs, and if she managed to kill a bird or two, so much the better. Saliva dripped from her jowls as she navigated the ridge, ducking and weaving as the fussy little feather dusters bombarded her with a cacophony of piercing shrieks. Her lips quivered into a defensive snarl as she flattened her ears against her skull; she didn’t mind the noise, but she wasn’t so sure that the eggs were worth the effort given how much guff she was getting just for walking. A rumbling growl churned within her breast — discontentment at being denied something she wanted and the irritation that went hand in hand with hunger — but stilled as she regarded the bear of a woman whose disgruntled expression mirrored her own.

Lotte issued a guttural chuff pitched to slip below the high pitched screeching that surrounded them. The creature before her rivaled Lærke in size. The soot-stockinged rogue was no slouch when it came to height and breadth, but she couldn’t match the sallow-fanged bruiser. If Teaghlaigh had a few more of this female, they need not fear retribution from Blackfeather Woods — Lotte observed the stranger’s scars and shorn tail with respect that bade her to cant her broad muzzle. “Rakeet, comrade,” she called to the barrel-chested soturi, feeling a thrill dance through her blood. Here was something familiar. No weak-willed waif was this.