Silver Creek Harpy Hare

The raven flitted ahead of its mistress, bright blue eyes marking it as other even among its own kind. Those who called themselves companions to the last Queen of the Corax wolves would know the bird at first sight. Companion, scout, messenger, guardian; familiar. Each Queen since the first had carried a blue-eyed raven on her shoulders. Each Queen would, until the last.

The last.

Thalassa loosed a howl, a mournful song and a siren's call both at once. A beckoning for her brother, who would one day command her army. A summons for her faithful guardian, who would one day stand between herself and the shadows always reaching for those who dared to lead. They followed the footsteps of their prophet, all, but Thalassa sensed a near end to their journey. Perhaps she had some of the gift, herself. Or maybe she was only so tired of running.

The dark wolf emerged from the treeline not so long after her feathered companion. She went to the aging prophet, making soft noises of concern under her breath. You push yourself too hard, Thalassa chided the old woman, eyes glimmering blue-green with the reflection of light on the water. We need you still, Wise One. I fear we cannot consult your corpse for its wisdom.