Silvertip Mountain finchbit, moss-pecked

yes. . .the fuck. . .you do, surya repeated, the words clipped and accented. he took in a deep breath. buzzard became that man, in mind's eye, and all became clear. brown pelt, like his own. eyes? he did not know. he would not look at the eyes.

he lunged, seeking the throat, as he had promised merrick. if possible, his jaws would latch upon the jugular, tight enough to squeeze but not so much as to pop through flesh and let blood.

if not, well. . .he may have a fight on his paws.