Dragoncrest Cliffs there goes the theory that an english accent makes everyone sound smart.

Artaax was panting heavily as he stood over his latest kill. His neck muscles ached from the fight and his legs trembled from exertion. A thin line of blood was dripping from a new tear in the very base of his ear, and likely in other places where its cuts had sunk deeper, but the boy felt nothing but triumph over this accomplishment in that moment. He had trained for this for months, and finally.. He'd done it.

Brown and tawny feathers were strewn about with pale tufts of fur scattered amongst them. There were red stains on the snow, some wolf and some bird. Artaax strode carelessly through it all, grabbing a broken wing almost tenderly in his jaws to begin the arduous task of dragging the golden eagle back to the rest of the pack where they could all see the fruits of his triumph and praise him appropriately.

He dragged it only a few feet before he stopped and withdrew, squinting down at the carcass as he reconsidered his methods. How would it look for him to drag it back home? He already had gone from walking forward while tripping all over the rest of the bird to backstepping with his rump up in the air. Neither of those were exactly flattering motions... So, he stepped around it again and attempted to grab the bird up by its legs, only to find himself once again tripping over its body and long wings. He dropped it once more and snarled, now frustrated. He'd managed to do battle with and kill a freakin' eagle, and now he couldn't even carry the damn thing back home.

Son of a bitch.