Wapun Meadow rosewater & bloodstains

merrick was swift and had always been so, but his speed was magnified a thousandfold in the clean lines of his son —
a concept which still bittered his tongue with its foreign nature,
racing after the hapless easthollow craven.
merrick veered to keep pace at aventus' right; snapping teeth toward the bouncing end of the former fighter's plume, driving her out and out again, and at last, he hoped, into a puddle of blood cut from her own throat.
a trickle of maddened burbling laughter in his throat, trailing upon the wind for any and all to hear.