This place was so strange. It had been a moon since he had come here to the Scrublands, abandoning his ancestral home of the burning sands, yet his tiny head still hadn't adjusted to the reverberation of the crickets and the wind in the grass. The flatness, the sight-obscuring brush, everything seemed disorienting and odd to him. Was that beetle ahead a few inches away, or farther? Farther; now it was zigging around in the air, much to fast to catch. He'd miscalculated again. Next attempt.

The ruby-winged wyvern stalked through the grasses, his beady eyes straining to see in the thick grass. He could hear another beetle nearby, skittering about. He readied himself - wings and legs tucked, back arched. And pounce! And the tasty prey shot off into the sky, disappearing above the grasses. Another miscalculation. Perhaps another tactic...

He took to the sky himself with several short strokes of his wings, yellow head swerving about, on the look-out for predators. No, the grass was much too thick; up here all he could see was sienna stalks. Still he lingered, flitting about some distance above the grass canopy, determined and patient. He had all the time in the day...