Silvertip Mountain if this is how you folks make art it’s fucking depressing

merrick, hackles stippled; merrick, stalking around every side of the mountain until his legs ached so greatly that sleep evaded him; merrick, limning himself with a year's knowledge of mountains in as little time as possible.
and always —death follows — hunting every step, until he happened upon a stranger not his own, the scent of him.
the bearwolf dropped low, prowling carefully toward the interloper but keeping himself shadowed, hidden, pulling upon even the most recent-budded memories of this place to keep himself truly hidden.
the single eye burned with bloodglee.