Ravensblood Forest hippity-hop, all the way to the birdie boiler

his head set at an angle at the question – as if it were ever static to begin with – and the greasy raven foraged his brain for the answer to his question. where had they met? bartok lied only when it was pertinent to what he wanted, and there was nothing that anselm had that the bird couldn't find himself. after thinking it over for a passing few seconds, he looked back at the wolf. "find not so nice dog in nice bush." he squawked.