Whitefish River a thousand times good night

a sylph, wandering and pale, emerged from the packlands first.  merrick watched her with interest, perhaps moreso that of a boy swiftly moving toward manhood. and then another, tall, with a masculinity softened only by the spread of hips, the way she addressed the girl. 
he could hear neither of them, only the tone of the second stranger's voice, but it was not the warmth there that beckoned to something within merrick; it was the fragrance that the wind bore to his senses.
the boy, and what was more, the man who had hunted him in the cave. crouching to gather himself had become a commonplace part of merrick's dark ritual, and the prospect of death fired him more.
he cast about for what he might say, even as he watched the pair near him.
an opportunity presented itself in the form of a stoat wending its way through the undergrowth, searching for rabbits — merrick darted through a cover of twigs at it, sending the hapless creature into the open.
and he followed, drawing up with a feigned surprise and the sheepish expression of someone who has let something go missing. in the open, exposed; merrick let his ears fall back against his skull. "oh! sorry!"