Vultures flocked towards the charred field. They couldn’t resist carnage on such scale. They would feast after the wolves had taken their fill.
They had followed a pack of wolves through the corpses littering the once flourishing grasslands. It stretched as far as the eyes could see. So did the death and destruction. The wars of man only meant feasting for the carrion eaters. Despite there being enough food to feed wolves and vultures alike, the wolves were best at finding the giants. It was impossible for them to eat the whole thing; it was twelve feet of muscle and bone. The wolves would abandon the humongous carcass after eating through the muscle and feast on the organs. Why these vultures would do that has forever remained a mystery, but they live for over a hundred years.
The pack below stopped. Piteous whining resonated on the desolate plains, and the younger ones fled. The older males snarled and bared their teeth. The vultures could smell the hope, too, and they looked for the source.
It was easy to find; shining among the burned and blackened wasteland, the unicorn meandered past the corpses, minding its own business. It was one of the few creatures on the planet immune to death, and not just because they were immortal. They showed no fear of it. Their presence warded off the reaper when he came, bringing life to the dying. It was too late for the corpses littering the field, though; once death had claimed a creature, there was nothing to be done.
The rest of the pack turned and followed their younger bretheren. The vultures followed suit; there would be no feast tonight.