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

He was trying to hunt? Hunt what? Her expression doesn’t ease and she clicks her teeth at him. “What? Those birds? They nearly lifted meoff the ground, ya don’t stand a chance,” she tells him, still heaving from the run. Each exasperated breath stings the claw marks dug deep into her skin, the blood painting her back and sides. She then swings her head to look the way she’d come from, one bird settled back on the kill and picking at it without much motivation. There’s the occasional sound of flapping that goes unnoticed by Nox but she huffs and turns away from him.