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

wasn't forever at all, don't worry about it

the garroted yowl of something dying on a hill begrudged the raven's attention – he squawked and recoiled from the abruptness of the wolf's outcry, his nicely groomed bust-feathers once again whisked outwards with alarm; posture hunched and his wings opened defensively across his face.

his patience for the called upon demands was unmistakably on the fritz if the chill that settled across his face was any indication at all. he sure as shit wasn't taking any "commands" today, let alone from a scurvy looking cur rode wet and put up to dry. but nonetheless inquisitive, bartok thrusted from his branch and took his time traveling (touring, really) over to the grotty heap of an animal and his gravesite, giving the undernourished thing a cross look as he descended upon a rotting stump.

it wasn't like… the ideal funerary ground to pick, in his opinion? a little derelict.. a lot derelict. but whatever, last wishes and all that.

"implacable death," bartok cocked his head, his speech croupy with severity yet undiminished by unconcern, and looked away indifferently, "not good look for you."