It is not entirely uncommon for shuttles and the like to fly overhead. But they are always so high, miles above the ground as they sail beyond to better places, that Grindor simply ignores them. They are irrelevant, earning no more than a passing glance as the Herald goes about his business.
What is not common, however, is such a shuttle to be flying so low. And not even flying, really. The smoke billowing from blown engines suggests it's on more of a crashing trajectory.
The titan watches as the ship screams overhead, listening for the eventual sound of the impact, but it never comes. The thing was still high enough, and going fast enough, that it likely did not hit the ground until the foothills that rest at the base of the Mullite mountains. Tsk tsk. Not a good place to land. To the north, the slow and steady rise of mighty peaks, desolate and sharp, silica snow covering black ferrous ground more and more as the cliffs and palisades jut into the atmosphere. The peaks could not even be seen for the swirling, angry clouds that surround them.
To the south, starting small and very quickly growing dense, the Wylde Wood. Standing tall in the bitter mist lies an endless maze of forest, comprised of ferrous trees large enough, and old enough, to dwarf even the most giant of mechanicals. For hundreds of thousands of years this area has remained untouched -- Cybertronians avoid it for its intensely harsh climate and entire lack of anything remotely resembling civilization. The nearest city?
And not even they tended to wade this far north.
He's followed the scent of molten plastics, burning fuel, and disturbed ground. Being a patient beast, he walked the entire way, following his sensitive olfactory sense until even his poor eyesight could spot the wreckage. Hmmm. The local wildlife has fled, glasswing birds hiding in the trees and draindeer cowering deeper in the wood. And so he approaches, so see what there is to see.
His footsteps are impossibly heavy as he rounds the burning husk of ship, and suddenly, sixty-feet and who knows how many countless tons are staring with ethereal intensity at Vicar.
Steam billows from Grindor's vents. His voice is so deep as to be felt in one's bones.
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