The Heartwood xxxxiii. by the emptiness

AW, ecologist mastery #6

The forest named Heartwood reminded the birdcaller of the razed timberland she had seen north of Deepwood Weald, where the once-grand Sequoias still stood sentinel despite their charred appearance. Some life had returned to that forest, however, while this one was completely blackened and dead -- as still as the ghostly woods beyond the river in the eastern corner of the this charred glen. 

Though she'd explored The Sentinels already, she didn't have much experience with burned landscapes and set to wandering idly, green eyes trailing over the ruin of the trees curiously as she examined the burned ecosystem. 

Rescuing older threads!

Mesa wasn't his usual grizzled self today. He had found a blackened patch of woodland and the sharp smell of the landscape had drawn his attention, to the point that he rolled in the blackened dirt or climbed his way across fallen logs and through moss; he was therefore, streaked with green, black, brown, and ocherous stains from the biodiversity he had trampled. In his wake was a path of destruction winding through the woods.

Aside from that, the wanderer had found little to keep him interested. The lowlands rarely held his fancy for long — he much preferred the mountains, favoring the look of the horizon from on high. The challenge of climbing and the inherent strength required for mountain living were strong motivating factors.

For now he was prowling among the trees of the Heartwood, unaware of the presence of another. When the sound of something moving caught in his ears he grunted to himself, almost like he was waking up from whatever had possessed him to run amok through the trees in the first place, and redirected his energies in to pursuit mode. 

The stranger moved with more finesse than he did; he caught glimpses of her silhouette haloed by dust motes on occasion and paused over a length of tread in the mud, sniffing at the path she had vanished down, then moved to follow.

He might have gone unnoticed, especially painted in the hues of the scenery as his pale pelt had become, if not for the all too familiar sensation of eyes on her. Aiwë wanted to believe she was wrong, that she was just being paranoid -- though the equally recognizable sinking of her heart begged to differ. For a few moments, she continued on, just long enough that she began to think her suspicions had some concrete to them. 

Then the greenpaw stopped, turning so that she could peer over her mist-wrapped shoulder into the golden haze of the ruined wood -- the cloud fogged with swirling ash even now, the flecks catching the light like flakes of gold raining down. She remained silent for the time being, searching wordlessly for whatever had her so on edge.