Svajonė or Vidarr may be nearby | 1/5 hunter | 8 months

There are SO many new mouths to feed in Dawnbreak! No longer does Reid occupy the spot of 'resident itty bitty baby' for much, much smaller puppies seem to spring not from their mothers' sides but the mountain's nooks and crannies themselves! Change is as exciting to Reid as it is overwhelming. New lives for their pack is a reason to rejoice, especially considering the swift recovery of the mothers. For Reid, of an age to begin considering complicated subjects like his place in this shifting dynamic, it is also a reason for concern. He has recently hit a growth spurt, and his voracious appetite has the boy worried. How much do children eat? Are they getting enough food?

Well, even if they aren't, that's a task Reid considers himself big enough now to take on.

The robin prances across the Vale, then finds an excuse (his own impulsivity, really) to hop the borders and carry on. What smells to smell! What sights to see! The sun shines on his back and the wind is cool as it rakes through his fur. He cannot wait to see Mama and Tata's faces when he brings back...well, whatever he can sniff out. Reid somberly attends to his goal, sinking his nose into tall, lush grasses to follow whatever smells like prey with little regard for the type. He'll figure that out later.

He does, wisely, veer away from the scent of elk and pursues, instead, the dusty feather-scent of a bird of some sort. Grouse would be easiest, he thinks. But Reid is not concerned with easy. His childhood was marked with too many instances of obstacles crafted by only his own weaknesses, his own stunted growth. As Reid puts that phase of his life behind him, the robin is fiercely intrigued by opportunities to pursue his own limits, to discover where they now lay and how he can push them.

The pheasant is a beautiful creature. Iridescent green feathers shine atop his head, with a stark white collar marking the transition between the rich green and a swath of banded russet feathers. Reid buries himself into the grasses, and the bird's ruffling of his feathers makes the boy freeze to avoid giving away his presence and position. What a prize it will be to bring back to Mama! What a thrill it will be to catch!

SKILL: GHOST (1/5)

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Dawnbreak flourished, its heart made fuller with every new child that found warmth beneath its skies, yet there was only one heartbeat Svajonė sought amongst the chorus. From the shelter of the grasses she watched her son move beyond the borders with all the solemn determination only Reid could muster, the corners of her mouth lifting into the smallest, fondest smile. Ah, puiule... He had grown so much. Gone were the uncertain steps of the little boy forever struggling to keep pace with the world. The young wolf before her moved with purpose now, his shoulders lower, his paws quieter, and every lesson ever taught to him was slowly making itself known. Pride swelled within her breast so fiercely it almost eclipsed the instinct urging her to call him back before he wandered too far.

But she did not.

Instead, the mother remained hidden, silent as drifting mist between the stems. Dual toned eyes followed the careful line of his body as he melted into the tall grasses, freezing when the magnificent pheasant lifted its jeweled head. Her own breathing slowed without thought, as though the slightest exhale might betray him. She would not rob him of this moment by hovering over his shoulder. Every hunter earned their confidence one careful stalk, one failed leap, one triumphant catch at a time. If he stumbled, she would be there. If danger came, no force beneath the heavens would reach him before she did. Until then... this was Reid's hunt, not hers.

Warm affection softened every sharp edge within her as she watched him disappear into the sea of green, whispering beneath her breath in Romanian, scarcely louder than the wind itself. Hai, dragul mamei... arată-mi. Come, mama's darling... show me. Whether he returned with feathers clenched proudly between his teeth or only another lesson tucked beneath his heart, she knew she would greet him the same way—with praise, with warmth, and with the quiet certainty that he was becoming every bit the wolf she had always believed he could be.

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2/5 | hunter | 8 months

Reid does not know of his audience. He feels all the expansive thrill of independence, blissfully unaware that he also enjoys all the security of an escort at the same time. His attention is not on the scents on the wind and his ears do not twitch away from the direction of the pheasant rooster pecking at seeds hidden between the blades of grass. The robin lowers himself in tiny increments, instinct making him flatten himself into a sinewy, feline shadow slipping through the foliage. His ears pin to his skull so no part of him dares peek above the waves of grass that tickle his face and brush against his belly.

His heart beats fast, adrenaline flooding his veins in mere anticipation of the ensuing explosion of movement. A breath, bated. The pheasant lifts his head, stiffens in warning of alarm, and Reid bursts from the shadow in a flourish of color. He's close enough to pounce on the rooster as it tries to take flight, tail whipping over his hips like a scarf in the wind, but doesn't get a good bite on the bird's body nor frantically beating wings. It catches the wind and bolts out from beneath Reid's snapping jaws.

The freedom of the sky isn't enough to save it. Reid's weight rocks back on his heels, limbs coiling like springs to launch himself into the air after his quarry. Paws leave the ground. He is no longer adorned in scarves of pale fur and auburn accent. He is the ribbon cutting through wind, sunlight reflecting off his shiny fur as he twists mid-air to try to redirect and snap at the pheasant.

It's over quickly. Reid lands on his feet with catlike grace and nothing to show for it except a few long tail-feathers fluttering in the breeze, clenched in his jaws. The sky! He touched the sky! Why, he is nearly convinced he flew, for that brief weightless second. The frustration of losing his prey doesn't take root within Reid. He's young enough it's all still a game, and he prances in the field, spins in excited circles, dances with his measly prize of mere feathers. The long tail-feathers gleam and flow on the breeze, and the boy heaves an over-excited sneeze or two. All the windedness, all the waning days spent in the den, all the mandatory naps, the constant illnesses; none of it can touch him now, here.