Barrow Fields these are the last blues we're ever gonna have.

It wasn't often that Artaax left the boundaries of Drageda's territory. In fact, he had resolved the last time they'd left the Cliffs for Redhawk Caldera that he would never leave again once they returned home once more. But, the boy was a hunter, and a stubborn, determined one at that. So when the piercing ring of an eagle's cry sounded in the distance and a fancy to find and kill it took him, the young wolf trotted off away from home without a second thought.

He'd spent most of the morning wandering, sniffing at the ground, standing tall with perked ears listening and eyes roving the landscape. Around midday, he paused his eagle-search to nab a nice, fat vole for himself, which satisfied his hunger but not his desire for victory against his chosen foe. So, he continued on for another hour or so before finally, he came to it.

Though not just it - them.

His ears perked as the sound of some sort of scuffle caught his attention. Artaax bowed down low in the snow, nearly disappearing into it with his white coat. He was still for a few minutes, just listening, before stalking forward. He crept up and over the top of one of the field's taller mounds then froze once again as he spotted them - two golden eagles posed over the shredded, half-eaten carcass of a hare, staring daggers at each other. His eyes widened as they flew at each other suddenly, viciously raking at each other, talons first and screeching.

Now was his moment, and yet the boy stood still in the snow, his curiosity piqued. After a minute, Artaax settled to his belly, simply watching the show.