Bearclaw Valley My mind won’t let me rest

merrick smoothed his gaze over the unnaturally shortened ears. his own had been ripped and lost in the myriad struggles he had put himself through. the coywolf wore them with pride, but only curiosity had he for the artificial shear of bishop's auds.
the admission was daunting, impressive. merrick looked upon the broad, crushing muscle, flicked his eye to the corded neck and powerful shoulders. yes — he had killed. would he be like revui then? a pang plucking along his heartstrings; he missed the mountain-man dearly.
no. this one was something else in his own right. 
"there is no equal to hunting wolf." cannibalizing the blood that made him. and this one, somehow, canine, foreign, his wrongness saved by the razor-edge of purely feral hunger. 
in the next moment merrick had turned away, trudging into a trot that carried him beyond the great stone setting at the mouth of their land, where some wolf or another prowled and watched from their high perch. he supposed it would be toad.
"when did you eat last?" businesslike, searching. it would take most of a cache to fill this one, and merrick held no formal hunts. perhaps time to change that.