Bearclaw Valley had wild dreams walkin' the streets

merrick was disintegrating.
his pelt hung in matted locks; his teeth had yellowed beneath the bellows of his fetid breath. under his coat the hard muscles remained, flesh whittling to hateful strength.
but the single eye remained horrendous and terrible as ever.
the details of the man were not important.
merrick shambled toward the stranger with his new limping gait, courtesy of the beloved relative who had ripped two of his toes off.
"who calls the bear?" the witch demanded in a forbidding voice. the lines of his body promised a swift violence if the answer was found unsuitable.