Moonspear born for greatness

Hydra knew because her days of tracking aided her in ability to deduce what each birdcall that sang of alarm meant. It was not what she could see, but what she could hear and had educated herself to interpret. This pitch, she had learned, meant eagle. Several times she had seen the warning answered several moments later by the diving creature, but it took many tense minutes. Once certain her cubs were out of reach from such a beast, Hydra gazed overhead while listening to her children answer.

Nothing in sight, yet. They were correct, and she rewarded Atlas and his true attention to detail by looking to him and rewarding him with a, yes, very good, before glancing to Vega and nodding. But she elaborated on the observation of her son, looking back to the sky. They are afraid; fear is something you can smell. Can you? She asked, glancing toward them. Could they pick apart scents, yet? Would they know this new one for what it was? Hydra looked back to the sky, listening for it their answer before she went on. 

They do not want their own homes to be discovered, so after the warning is given, things become quiet. It can unnerve some of our prey. None but for the birds can say once the danger is gone, but our prey can be impatient. I have seen— she paused, movement catching her attention in her peripheral. Her gaze snapped left, and she whispered, watch.

A rabbit, young yet plump from the fruits of Moonspear, fretfully ran in a panic. It had found cover before in its stillness, and yet likely thought the best place to be might be its own warren... it was wrong, of course. The rabbit was beyond the forest, seeking to find refuge in it—

It was ensnared within the grip of the eagles talons in seconds. For the species, it was not terribly large—the animal was plucked from the earth, and carried away without any ceremony except for its own panicked shriek which faded with every wingbeat.