Sun Mote Copse we dropped the ball a little on that one.

Pox grimaced as he rolled back onto all fours, his teeth bared in angry frustration as Crow cackled and trotted off into the trees. He didn't like to lose, but he also had learned when to admit defeat. Or at least, when to pretend to admit defeat when really he had decided to hit the pause button and bide his time to prepare for the next round when he would completely destroy his opponent.

We won't say what round he was on with Crow. I don't want to hurt the little guy's pride any further.

He sneezed as he stood and gave his coat a good, hard shake. He ears had been tucked tight against his head, but lifted now that he was confident Crow had stopped calling out taunts over his shoulder as he'd made his exit. This was twice in a row now that he had failed. The first failure was the hunt he'd gone on with his mother and Crow. Smashing his brother's face into the first was supposed to have been his way of recovering from the frustrations of his first failure, but now all he had was a second disappointment to contend with.

Scowling at that thought, Pox trekked off towards the borders of the Copse. It was never a good thing for the young Blackthorn to find himself swallowed whole by frustration. It usually meant disaster was afoot because the more frustration he felt, the more spectacular a thing he would need to do in order to move past it. The boy wasn't certain what sort of spectacular thing he would do this time, but he rarely ever did. The opportunity would present itself eventually, and he would be all about it when it did.