I am quite aware.She looked sheepish for a moment after the snappish tone left her, but for all intents and purposes, Solulfur had tripped a wire she didn’t know she had. One that sneered rabbit in that cockamamy accent. Alizée dug her claws into the ground, and tried to breathe through the steadily growing panic.
These quail are meant for the infirm, the injured, the young. To teach a child to hunt. To provide as much food as I can in the lean times, when winter comes, if a famine were to hit or an illness struck the larger prey populations. Their eggs are good protein, their shell good for your coat. They don’t require much space, they can’t fly away, and they’re rather ditzy. Should I gather enough, they can be used to teach a child responsibility by taking one of the quail and keeping it safe as possible for a week or two.Admittedly, she was still workshopping that one.
They are more than just prey led to me. I hope they will be able to be farmed, and provide a steady source of nutrition in case we ever have none.Call it paranoia. Call it as hare brained a scheme as she could ever imagine. But Alizée would not allow her pet project to be looked down upon, not even by sun-gold eyes and a voice that rolled through her ears in a smooth, now familiar lilt.
I was in a pack with several of them, a lifetime ago. In a place known as Gossamer, in a valley named after the dawn.Solulfur carried that Crane arrogance she remembered so well, but something more wrapped her voice into a velveteen hammer. Perhaps the other part of her bloodline.
Who is your father?Had she known him, a life ago?

Alizée is often accompanied by a young male Gambel’s quail named Aubergine