He had run, that was true, but he hadn't gone far. The creature had made quick work of his mother; shoved her with a swipe that broke her and turned towards the more delectable morsel. For each three of the colt's skittering strides the beast taken one, and for all his panting and terror, Clegane couldn't have hidden anyway.
He doesn't remember how it caught him, but he does remember that suddenly he wasn't running anymore. Suddenly he was being pushed to the ground and smothered by something dark and foul.
One step closer to the truth, he begins to shy, but cunning Violence is there in an instant. The press of her body against his own is both maternal and sensual, and he doesn't know which of these things is the one which coxes out what she wants.
He cracks the memory open like a skull so she may drink her fill off the sweet filth that had been rotting his soul and souring his stomach for years. Memories he hasn't accessed since he sobbed into Solace's neck wash over him, hot and cold. Memories he had always known were there but was too weak to look in the face:
The feeling of claws scraping across his skill, bumping along the dips and vales of his little face as it held him close.
Canines sinking into the soft places of his muzzle as it tried to suffocate him in the case the damage already given was not enough.
The overwhelming iron wetness everywhere, the air he couldn't get.
The sound of his mother's prayer to the Dark God as she pulled it off him with the strength she should not have.
His skin is slick with the fear which seeps from his pores; his eyes roll back below his closed lids. He had always been a creature of fight, not flight. But even as these memories shake his body and he wonders if she thinks him brave.
If she thinks he is a brave little boy or a very pathetic man.
@[violence]
He doesn't remember how it caught him, but he does remember that suddenly he wasn't running anymore. Suddenly he was being pushed to the ground and smothered by something dark and foul.
One step closer to the truth, he begins to shy, but cunning Violence is there in an instant. The press of her body against his own is both maternal and sensual, and he doesn't know which of these things is the one which coxes out what she wants.
He cracks the memory open like a skull so she may drink her fill off the sweet filth that had been rotting his soul and souring his stomach for years. Memories he hasn't accessed since he sobbed into Solace's neck wash over him, hot and cold. Memories he had always known were there but was too weak to look in the face:
The feeling of claws scraping across his skill, bumping along the dips and vales of his little face as it held him close.
Canines sinking into the soft places of his muzzle as it tried to suffocate him in the case the damage already given was not enough.
The overwhelming iron wetness everywhere, the air he couldn't get.
The sound of his mother's prayer to the Dark God as she pulled it off him with the strength she should not have.
His skin is slick with the fear which seeps from his pores; his eyes roll back below his closed lids. He had always been a creature of fight, not flight. But even as these memories shake his body and he wonders if she thinks him brave.
If she thinks he is a brave little boy or a very pathetic man.
@[violence]
