Hideaway Strath And on most of the days we were searching for ways

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Singing rouses the feral Commander from his hunt, breaking his concentration from the near trance he had induced himself in as he stalks low, using the tall grasses of the river to conceal his monochrome colored body: so that he is little more than smoke and shadow. The dark of night is his best ally and usually when he takes to the hunt, tracking by the light of day. His prey — a particularly fat badger — wobbles as it, too, hears the singing. The singing forces him to be swift and abandon the plan of attack in lieu of not wanting to lose it. He catches it and with a brief struggle holds his grip on the badger until it stops trashing beneath him and it’s body stills betwixt his jaws — though a shake of his head ensures that it is actually dead. However, the victory is not without it’s cost. The badger had left shallow marks of it’s deadly claws across Declan’s face in an effort to defend itself and the wounds sting smartly.

As they are insignificant and he will heal he does not pay mind to his wounds as he carries the badger back to his ‘bedding’ — which was not much of anything. He was fickle and his favorite spot to bed down varied from night to night as he aimed to slowly have slept in every corner of the Strath and perhaps when he had done that he would spend a night or two in the heart of Bonesplinter Ravine where the skeletons of the dead lie. He has no care for superstition. He does not fear the dead any more than he fears the living.

Declan never makes it to the area he has chosen to bed down in. He finds the origin of the singing. Not the showboating Queen, as he first assumed, but rather his little mouse. The feral Commander lets out a low noise as he approaches her before he drops the badger corpse before her. “Eat,” He encourages in a way that is less encouraging and more of a commander. It occurs to him that she may not be hungry and then he adds after a moment of contemplative staring at the corpse as his burning amber gaze flickers from the corpse to her face. “Or don’t.” He adds, salmon pink tongue drawing across his blood painted muzzle. If she did not want it, he would take it to Conan for surely preening had caused Conan to work up an appetite; and on the off chance that neither wanted what he has caught for them then he will put it in a cache as Teaghlaigh has been forced to rebuild everything they had left behind in Ravensblood. Speaking pulls at the shallow, torn flesh and the wounds smart again but he takes pain like a rock: as if he cannot feel it at all.

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