Kintla Flatlands and you always knew the way to bring me down

Whip made an unspoken pact with the ravens and the vultures. He followed black wings wherever he went, hoping they'd lead him to food -- and usually, they did. Reduced to the lot of a scavenger, Whip felt himself like a lesser creature; a coyote, picking at scraps whenever able. There was no shame in it, he told himself. It's just what he had to do to survive the winter, lest he turned up like one of the starved corpses from which he fed. The cycle would continue and the ravens would pick Whip's bones clean, upholding their side of the deal.

The birds led Whip west over the mountain and into the grasslands. The snow had melted, but the chill remained. It was with great dissapointment that Whip realized his feathered guides had dispersed and he had lost the trail. But that's when he saw it -- some veiled blessing in the windswept grass. A grouse, distracted by some distant call. The wolf who watched on its opposite side remained unseen for now. Whip only saw a meal.

Without a plan or even the energy needed for such a task, Whip acted purely on impulse. He cut through the grass with speed and delicate precision. The grouse noticed his approach just in time for an ugly collision of wing and tooth.