12-16-2020, 07:39 PM
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Although he is only two years old, Targaryean’s mind seems much older. His mother has always been a ghost, drifting into and away from consciousness. He visits her every spring and fall to see if she has woken with the changing of seasons but she remains firmly rooted among soil, perhaps shifted a few feet from where he had last found her. His father is a vague memory — the sweet smell of rotting flesh, the warmth of a soft breath across his face, the sight of blood-and-ivory feathers — and Targaryen has never dared to search for him. The independence the boy has gained in his short life has given him street-smarts beyond his years.
Whether his street-smarts could have protected him from this particular incident is a matter of opinion. Targaryen can remember grazing from a patch of emerald grass settled among thick brambles in the Forest when he heard the noise. It had started as a quiet shuffling, which transitioned into the rustling of fur against undergrowth and the huffing of a large animal. The boy (dressed in shades of pine and the ivory of his father) hadn’t come across a beast of the Forest before, and he was not willing to meet one if he could avoid it.
So he had scattered from his dinner, winding between branches heavy with summertime leaves to escape. The creature had given chase, as most predators tend to do when their meal is running away. Targaryen felt a nasty sting on his right haunch and twisted his head to catch the looks of his predator just as the ground gave out beneath him. He had known about this particular section of the woodland — where the Forest met the River in an ungracious ledge that fell straight into the deepest section of the winding, rough waters — but the adrenaline and fear of the chase had wiped his mind clear of geography.
The rest of the story could explain itself nicely; a hidden rock had knocked him unconscious and he had drifted on the currents until they softly deposited him in a quieter section of the river. The boy’s mind returns to him just as Cheri spots his tree-and-cloud figure in the darkness. “Hrrrrghh,” he groans, unaware of the girl watching him or the steady trickle of blood still weaving down his right leg.
Whether his street-smarts could have protected him from this particular incident is a matter of opinion. Targaryen can remember grazing from a patch of emerald grass settled among thick brambles in the Forest when he heard the noise. It had started as a quiet shuffling, which transitioned into the rustling of fur against undergrowth and the huffing of a large animal. The boy (dressed in shades of pine and the ivory of his father) hadn’t come across a beast of the Forest before, and he was not willing to meet one if he could avoid it.
So he had scattered from his dinner, winding between branches heavy with summertime leaves to escape. The creature had given chase, as most predators tend to do when their meal is running away. Targaryen felt a nasty sting on his right haunch and twisted his head to catch the looks of his predator just as the ground gave out beneath him. He had known about this particular section of the woodland — where the Forest met the River in an ungracious ledge that fell straight into the deepest section of the winding, rough waters — but the adrenaline and fear of the chase had wiped his mind clear of geography.
The rest of the story could explain itself nicely; a hidden rock had knocked him unconscious and he had drifted on the currents until they softly deposited him in a quieter section of the river. The boy’s mind returns to him just as Cheri spots his tree-and-cloud figure in the darkness. “Hrrrrghh,” he groans, unaware of the girl watching him or the steady trickle of blood still weaving down his right leg.
@[Cheri]