The Heartwood it's a heaven with a taste of hell

apologies for the wait

the bottomlands spanned bleak and lorn as the afternoon wore on. the lot of dogwoods and the terrene that homed them, usually active with esprit and beauty, had long since snuffed its vital flame as winter's frostbitten fingers spun decay upon it's habitat, fading the life from most if not all of the flowers, killing the grass and stripping the trees of their splendorous leaves. it left the forest wheezing and hungry for the spring that could not come quickly enough.

even in the cool, mild weather, no creature stirred amidst the growth. the sound of bare branches murmurous; crackling; as they staggered in unison on the back of a brisk, indiscriminate wind. bartok did not mind the bland surroundings, he took to the deadened state of things quite easily.

he perched on a swaying branch, unfolding his wings to balance himself as it careened back and forth with the tugging of wind. when it settled down, the raven ruffled his feathers and began to preen each oily plume, raking out the day's grime and dirt with no attention to be paid to his surroundings. peace and quiet, not a commodity often derived from the cretin.