Bearclaw Valley her perfume crucified me with memories

weasel. or a toy. merrick pawed at it, lowering his small muzzle to nose through the fur once more. "it weezow, mahmee!" the boy repeated in a pleased crow. and yet in the next moment his gaze had swung in the direcion stigmata had gone. merrick's small brow furrowed.
"where he goin'?" again his inquiring stare climbed to indra's gaze; this was the age of questioning, and no one answer would be satisfactory. merrick wished to glean as much information about his surroundings as was possible, and who better to plague than his sainted mother?