Bearclaw Valley I roam these halls, search the night, in hopes that I might see

he had caught a stoat traversing the edge of the stone-teeth rift. his first instinct upon seizing the beast had been to beat its brains angrily from the cracked skull, but merrick had held himself. this was food, meat; with the instinctive cycling of something like paternality, the bearwolf gathered the limp body up and took it to his recovering son.
it was a lucky catch, something bestowed rather than earned. his leg was still healing, and the bitemarks received both from easthollow and nyra oozed blood from his efforts; droplets matted beneath his ear as he dragged the kill into the den and settled near aventus.
eat.
not a request, merrick's silent searchlight gaze skimming aventus for any sign he might suddenly give up the ghost.