Wapun Meadow boorish

"there's nothing wrong with you," merrick purled, punctuating his declaration with a lash of his dark plume. he was backing fields down, down until the stranger turned frigid and calculating, cardboard catching fire against the edge of a pit.
merrick was delighted then; he advanced another shuffle, willing this sea-eyed haunt to stop, to see how close he might come before the warning throb of a snarl sounded. "there's nothing to fix." near perfect, fields with his own dark passenger whispering in clarion whispers to merrick's own heart.
baleful, silent, welcoming; do not cross me in the bottle-message sailed forth with his next careful breath.