Dawnlark Plains Many things will change.

Warbone plucked himself from the marshland's backdrop, his movement the only thing to distinguish him from the drab mire. His expression was unreadable— either by choice, or maybe he did not know how to feel— and his body was held in equal anonymity. Though he felt as if his there were larger things at play here than mere coincidence, the copper titan was inclined to ignore such empathetic concepts. So instead of thinking of a grander scheme, or of what all of this might mean: a Dragon, a Marauder, and an expectant Lark all here at once, he chose to observe everything at a steady distance.

The coywolf he recognized, and respected. Octavia he knew. Even in their bare encounters, he had learned more of her than he had of most, and hers was not a countenance he would easily forget. Her scars were lightly healed, and because he could not scent infection, his eye instead was drawn to the obvious tautness of her midsection. Fleeting, he glanced at her face, concern cracking the stone of his grey face; but he could not bring himself to approach her. The wolf reclined on his haunches, instead, settling several feet to the left of the runaway's perch (in nonthreatening quietness) to a position that overstated him as familiar warden. He caused the three of them to form a sort of obtuse triangle, and his head canted in interest towards the Dragon, who he watched with slow-blinking neutrality.