The Heartwood it's a heaven with a taste of hell

apologies for the wait

the bottomlands spanned bleak and lorn as the afternoon wore on. the lot of dogwoods and the terrene that homed them, usually active with esprit and beauty, had long since snuffed its vital flame as winter's frostbitten fingers spun decay upon it's habitat, fading the life from most if not all of the flowers, killing the grass and stripping the trees of their splendorous leaves. it left the forest wheezing and hungry for the spring that could not come quickly enough.

even in the cool, mild weather, no creature stirred amidst the growth. the sound of bare branches murmurous; crackling; as they staggered in unison on the back of a brisk, indiscriminate wind. bartok did not mind the bland surroundings, he took to the deadened state of things quite easily.

he perched on a swaying branch, unfolding his wings to balance himself as it careened back and forth with the tugging of wind. when it settled down, the raven ruffled his feathers and began to preen each oily plume, raking out the day's grime and dirt with no attention to be paid to his surroundings. peace and quiet, not a commodity often derived from the cretin.

sorry for taking forever to reply, I went on hiatus as soon as you posted.

Copper was struggling through the forest. He hadn't eaten for days. He needed a miracle. There was no hope for the Rusty loner. He was too tired to hunt, and besides, there wasn't a damned thing here.

Copper, took his presumed last look across the horizon, when his gaze settled apon a black bird preening itself. He yelled across to the bird.
"Hey! Hey you! Come forth! The rust god commands you!" Copper yelled, rather pitifully, lay strewn on his side, unable to get up at the moment. He knew that this bird would taste the magnificent strength of a god. And this, this underling would surely get him a morsel, a sacrifice to the gods. But alas, he was a god on the very earth.

wasn't forever at all, don't worry about it

the garroted yowl of something dying on a hill begrudged the raven's attention – he squawked and recoiled from the abruptness of the wolf's outcry, his nicely groomed bust-feathers once again whisked outwards with alarm; posture hunched and his wings opened defensively across his face.

his patience for the called upon demands was unmistakably on the fritz if the chill that settled across his face was any indication at all. he sure as shit wasn't taking any "commands" today, let alone from a scurvy looking cur rode wet and put up to dry. but nonetheless inquisitive, bartok thrusted from his branch and took his time traveling (touring, really) over to the grotty heap of an animal and his gravesite, giving the undernourished thing a cross look as he descended upon a rotting stump.

it wasn't like… the ideal funerary ground to pick, in his opinion? a little derelict.. a lot derelict. but whatever, last wishes and all that.

"implacable death," bartok cocked his head, his speech croupy with severity yet undiminished by unconcern, and looked away indifferently, "not good look for you."

Copper glared at the wretched bird. This bird was going to help him. And he was going to like it. Copper chuckled. His teenage manner immediately made an innuendo out of his statement.
"Come here! Please." Copper said. He wasn't going to like this bird, but he wasn't going to die. He quickly made a plan the bird couldn't refuse.
"Hey. Guess what? Copper started. "If you show me the way to food, I'll make it worth your while." He needed food. But he wasn't going to scam this bird. Lying was bad for one king's rep.

bartok wasn't particularly interested in doing this animal any favors, especially not with the pushy, patronizing attitude he was copping with the raven. he listed his cuspidate skull to the side, and scoffed at the proposition of an exchange – the waxy carrion perceived his proposal as nothing more than an overture for fraudulence, and he made this expressly blatant with the phlegmatic aspect ever committed to his demeanor. his interest in wolf politics ended where his involvement began.

he cast a look about the withered landscape, then swiveled his head and squinted at the ruddy canid. he left him limp in silence for a moment, and then with croaking anticlimacticism, imparted a blunt: "nah." a smile curved his beak. "rest in peace." he bid ominously, preparing to take flight to leave copper to his imminent dissolution.

"No! No, no, no, no! Wait!" Copper needed this. He was not going to die. He suddenly pondered what a raven could eat.. Dead bodies, right? Well, how was he supposed to trick the bird, if he even wanted to?
What's your name? Anyway, If you lead me to big game, I kill it, you get a meal. I'm not strong enough to drag it away quick enough to get away from you." Copper knew this, hopefully the dumb bird knew this. He was only a boy then, anyway.

Ravens disgusted him. They didn't even work for the food they got. They just flew down to a carcass, and picked on the leftovers. The wolves, they had to hunt, and risk injury..

the oily fiend got only as far as unpacking his wings when the despairing yawping of the wolf gave him pause.

the wolf's relationship with logic made little sense. he was was practically shaking the death rattle like a maraca, not to mention activating rigor mortis in the raven simply from the lack of sensibility in his cognitions – whatever his tactic was for bringing down big game, bartok was almost certain it sounded like "thump thump thump": the final nail in copper's coffin.

"dog too weak to play keep-away, dog too weak to hunt." he cawed at the bronzed creature. the raven re-folded his wings and squinched an eye, wildly curious as to how the canine brain managed to function on so few braincells – as far as procedures go, exploiting an animal far more clever than you was an absurd strategy, though bartok's "no community service" policy could be flexible if he collected profit from the enterprise. so far, the sweet-talk was splenda, he wasn't persuaded, and his charity system remained out of commission.

"go find dog friend, run friend on dog errands." he hissed.

"No! Wolf get strong enough, wolf track bird down, and kill it!" Copper screamed, glaring at the bird. He was going to survive, but having some help would make it a tad easier. Goddamn bird. What did he want, a medal? He would get food out of it, and so would the f&#%@! bird! What was the matter with his proposal?

Besides, it wasn't like he was too weak to hunt whatsoever, he just couldn't go after really big game. Maybe a turkey, or something.

"Look. What is your favorite food?" Copper said, adopting a 'vacuum cleaner salesman' tone of voice. If the bird didn't care, so be it. He had a backup plan anyway.

the threat on his life would have been alarming… if this wolf had hollow bones and could fly as fast as he ran his mouth. as that wasn't the case, bartok sent him a skeptical look. "is rich," he assured, and then sang out: "i can talk, but can you fly? huh?" – a question loaded with doubt. he snapped back and forth, ditching out of striking-distance and darting back and forth between the stump and the nearby extremity of a tree.

copper attempted to appeal to his more gluttonous nature, and had he prehensile primaries bartok would have rubbed them together thoughtfully and in a waffling manner, pursed his beak and demanded the most extravagant of cuisines.. "bartok not negotiate with terrorist." he decided. no, duress was not the best approach to the invocation of time-sensitive survival campaigns.

Copper smiled on the inside. He had a plan. and it was glorious. He executed it quickly, snapping to his feet.

"You want to test that? Huh? Get out of here!" He followed up, with a snap at the bird. He would drive it off, than follow it, until it found some sort of food. Then he would scare him away from the carcass, and eat it. He didn't want to eat something dead, but he had a will to live.

That punk A** Bi**ch had tried the kings patience. But if he managed to scare the bird off. He would have to keep up with the bird, very sneakily.

do you want to make this interesting? i can start a new thread on the sequoia coast for some fun, but if not then you can just pretend that bartok flew over a deer carcass or something :)

bartok flapped backwards upon being snapped at, a jarring cackling noise sounding off his beak. he took off through the tops of the trees, shuttling on the wind with a northern orientation.

Howyaa, I do!

Copper set after the crow, shaking the fatigue from his bones.