Moonspear they put angels in the electric chair

In the silence that enveloped him, he heard the chittering. It was a distant, muffled sound and yet loud enough that he could hear it keenly over the ambient din. Somewhere, it was somewhere, but where? He remembered what his aunt had taught him about hunting grasshoppers; patience. His steps had paused, eyes and ears working together as he scanned over everything in front of him.

It was difficult to stay still, difficult to not quite have a grasp on the anticipation that he had stumbled across something. Though he probably didn’t have a hope or a prayer in catching it, Altair simply marveled at the fact that he had gotten close enough to hear what was going on without having spooked the poor creature into holing up somewhere he couldn’t get to it.

His head turned, tilting one way and then another as he curiously investigated one clot of grass that seemed to be the source of all the ruckus. The chittering had not stopped—no, it had been joined. There was more than one weasel in his vicinity, and neither had quite taken notice of the young wolf who was trying to suss them out without moving a muscle.

But then again, perhaps they simply didn’t perceive him as a threat.