Redhawk Caldera Fighting a giant goldfish at the South Pole

The only thing Nightjar ever really had going for him was his reckless brand of fearlessness. As a cub, he had challenged anyone and everyone to a spar, regardless if they were family, friend, or perfect stranger. He had charged them with gusto, confidently convinced that he would beat them. He rarely did, but it never broke his spirit. As a lone wolf, he hadn't once hesitated to come up against an opponent, whether it be for food or for land. He wore the many scars from those encounters beneath his fur, but because he lacked inherent fear in the heat of battle, Nightjar often won his scuffles with sheer willpower.

But now he was afraid. He pressed his ears flat against his scalp as he shrank in on himself, and when an unseen presence startled him, he snapped his jaws rapidly together, producing a sharp clapping sound that he hoped would keep them away from him. His tail was stiff and puffed out behind him and his hackles were the fullest they had ever been, prickled into a fierce mantle that spiked over his tightened shoulders in an impressive display of canine aggression. He cast about wildly for the source of the voice, and spotted the silvery blur in his periphery when he turned his head to the far left. But he made no hostile move, even though he wanted to fight against this, and when Finley whispered his childhood nickname to him, Nightjar whined pleadingly.

"Aunt Flea," he whispered in a voice strained with horror and loss, "I can't see you. I can't see you." His breath came in sharp gasps as he turned his head again and squinted, willing to greyish smear into clarity, but his peripheral vision was poor at best and didn't make up for the sudden darkness of his central vision.