Fairspell Meadow lucifer bleeds ichor

”i am the homba,” merrick sighed into the growing night, ”and this is my domain.” he surveyed the quarry again; was that a hint of fear lacing the crisp air?
merrick lusted after the thin tendril of it, demanded more. his anathema; his poison. swallowing the strangled whine which had threatened to give him away as mortal stalking beast, merrick smirked in the darkness.
”some say i grant wishes,” the boy went on, tones cooling. ”but i’m really in no mood.” at last he unfurled himself from the shadows, detached and slipping between crackling stalks into the awareness of those odd, compelling eyes. 
here merrick lurked a long moment, not bothering to hide the butcher’s shimmer upon his black pupils and their copperburn hellscape; he smiled in the dying light.
”run.”
energy coursing his bones, mouts pooling with saliva —
not a request, after all.