Bearclaw Valley some kind of metal made up from glue

the scents that had plagued the land currently was something merrick had largely avoided. he kept to the center of the valley, often alone save for the perpetual murmur of the bear spirit.
but today it rose hot and laced into every wind; it tensed his body as if for the final scream before a kill; he gasped pleasantly and rove immediately in pursuit of it's wearer.
his blackbird, nipping at a drift. his nightshade, ribbonned in that maddening fragrance; it fired hardened compelled merrick
forward
swiftly he rushed to pillar her between his long limbs, pressing himself against her with a breathless chuckle.