Silvertip Mountain thestral

when he came away, the boy’s ruff was smeared with crimson, merrick’s jaws stained to match. the struggling had sated his desire to know whether or not he and the shadow standing near had chosen a hale and fitting spark of life on which to slake their bloodlust.
yanking the pup back from the pool’s edge, merrick finally paced toward astara with the gait of a conqueror, and set his bloodied lips against the bulb of one dark velvet ear.
the want that had curled in him, one without formal comprehension, was at last budding into something recognizable, though still merrick had no name for it. he knew only that the sensation had been enforced by the glut of fear emanating from the child, the feeling of power that the yearling had received during this time within the cave.
mind having calmed now, he swept his attentions back to the previously keening child, and stooped lower. ”i’m doing this because i can,” merrick whispered in a tone blossoming warmly, a friendliness that had not been there before, and perhaps would not be heard again.
”is there something you want to say?” the coywolf murmured, offering the boy a platform on which he might stand to voice any woes.