[fancypost bgcolor=; border: none; width: 450px; padding: 0px; font-size: 10px; line-height: 14px; text-align: justify]a little thing for nero about his first encounter with a monster, in this case my own version of a wendigo when he is seven years old, well before the main storyline, more for fun and to get used to writing him than anything important
He doesn't know when it was that sleep had come to creep up on him, when the sharp edge of exhaustion had softened into a darkness that had swallowed his mind, but he knows it did. Slowly his eyes open, the lids fluttering briefly before they complete this simplistic task, lips curling only to part, a yawn given a brief existence as he stretches. First his arms, lifted up above his head to graze the leaves that bow down over him, his fingers grasping at a branches when his attention shifts, first one leg extending and then the next.
Faintly his joints pop and a ragged pain seeps into his muscles but he knows it will soon be gone, it is the wetness of his cheeks that interest him more than this phantom ache. He knows it's wrong to cry when he had no tears when she had died before him, hands trying to staunch the blood with no result, nor when her coffin had been lowered into the ground. He had no right to mourn the lose of his mother now when he was the reason she was gone, the heels of his hands digging into his cheeks as he swiped the tears away, the gesture almost angry. If he had been quicker she might be alive, sitting her with him in the branches of their tree, an old towering oak adored in red, orange and yellow, if only he had been the one the knife had found a home within.
But he wasn't, he had stood by as a stranger had buried the blade deep in her stomach and watched the blood cascade from the gaping hole, her futile attempts to stop the flow. She had done it for him, to protect her only child from the cold hands of death but he felt no relief or gratitude that he had another chance, only sorrow tainted by hate and anger. If only he wasn't a stupid little child, if only he had not been a coward, maybe she would have been alive.
A yelp. This is what drew him back from the depths of his reverie, a sound that erupted from his own lips, the salty taste of blood filling his mouth. Without realizing it Nero had bitten down upon his tongue, the teeth digging in only to tear the soft flesh. Spitting out blood tinged saliva he gently probed his tongue with the tip of a finger, trying to asses the damage. There was nothing he could do now and he wiped his bloody fingers on his top, smearing it with crimson but he had little care for that now, casting one last glance out over the forest. This had always been there place before, somewhere they went to escape the harsh reality of the world for a little bit, now he was a stranger in a hostile land, it's familiarity a sharp blade slashing at his heart.
Twisting around he slowly lowered himself from branch to branch, bare toes and fingers grasping at the bark and branches. It took only seconds for him to descend from the canopy of leaves, leaving him crouched on the lowest branch before he jumped. For only moments he was airborne, the wind whistling past his ears and he felt the flicker of joy come to life, ending all too soon when the ground rushed up to greet him. Landing clumsily he was forced into a roll, fallen branches scraping along the exposed skin of his arm, a hiss raising from his lips. Sprawled out in the leaf litter he ran his hands down his arms, feeling for any larger cuts but there was only a few scrapes and sore spots which later would become bruises.
Pushing himself up Nero found that his thought of solitude had been wrong, his wide eyes taking in the cloaked figure that moved towards him. It's steps were slow, calm, and seemed to be thought out, no sound raising though he saw the leaves shift beneath it, stirred by the cloak. But it couldn't really be called that, the garment that fell over the lanky body of the intruder a rich black yet it was not made from any fabric, it was instead various skins stitched together by an inexperienced hand. Drawn up over the head a hood left only darkness where the face would have been but it could not conceal the sound, a low hum that Nero felt more than saw, a flash of white all he saw before he jumped to his feet.
He would take no chances with this strange figure and so he took of running, stumbling over roots and his own feet, never daring to stop or look over his shoulder to see if it pursued him yet he was sure it wasn't for some odd reason, never stopping until he reached the small cottage that had become his home.
