Porcupine Ridge axehead

he'd been forced to keep his flights shorter and shorter, healing from a strain in his core brought about by another altercation with another unkindness. 

now, honest truth, they had the right to chase him out. after all, they'd claimed the carcass. but - was it his fault he'd been running out of options? a small, weak raven with a misaligned soul was already destined for social ostracization, but the months of piled up rumors, of confirmed misbehaviors, of every woman he'd ever as much as looked at working with tirelessness of a stormwind to ruin his reputation -- yes, he might've been a teensy tiny bit forced to turn to theft.

he'd ask who could blame him, but, evidently, many did.

dour, yonder landed on the jutting rock with the avian equivalence of slumping down in a chair. maybe there'd be a window of time where he could peck something off the boar without the -- what was this one again? wolf? -- biting his head off, or the ravens sure to come after beating him unconscious, but at this point, he could barely muster to care.