The warhawk sat, perched high above the ground, on a small outcropping of rock jutting out from the cliff face, surveying the land around it. It was a clear day, even for the ruined lands of Nagarythe, though dark storm clouds still threatened on the horizon, flickering with multicolored hues. Its eyes saw everything in that ruined landscape, catching every tiny movement, waiting for that moment, that perfect moment when it would spot something worth calling “prey” and swoop down upon it, tearing into it with beak and talons. It could take all day, but the hunter was patient. It would wait, unmoving as stone, until that perfect moment presented itself.
Far below it, perched in a sickly tree, sat another hunter. From his vantage point, Arvelen saw everything that the warhawk saw, caught every movement that the warhawk caught, but mostly had his attention focused on the warhawk itself. Unbeknownst to the warhawk, the Asur had given this particular one a name – Bloodtalon. While not nearly as large as its kin that resided in the forests of Athel Loren, it was no less majestic, a champion of its kind. A survivor of the wasteland.
In troubled times, Arvelen always sought refuge in the ruins of his homeland, coming out to the warhawk’s territory, to watch it hunt in solitude, and to think. As the war dragged on, Arvelen found himself visiting more and more, seeking solitude himself, answers from within…
A flicker of movement appeared in a patch of grass far out in the open, highlighted by the sunbeam that had appeared to kiss the ravaged landscape… And high above on the cliff face, Bloodtalon spread his wings and dove. There was a flurry of movement as the pray realized its position, but it was all too late. Moments later, the warhawk’s head could be seen above the grass, its beak dripping with fresh blood, ever the efficient hunter.
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