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

the oily fiend got only as far as unpacking his wings when the despairing yawping of the wolf gave him pause.

the wolf's relationship with logic made little sense. he was was practically shaking the death rattle like a maraca, not to mention activating rigor mortis in the raven simply from the lack of sensibility in his cognitions – whatever his tactic was for bringing down big game, bartok was almost certain it sounded like "thump thump thump": the final nail in copper's coffin.

"dog too weak to play keep-away, dog too weak to hunt." he cawed at the bronzed creature. the raven re-folded his wings and squinched an eye, wildly curious as to how the canine brain managed to function on so few braincells – as far as procedures go, exploiting an animal far more clever than you was an absurd strategy, though bartok's "no community service" policy could be flexible if he collected profit from the enterprise. so far, the sweet-talk was splenda, he wasn't persuaded, and his charity system remained out of commission.

"go find dog friend, run friend on dog errands." he hissed.