Sequoia Coast cheerio

For whatever reason, he wasn't sure about Stavanger Bay - and when Kovacs wasn't sure, he moved on, leaving the Bay wolves behind without a word.

He lumbered eastward, following the shoreline in search of something else to occupy his time. Despite his age, he itched for combat; even a friendly one-on-one. Breeding season was upon them all, and wolves everywhere were preoccupied. No-one wanted jobs done - certainly not ones that Kovacs could help them with.

The titan made a gruff, grumbling sound to himself and ventured on, making an unintentional bee-line for the distant sound.

i certainly hope you don't mind me!

clear skies, mild weather, a triumphant lack of unsilenceable seagulls clogging up airspace on the coastline – all of these conditions made for prime flying time, and bartok was more than delighted to get his mileage out of the afternoon.

he cruised along the shell-washed seaside with no distinct agenda to be had. he was partly committed to seeking caiaphas out, and partly committed to looking for a seabird to bully, but neither of those activities were presently available to the raven. so onwards he flapped, until a distant, mobile figure intercepted his sights – moving along the sound looking somewhat unhesitant, somewhat aimless. this was not a wolf that bartok had seen in the sound before, and a chortle of mischievous curiosity tore from his beak.

quickening the pump of his wings, as the black bird drew nearer it became evident that this wolf was a much larger, much less complaisant looking fellow than his more recent encounters with wolf and wolfkind – his guttural quibbling made that much clear.

naturally, disregarding the imminent threat on his life, bartok came to an idling hover above the meandering goliath, his wings creating the sounds of silken gloved claps that would surely alert kovacs to the unfortunate existence of the source of his impending misery for the next ten to twenty-ish minutes. he peered below and watched with absorption each purposeful tread the iron giant made, taking note of the healed scars that scourged his flesh.

/fans self

I feel like I'm in the presence of bird celebrity.

The delicate whisper of wings alerted Kovacs to company. Plenty of seagulls made their home on the shore, but they announced themselves as airborne elephants might - loudly, and without grace. There was nothing remotely ninja about a gull.

Without moving his head at first, Kovas turned his burnished gaze skywards - lo and behold, above his head sailed the black mascot of pestilence and death. It seemed to be hovering, almost hungrily - as if anticipating a misstep to bring the titan to his knees and split his gut open for the bird to peck at. Kovas shot the nearby tree-line a guarded look and paused to inhale deeply through his nose. If the bird was a harbinger of something, it wasn't lurking there.

"I haven't got any food," he growled into the air, tipping his head back to squint at the flapping shadow.

*-* the charlie sheen of celebrities…..

his stealth was not long for the world – within moments the hulking creature caught sight of the pest that clung relentlessly to his shadow, upturning his sharp gaze and revealing to himself despair made flesh.

bartok was grievously oblivious to the vignette of his character, but it would have filled his gizzard with pride were he to be made aware of the malignity he projected. possession of a presence that influenced dread and paranoia for a sinister fate – one that resisted discovery in some clandestine nook – offered him a limitless horizon and he would defend it to the death had he known.

au contraire; the extent of his character's besmirchment had been far more disheartening, for recently it seemed that bartok had been making more friends than chumps out of strangers, crippling his emotional terrorism for a time and nearly plunging him into existential crisis. if he was not the terror that flapped in the night, what could he possibly be? an ordinary raven? there would be no fun to be had. no excitement.

thus, kovacs would not find his fate now, but he would not find providence either.

canting his head upwards, the silver mongrel grumblingly pointed out his lack for food, implying with no air of subtlety that he expected to be begged, stolen, or borrowed from. the raven was outright offended! to think he, bartok the great warrior, could not glean from the world his own hapless victim? that he would need to rely on a dog for the perpetuation of his life? he scoffed at the very idea of it and beat his wings to gain on the wolf, upon realizing he'd pulled back to accommodate full-body offense at the slight of his character.

stunting on the wind in a loop around kavocs, he shortly returned to a position above him. "sound like problem for dog." he called casually after the canine, then posed a question that oozed with ridicule. "everrrrr tire of leading meaningless existence?" he tilted his head and extended it downwards to peer at the back of kavocs' head, singing out raucous laughter.

Kovacs heard the winged pest swoop and braced himself for attack, but Bartok chose to fight with his wits. Smart. The price of failure would be high should he allow himself to be plucked from his element.

"Everrrrr tire of leading meaningless existence?" it cawed, easily matching the wolf's pace. Kovacs stopped and twisted his neck to look up at the beady-eyed demon, wondering what he had done to deserve such terrible and persistent company. "Yes. All the time," the wolf responded gruffly, denying Bartok the rise he no doubt sought. "Any ideas?"

bartok was deflated when his attempts to antagonize were almost instantly shot down by this new imposing company and something smacking of discouragement shaded his features. he may have made a slight miscalculation on the volatility of the temper on this one.

the wolf's throaty response was quickly followed up with a question you would find behind a sneer, one that required the raven to actually make an effort to participate, but he nonetheless continued to keep step (flight) with kovacs, puzzling over what his end-game was in this – so far unpropitious – encounter.

in a pinch and after scanning over the wolf looking for something, anything, to use as ammunition for his feedback, the wisenheimer made a hmmmm noise, "dog has maaaany much scars," he descried, as though it were not readily available information to the public. "be more likable with b-e-a-uuuuuty marks!" he surged upwards with a flourish and twirled in the air with an affectation of theatrics, and if he were able to draw sparkles and stars and pissbows out of thin air, he would have thrown them lavishly.

there was no way the wolf could possibly ever envision bartok as a death-ringer ever again, and bartok had absolutely no idea the window of illustrious opportunity he had just literally somersaulted past and the brickwall he favored in its place.

Twinkletoes McGee flounced gaily through the air, twirling like Mardi Gras regular. Kovacs' initial assessment of the bird sprouted a set of dancer's legs and pirouetted its way to whatever word represented the absolute opposite of menacing, where it settled with a squeak. The lumbering beast on the ground watched the airborne spectacle in silence, though he did - for the third or maybe fourth time in his life - consider laughing. Without hesitation, the wolf delivered his burn: "I'll take your word for it. A preening poofter like you obviously knows his beauty marks."

the inkslicked raven gratingly laughed at the wolf's roast. "is bartok's dreamy features?" he posed the waggish, rhetorical question as he made his descent abreast of kovacs, strutting to a standstill and hopping around to face him. he contemplated carrying on with the character assassination, but for some reason, found himself at the mercy of intrigue. "if dog collecting scars, this place good for that." he remarked – something of a subtle and admonishing inference coloring his tone.

"is bartok's dreamy features?" the showman quipped, touching down a few feet away. His movement on the ground was comparatively awkward, but Kovacs did not take advantage. "Then we aren't walking on the same ground. There is no fight here," he answered gruffly, mistrustful of the bird's intentions. It had the face of a liar.

"dog misunderstand," bartok fumbled with the phraseology intended for his message, giving his head a few ruffled shakes and reassembling his statement with a more foreboding: "witches nest near." the proudly self-acclaimed voodoo doctor warned him with a squinched eye.