Bearclaw Valley peccato meo munda me

there was a miniscule creasing to her already wrinkled face as her hopes turned too idealistic for the reality of this predicament. if only merrick were still living...

the beardog waddled on forward, not considering danger a possibility. as she approached the wolf - two shades brown, marked by morning mass cross of white - she spoke, not looking at the recipient, but at her overburdened feet.

"bruin-heart. bruin-jaw. what of them?"

his question was, at the time, irrelevant.