03-08-2008, 02:44 AM
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Scree cursed softly as he flew, railing once against the follies of wolves and twice at himself for becoming mixed up with them. At the time, when costs were high but the promises still greater, the laws laid down seemed fair enough. Now, as he scanned the ground for some likely meal countless miles from the trees of his birth, the stately raven was no longer sure. Yet despite his doubts, here he was. Flown south then north again, with only hurried courtesies to spare him from feeling very much a glorified messenger pigeon. His pride, his intelligence, his upbringing, they all mocked him; loyalty binding drove the wind beneath his wings. Besides, heaven forbid, he wouldn't want to get bored now, would he?[/html]
Below on the hard-packed snow, the blazon white was rudely interrupted by a brutal smear of red. Not far off, the frozen crimson ended in a mess of spilled blood, half-eaten carcass, and a handful of his lesser kin all clothed in black. A bear's work, he thought disdainfully. A bear never killed cleanly. Tilting a hawk-wide wing, he circled down to join the feast. He turned a deaf ear to the protests and curses thrown at him by the current diners. Scree was unconcerned. He was large for a raven, and they were but mere crows. Let them squawk, for all the good it would do them.
Some time later he took to the sky again, belly full to bursting. Not far now, not long now. Still, the hour grew late and his business, having waited a good deal already, could hold off until the 'morrow. The light began to slowly leech from the sky when Scree perched himself on a likely conifer. He began to preen his glossy black feathers, an old habit that he used while drawing thoughts, and wits, about him. It was likely to be a dark night, indeed.