Meadowlark Prairie to savour your accent

he immersed himself in thoughts of why the change had not come to pass; they burned like iced water upon naked skin. lips trembling, he lowered his muzzle to the earth, searching across the scattered bones of a mouse for anything palatable.
it was not game he wanted, but blood; it was not hunger he wished to satisfy, but the dry-toothed gape of a soul unmended, left to chance.
merrick would have paced further, had not a bark rung out and paused his steps. a feminine billow of silken tresses and chestnut eyes, not quite wolf and completely fey with youth — the boy was careful not to drink the sight of her in too deeply, cunning, starving mind driving out the pain for a moment.
”i don’t think anyone knows,” merrick answered, a friendly sway to his plume. ”it’s everywhere, though.”