The Great Horned Daemon (Private, Flashback)

Beautiful humming was the only sound, it seemed, in the entire mountain range.

Maro's body shook, shivers running through his body. Powerful arms tightened around him, bringing him in closer to the embrace which kept him warm through the night. The humming quieted into a comfortable silence, fingers running through his messy dark locks, which hung down to his shoulders.
"Are you cold, little warrior?" Came her voice, so comforting in its sound. The boy nodded, burrowing into her chest as her tail came to wrap around him, joining her arms in the task of keeping him warm.

It was very cold up there. He wondered, in the quiet of his mind, if she were cold too. Did adults get cold? Even with snow mounting upon her shoulders and scalp, she never seemed to shiver. Was he just weak of body and mind? His dark eyes, filled with the innocence of childhood, refocused on his mother's face, gazing upwards, as she brushed the hair from his eyes. Her fingers pressed through his mane, and he was too aware of the conformity of his scalp, it's distinct lack of the great horns his brother and father had.

"When can we go home, ma-ma?" He croaked; voice dry from lack of use. There was no verbal response from his caretaker. He already knew what her answer would've been. They did not have a home. But she knew very well what he had meant. They'd been moving for so long, and so fast, and away from the rest of their tribe. Were they scouting ahead? His thoughts slid into the back of his mind as she began to hum again, the sound seeming to encompass the entire valley, though barely audible against the wind blowing through the cracks and the hills.

It was a pattern he was beginning to get used to. They would rise early in the morning. Mother would hunt small game to feed them, while he would forage, and, if he could manage, catch a bird or squirrel. They would cook their food and eat, pack their things, and continue moving. Even in the active seasons of the year, the nomads would never move this much. Were they headed somewhere? Running from something? It was a dangerous lifestyle, but it was all he knew. Maro could not imagine a future where he would settle down with a family and farm, as other clans did.

His mother said he was far too curious a boy for that. In the past few weeks they had been travelling, brigands had attacked them twice. Both times, he had been instructed to find somewhere to hide until Mother was done. It did not take long, and when she was done, they would play in the rivers or lakes as she washed the brigands' blood out of her hair. A boy of his age, nearing eight, was supposed to be fighting, like his mother. His brother had at his age. His father had at his age. Both men had taken lives at the tender age of seven, but it was not in Maro's blood to kill.

He was not an exceptionally good warrior, he was not a leader, he was not a violent person. He was not his father's son, and every day he was reminded of it. Whether it be his small size, his lack of horns, or his tendency towards meek silence, he did not fit in. Not in his family, nor his clan as a whole. It seemed, however, that this was why his mother loved him so.

She never did explain to him why they were running; and they were running. He was perhaps an innocent boy, despite what he'd seen in his short time on the planet, but he was not a stupid one. They were running. The little boy didn't even need to know why. He hadn't questioned it further. It just felt right, because the further they got away from him, the better he felt. The less cold his blood ran, and the more the beat of his heart calmed.

But the great horned daemon catches up to everyone. No matter how much they run to avoid him. No matter how desperately they wish for freedom.

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WC:707

WC Total: 707
7 Stat Points: 7 towards speed (26->33)
Putting 707 more words into the Eight Inner Gates Skill.

Approved