Bearclaw Valley You're on your own

singing?
merrick could scarce believe it. he had been hot upon the trail of a coyote along the borders, but it had sped off with only bleeding bites delivered to its flank and its life intact.
evaded yet sated, the brat king had come back to the pathways leading to the meeting-field.
indeed, it was singing, and running, the boyish voice of someone who has never seen a killing before.
merrick glided through the memorized shadows of each barren tree, slipping oily between them until he came upon young ashlar, who struck a lovely picture against the hues of autumn.
"i didn't know you were such a songbird," merrick teased, appearing from cover with a pointed, curious arch of his brow.