Sheepeater Cliff A winding, weaving fate to which we both atone

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A small outcropping of grounded rocks and boulders obscured Grievous' view of the unfortunate beast's landing, but even at his distance he could hear the inevitably terrible sound of  bones breaking and gore splashing upon impact. And what a glorious sound it was!

The wolf surged forward to see the aftermath; though the glow of his sulfurous eyes would suggest he was more eager to partake, than he was to observe. An extensive life as traveler had taught him that a meal was a meal, and the less one had to work for it, the better. He also knew that rarely did things happen without reason—

so when he arrived upon the scene less than a minute after impact, he was not truly surprised to see that he had been beaten to the punch.

Grievous hung back— his jaws beginning to salivate as the scent of blood unconsciously began to work through his system— but much of his focus was on the competition that loomed ahead of him. And above.

The massive, wheeling eagle gave a manic and angry cry above the three wolves, having realized that its meal was being accosted by a gaggle of other predators.

Grievous' eyes dropped again, settling on the snow-titan and his young protege. The older wolf appeared to be just shy of his own height, but there was an unmistakable power to the male's musculature that the hellhound did not possess himself; not with his lean, bladed form— the scythe of the fourth horseman incarnate.

Careful, he warns the pair in a voice like liquid metal, and motions with his nose towards the still-wheeling bird of prey. She might take thy son as atonement for her stolen meal.

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