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

surya, seething —
merrick's shoulders bladed as if they were darkened reeeds, in answer, in warning, in more.
"we do not determine what is deserved, surya." and in him the bloodlust, the struggle of control in his words, the pant of wanting on the end of his words. 
voice roughened and melancholy and desirous and fanatical —
their captive had uttered something merrick found most intriguing; the bearwolf let his flame-gaze slide from surya to the figure, and thrust his terrible and scarred face close with a dragon's-wreathing of fetid breath, tinged in the smell of the prisoner's own blood —
"the bear spirit of ursus does not care who you are. only that you run red when cut."
straightening, he led on again. 
"bring them."