Bearclaw Valley never bet the devil your head

merrick was not a physician, but he knew the scent of sickness, and it had embedded itself in avicus like a thorn.
the edge of it caught his nostrils, set them to flare. in the snow the bear paused, looked upon her melancholy bearing, attempted to seek her eyes with the single one left to him.
what had happened?
"i will take you to evien," he said, and then paused; tail lashed behind him, and he grew suddenly distrustful, some ugly development the saints had burned into the surface of his brain.
"she will be back." the words unmatching the curious way merrick looked at avicus, before turning and moving forward into a thicker layering of snowladen branches.