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

Wildfire was good enough not to question her son's hesitation. Artaax was thankful. As little as he ever admitted he was at all interested in Rose, he still knew that he did not want to talk about her with anyone. Something about that just struck him as being the wrong thing to do, just as actually speaking directly to Rose was the wrong thing to do. Randomly leaving food near her home and running for it whenever she came near was definitely the right thing to do. Speaking of which...

Artaax stepped around the bird once more, still attempting to work out how to accomplish what he wanted with it. Reaching down, he glasped its head in his jaws, but dropped it shortly after pricking his tongue on its beak. With a growl, he glared down at it as though it had actually come back to life and hurt him on purpose, but that's when he spotted the pale, blood-stained breast. The boy reached down again, grabbing it by the chest. When he lifted it, the bird's head rolled back to dangle before him. Its wings fanned out to either side as he took a few tentative steps forward, finally not dragging right before his feet. He had succeeded.

His features brightened noticeably at the apex of his success. His tail began to wag swiftly - a sight rarely seen anymore by the stoic young wolf. He looked at his mother, his pleasure with his cunning and awesomeness clear upon his face, but mixed with eager expectation for her too to be proud of him. Artaax would look quickly away once he received the praise that was due, reverting back to the quiet, soft-spoken, aloof young wolf he usually presented himself as.