Meadowlark Prairie to bind our fortunes, damn what the stars own

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The prairie— and its everlasting monotony of hard brush and grassroots— threatened to swallow Grievous whole before he'd have a chance to escape it. His focus honed in on a distant mountain peak, a target to keep his hope alive; a way to judge if he had progressed through this treacherously open space or not.

And just when he's starting to feel the ire of hopelessness dawn against his conscious train of thought, a sound procures his attention.

Harkening, Hell's ferryman turns all of his senses in one direction; his ears up and body tightening smoothly like a wave readying to crest. Having called to him, there stood a silken black canid, courtly, and inviting, and in such stark juxtaposition to his surroundings that Grievous feels a stab of shame he didn't notice the svelte raven first.

His body relaxed and oozed forward like an ink-spill, coming closer so that his low, melting voice might be heard. Hail, he drawled quietly; though a hidden energy behind the single word implied a stow of reserved menace— a devil not presently looking to claim the soul presented.

His gaze lavished him freely, winding up long legs to a sleek face harboring a pair of pale wings beneath beryl moons. The dying suns that were Grievous' own eyes glittered with faint interest, and his thick tail arched slowly into a dominant wag. I've nary met a wolf who calls for my attention... not when thy other option wert to avoid me entirely.

Grievous licked his chops. Thy must have reason then, to beckon sure fire onto thine glossy night-feathers, dear raven— art I mistaken?

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