Meadowlark Prairie perfect, you're my poison

the ugliness of merrick's muzzle twisted into a hoarse and sardonic laugh, the rattle of bones at the back of a graveyard. "like the fire of hell itself," he seethed.
if the small woman, sabah of akashingo — if she had not liked his look before, merrick rested all his gaze and intrigue heavily upon her now.
there were surely many snowdriven wolves with yellow eyes. merrick would not bid himself more than this until the stranger answered.