Redhawk Caldera baby camp

Caro was growing more rapidly than ever, and now stood a decent chance of catching small prey when she hunted it. It had dulled her ravenous hunger for the hunt just a little. Enough to function though the prey drive, at least. Enough that it was no longer such a hair trigger, and the appearance of a packmate did not send her into a needy stalk.

In fact, she remained sprawled in the dirt when Cinar appeared, her tail thumping the ground in friendly greeting. She didn't know him well, but no one had ever hurt her, and she had no reason to be wary of anyone who smelled like they belonged.

He was just one of her Uncles. She didn't know his name, but names were not terribly important to her.

"I am the stick queen," she told him, proving that she was white as capable of make-believe as her brother, even if it had not interested her as much when she was younger. Now that she was capable of hunting herself to boredom, her mind had expanded to include other thoughts and fancies.

And, indeed, she was lying atop a clumsily built bed of pock-marked sticks.

Caro watched her Uncle, uncertain of the game she wanted to play. Would he depose her? Or would she order him around?