Bearclaw Valley it’s got to come and find us, all we are is stars

he sat hunched upon some forlorn shelf of stone half-saddled with darkness.
something monumental was occurring, and it did not involve merrick.
he dared not steal close to her den, despite the compulsion to churn his limbs and bring himself closer. his nightbird's sounds of pain crescendoed into a feral dirge that poured through ursus and swept over the bearwolf.
one
he descended from the rock face and inched in that direction on legs that felt bound by all myriad things
two
merrick's face refashioned into a masque of anger; he came no closer and glowered in the shadows as the echoes of his raven's call drifted into motes.