"merry," he deciphered. "you know, i've never had a nickname before. you may," he told myrtle. her own title was fitting; gentle, eloquent despite the injury, and a good-natured sort of thing altogether. her own was not at all suited for his shoulders, where it sat like an ill-gotten cape. but it was there all the same, merry, merry, merry.
something jovial and wintry while droplets of hot red blood melted through a clean new snow.
he had enjoyed her touch; it was submissive, grateful, innocent of who he was. the sort of thing to which one could become accustomed, at their own peril.
the grass began to fan back into the path of once-dirt, now rust-red mud and crushed rock leading into bearclaw. atop the sentry stone, the shadow of a wolf, watchful as the self-appointed shepherd brought another into the fold. through the darkfall of trees, merrick loped.
"his name is @Evien," he told her as they emerged into the clearing where the young physician kept mosskeep tidy, neatly arranged, and stocked to the gullets, from what merrick assumed. or perhaps not; he was ignorant of the plant numbers but fully dedicated to his faith in the man's abilities. "you will be in good hands with him."