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

bartok wasn't particularly interested in doing this animal any favors, especially not with the pushy, patronizing attitude he was copping with the raven. he listed his cuspidate skull to the side, and scoffed at the proposition of an exchange – the waxy carrion perceived his proposal as nothing more than an overture for fraudulence, and he made this expressly blatant with the phlegmatic aspect ever committed to his demeanor. his interest in wolf politics ended where his involvement began.

he cast a look about the withered landscape, then swiveled his head and squinted at the ruddy canid. he left him limp in silence for a moment, and then with croaking anticlimacticism, imparted a blunt: "nah." a smile curved his beak. "rest in peace." he bid ominously, preparing to take flight to leave copper to his imminent dissolution.