Bearclaw Valley goodness is eternally difficult

"eaaaughsh." the trickle of warmth against his wrist was enough to force merrick into jerking away, sliding his wetted limb out from under the boy. a disgusted twist contorted his scar-riddled face, and he glared down at the offending turnip of a child. 
"gross," he gruffed when he had collected himself. whatever the bearwolf had been planning was gone to the wind of indignation; he began to back down the lip, wanting nothing more than to be shut of this den and that grub. but something stayed him; merrick gazed down at aventus with a searching glance, not understanding what kept him rooted.