Meadowlark Prairie perfect, you're my poison

merrick might have well been the crushing hull of a ship for all his willingness to stop.
he had almost drifted beyond the grey dove when some saunter of bloodlust rose in his gorge. and so the bearwolf stopped, and set his single eye in its bitten socket upon the woman. "who are you?" 
his voice carried the stale dust from within a tomb. the cyclopic stare clutched at the stranger, seeing all of her and none of her.
behind the bowed head, a narrow spine. his teeth itched for a moment to break it.