Wapun Meadow the nasty words of a hateful song

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he woke in a lustful, malicious mood. it was just before twilight, and merrick had slumbered the day away. passing tongue across the proud ridges of his well-sharpened teeth, the boy cast off over the borders. he still refused to near his rook too closely; the scars she had left ringing his remaining eye was warning enough.
and with ulysses gone, there was no one else who might embrace merrick.
it was not loneliness he felt; it was loss, and keenly aware of it, the bearwolf fucked off into the night, searching, searching, for the warmth of an anonymous body —
— or blood.