Barrow Fields And under mountains in the moon

He just stood there gawking, a distant grey puff of fog, because that was about as useful as he was in this whole thing.  He honestly couldn't really believe what he was seeing, and much like with a train wreck, he couldn't look away.  Snarls and blood and the churn of writhing fighters burned itself into his retinas.

They all had to be crazy.  That was the only way the youth could even put any sense of reason to what he saw.  The wolves that had tried to befriend him were indeed like sirens on the sea, and they had turned on one who hadn't been as suspicious -- or wary?  Something like that.  Monsters.  Demons.  It didn't matter other than he was glad he trusted his instincts and didn't believe someone who came with promises that seemed too good to be true. They were.

As things started to break up and it looked like only the non-solid-colored wolves were left, he finally broke free of whatever hypnosis had occurred, sprinting away from the scene just in case they decided to turn on him next.  The rest of Mal's brain pretty much turned off at that point, all that was left was fleeing, and burying those memories somewhere where he'd hopefully never see them again.

But let's be real, this is Wolf.