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

Nature was playing a cruel joke on her. Despite the miscarriage, Wildfire was now sporting a proper baby bump. And her nesting instincts had gone into overdrive the past few days. But she didn't dare—didn't dare—hope that she might still be carrying pups. For one thing, they might turn out as deformed as Falcon and Hawk. For another, she didn't want to carry a torch for a litter that very well may not exist at all. It was entirely possible—even probable, she kept telling herself—that her hormones simply hadn't settled down yet. She wasn't pregnant, not anymore...

The sounds of a struggle had the Feisripa blinking out of a stupor. She had been meandering along rather purposelessly and now she stopped, one foreleg in the air as she tried to pinpoint the source of the noise. By the time she came upon the scene, Artaax had conquered his feathered prey and now struggled to move it. Wildfire watched him a moment, quietly cheering him on, though the moment he dropped his cumbersome kill and snarled in frustration, she darted forward.

"Let me help," she called to him soothingly. "It's huge," she added, chestnut eyes roving appreciatively over the dead eagle before settling on Artaax's face. Man, she was proud of him. "You should be our Feisripa..."