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

@Caiaphas and maaaybe her little nuisance friend @Bartok ?

There was no food to be had upon the ridge from his estimation, so Anselm dove onwards - heading south at first, but inevitably trundling along towards the coast. The trees gave way to more trees, different ones, and the stench of pine rose up around him. A brief rain dampened his spine, but for the most part the wandering cloud was sheltered. The trees, numerous and clustered as they were, grew dense enough to keep the forest floor dry while permitting him access. By this point Anselm was quite tired. His fat reserves were starting to decline and thus, he had taken on a more roguish appearance than what was considered normal; his bulk having been depleted during his great journey. For now, he rested among the cedars, and nosed about the roots of a few errant pines.

the timing of this is perfect... mind if we time it after she comes back from DFG??

High spirits carried the imp aloft back from the Glacier, her gait keen with glee. Her iniquity at Duskfire's gates meant only one thing -- they were no longer amicable neighbors, and Caiaphas lusted most heartily for conflict.

With these miscreancies in mind she practically pranced through Ravensblood -- that was, until, she bespotted a stormcloud crawling through the snowfall. She paused, her hackles lifted -- and with a darting pink tongue clearing the bloodied grime from her muzzle, she approached the male with intentions unknown.

behind the litheboned coywolf the raven trailed, winging high in the butted welkin. he followed her often now, tracing her shadow with the creed of an vigilant sentry. his beaded eye slanted towards the shape reposed in a stand of trees, snooping about with purpose unknown to the bird. he could see clearly through the threadbare branches, so it was with suspicion shading his features that he watched his dog's approach of the stranger at the very cusp of a pine.

There must have been some kind of hollow nearby - some place where smaller creatures roosted, bloated from the many days leading up to winter's chill, but no matter where Anselm searched he could not find it. The scent of otherness was vague in some places, intense in others, and varied even as he searched. There one moment, a ghost the next.

He gave pause to his scouring and breathed a gruff sigh, in time to lift his head and see an approaching shadow. Or something like a shadow; for only the tip was dark, and the rest a silver waif. At first he thought it was a trick of the light, of the unfamiliar terrain, and next... Maybe a true specter, having lost it's head.

But he was no fool. Anselm was not swayed by superstition to the extent of his forebears, and thus he was unafraid, even as the specter took true form. The closer it got, the easier it was to discern. She was no ghost - but decidedly thin, sharp, and most importantly feral in her mannerisms. The strange woman paused and began to clean a spot of gore from her face, and this lent Anselm enough time to glean some knowledge from her.

Not as much as he may have liked, granted, but enough.

"Your blood, or a friend's?" He rumbled as pleasantly as his gruff voice could, although the sound fell stale within the wildwood.

Overhead the flutter of feathers upon the piercing wind met her ears, and she eyed the skies for the shadow she had come to familiarize herself with. It was not hard to spot the bird, which perched precariously on a bobbing limb.

Yet presently, the wolf on the ground commanded her attention. She eyed him with a sidelong glance, noting he did not carry the scent of any tell-tale denomination on his stormy pelt. She sat back and wiped her gore-ridden muzzle with a flatboned wrist, her expression somewhat wry. "Neither." She spat into the sparse snow a bloody phlegm, which welled and melted into the frozen tundra.

caiaphas addressed the interloper with an aloofness not unlike her, yet their mumblings were mostly incomprehensible by the unmuzzled shitpisser as the wind tore against his light frame and subdued his auditory range.

annoyed by his inability to eavesdrop, he leapt from limb to limb until he was low enough in the copse to discern their exchange, his entire body shuddering with revulsion as she hawked phlegm upon the ground. he was half-tempted to interject with a boisterous rude dog! how gross dog! but he clamped his beak and watched on in the quiet.

Her response was as mundane as his question. And as the wad of phlegm hit the snow, Anselm glanced side-eyed at it, but was bored by the time it vanished among the snow. As he turned, ready to depart from this brief meeting, he heard a crackling in the boughs and his interest was brought skyward - or at least to the level of the low branches, where he watched a small figure perch itself.

Anselm's face drifted briefly in to a worried expression (or at least became slightly confounded); but the arrival of the bird did not dissuade him from leaving. If anything, the pest's subtle lurking made him less inclined to stick around. So he turned and headed through the forest once more - idly listening to the slender woman, in case she chose to follow (or in case she meant him ill, but, he doubted the spindly creature could do him any real harm).

rofl that was quick! ty for thread!

The pewter-cloaked male regarded her blandly, and was just as quick to leave. Excellent the gaunt coywolf thought inwardly, her yellow gaze trained on his receding form.

In any other circumstance, she would have hounded the wolf -- especially with her resident heckler behind her -- but this was no normal circumstance, and Caiaphas was in a hurry. She was not stupid -- she knew soon the wolves of the Glacier would be baying for her blood.. but she had laid her trap carefully, expertly even..

For she had told Malachi she was aligned with Shearwater Bay -- and had implied to Manuaia the same. She had devised her cunning plan carefully, even if it was only low cunning.

With one last scornful smile in the wolf's direction, Caiaphas turned away -- and strode directly towards Shearwater Bay. The wolves of the Duskfire's fold may find her tracks, though they would be misleading -- for no sooner had she met Shearwater's borders she devised to swim along the shore until she was upon Ankyra's strand.

their interrelations were short, however not as sweet, and crashed to the ground with a wheezing fizzle. the chimera saw anselm off with an opprobrious look and trotted off to do whatever caiaphas did in her leisure time. bound the offspring of her enemies with seaweed and place them on the littoral to be dragged out to the briny deep, he imagined.

he watched after her momentarily, contemplating following after her like a hunter after wounded deer, and then looked towards the exiting male. one of these options was going to be responsible for keeping the next several minutes of his interest, he just could not decide which one would be more worth his time.

well, the raven could always bother caiaphas; he knew where she bided. he was unlikely to see the ashen one again after their abrupt encounter.

he skulked around the gray, retreating form of the wolf that caiaphas had reflexively snubbed. she had other matters to attend, but bartok's schedule was wiiiide open, and the coywolf did not care to crowbar any sort of personal details from him, leaving the wisenheimer in the aching afterglow of curiosity. he caught up with anselm and planted himself on a branch. "your blood." he crowed, bobbing his upper-weight on the spindling broomstick of a tree-limb, making it shake and snap. he caught himself with a lash of his wings. "your blood." he grated bis.

Perceiving himself free of scrutiny from the erstwhile scavenger, Anselm continued on his way. He sojourned through the brambles with as much ease as a bear - or rather, a cub, one who was not quite at ease upon its feet. The terrain was irregular, pock-marked by saplings or the cavities produced by loose stone and debris; when he wasn't stumbling over an object, he was stumbling in to it - and this is when the onlooking bird chose to make his re-appearance.

It's voice chimed sourly from nearby, and Anselm tossed a besieged glance at it. The snap of the pest's roosting branch reminded the boy of the bird's brittle little spine, and how melodious it would sound to crumble it to pieces. For the most part Anselm was unimpressed (which wasn't surprising). He wasn't too bothered either (yet), and continued to mosey on his way.

his (admittedly half-hearted in terms of effort) racket evoked little, if any, response from the wolf but bartok was not so easily discouraged. his ebon pinions closed up the modest distance between them in no short order with several wingbeats. "your bloooood, your blooooood, upon the ground is where it beloooongs!" ever unable to carry a tune, his macabre refrain sounded like it had more or less eked from the larynx of someone flushed from life at the guillotines.

he fanned above the wolf, the breadth of his shadow encircling him as he strolled along with an annoyingly indifferent semblance to him.

The bird was a peculiar creature. And, briefly, Anselm wondered if it was alone in its eccentricities. Perhaps all birds (of some measurable degree) were as mindless - no, childish - as this one. Anselm was a patient youth. He was not dissuaded from his route nor caught in the inescapable urge to maim the vile thing which coasted so pleasantly beyond his reach; however, a thought did occur to him.

He paused and watched the creature coast, lifting his head slightly so that his eyes could follow the stygian figure. The question that rose to his lips was unaffiliated with anything the bird had said thus far - he wasn't berating it, nor coaxing it for further irritation. Rather, he queried for information. Raven. You are a friend to that feral creature — does it have a name?

Perhaps it was rude to refer to another living, breathing wolf as an it, but after their brief encounter, Anselm was honestly at a loss; he could not tell in that short span, with those few words shared, who or even what the beast had been.

sorry i would have responded sooner but i was baking cupcakes which takes priority always

nor did his violent anthem stir anything.

bartok was growing bored of his object of ridicule, and anselm was determined for his haphazard tromp to remain uninterrupted, so the bird prepared to take to the skies and rally to the misfortune of someone more susceptible to emotional meltdowns, when the stranger asked of him the name of his dog.

he branched his tousled form and peered down. "friend of?" he tilted his head, indicating that anselm's brazen assumption was mislaid. "name is dog," he nodded affirmatively. "next question." he encouraged, falling backwards with his talons still clutching the branch, swinging beneath as though he were a bat, and eyeballed the prying anselm.

Either it did not know the name of the creature it followed, or it was appeased by its evasion; either way, Anselm did not get the information he sought. He was not so bright a mind as to trick the trickster, so he accepted this with a dull oh of course rise of his brows and subtle nod of his sooty head.

Doubting he would get any truth from this avian menace, the boy was unrelenting regardless, and accepted the bird's inclination towards further questioning. At the very least he would make his wandering more entertaining.

Where did you find your dog, then? Forest? Mountain? Sea? As he muttered the words to indicate each location, his head began to bob - bird-like, sort of - and at the end, Anselm's head centered itself and his ears tilted towards the soon-to-be liar.

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.

Possible exit. Or you can keep pesterin' him! Bartok love <3

The vague response was somewhat expected, so it didn't irk Anselm as much as it might have bothered another wolf. He gave a soft snort as the information registered in his mind, and then promptly fell silent. There was nothing else he would try to pry from the raven's tied tongue. Whether the bird lingered much longer or not, the storm cloud continued to billow through the thicket and towards the unknown.

the storm butt elected to continue on his way, a decision which bartok made no protests of. he would be quicker to find entertainment in the likes of a boulder, so with that, without so much as parting pleasantries, both of them went on their way in opposite directions.