Silvertip Mountain thestral

rage compelled him, drove out the throbbing pain of his grisly wound, and soon merrick turned his attention from savaging the boy to gathering him up again, staggering beneath the screaming, flailing weight.
astara’s teeth too clipped their ward’s flesh, but the coywolf swept himself between his shadow and the boy swiftly, hoping to arrest the majority of her downward momentum. 
in this moment, a great, glossy sense of clarity was blossoming in merrick’s awareness, and the path he must now take became completely brightened with his own desires. why had he not before thought of such a thing?
the hapless little dragon was dragged from the cave onto the wet rock outside, and merrick’s throat constricted with a merry laugh from around his grim mouthful of fur and flesh. the end the end the end the 
beginning
yes yes the blood he had shed tonight had brought with its metallic flavour the necessity of keeping that vague inner eye open to the possibility that only one more need ever succumb; the beginning.
without another word, merrick gave a great wrench of his neck and thrust the boy over the cliffside into the damp darkness of the rainsoaked early morning.
not scarcely waiting a moment before turning to his companion, merrick sought to caress her ears with his crimson-hued muzzle, an ugly croak of speech spewing forth.
”i want you to meet my mother.”