A powerful gust had begun to churn the grassland from the west and did not seem keen on slowing down; it did not bother the behemoth, silhouetted as he was by the summer sun as he strode along. The air was dryer today than it had been in the previous weeks, and the grass had lost its taste. Summer was peaking all around him and the creature knew he would need to move on to greener pasture before fall fell upon him, but he appeared to be in no rush.

The creature moved at a pedantic pace until he finally stopped, huffed, and lifted his large head with a strain of his shoulders in order to look around - determining a new course. He left a trail of crushed grass behind him. Any predator eager for a bite would've been keen to pursue the lone beast, but he seemed unafraid - beyond that, he wasn't being careful and looked absolutely nonplussed when he came to the top of the hill. Looking out across the plains gave him a new perspective, but a moment later his head descended, and he was munching again.

There were not many trees upon the plain, yet a few dotted the landscape. He did not feel it necessary to approach them often but the heat was beginning to bother him - his espresso coat of thick shoulder hair was unbecoming in this season - so he began to move along, a great lurching boulder upon the grassland.

He did not notice the bird in the big open sky, not until she had landed within the topmost branches of a dried up tree. Its branches reached for the sky as if in praise of the sun; but the bison didn't care for this either. He crossed beneath the tree and paused when a voice filled the air.

The voice was not one he knew. He did not know where it came from, and looked to either side with a seemingly lazy shift of his large head from side to side, and then took notice of the bird as it asked it's question. The bison huffed but he mutters, What does a sky-thing want with me? It wasn't often that he was made to speak, especially to such things as birds.

The thing seemed to be curious of him. Of all the things Wolfram considered important or worth cultivating, ones curiosity was often furthest from his mind. He was not interested in the world around himself aside from what it could provide: food, the occasional shelter, wives or children as the season changed. He could understand being social (to a certain degree), but that brought images of the rut to his mind; of men cracking skulls, of women being wooed by their power, of herds reaching beyond the horizon — ah, but his old mind was wandering.

Alone? he repeated gruffly, his tail flicking at the grass like a small whip as he considers what the sky-thing has said. I have no wives, and so I have no herd. Would that answer suffice? He spoke with his dull voice, very matter-of-fact about it, but the tone was a bit stern as if he was embarrassed by the fact.

He did not wish to dwell upon his lack of companionship (it was a very private aspect for Wolfram) but the sky-thing had asked, and he had felt compelled to respond. It did not occur to him to turn the question back upon the osprey, but that self-centerdness was common among his people; they did not concern themselves with those outside of their own small universe.