Flycatcher Downs sweet little baby in a world full of pain

That smell. He couldn't forget it. Of rotting corpses, decay—blood and bog. It clogged his nostrils, forcing his lungs to burn and protest as he stared blankly at the ground with a trembling gaze. He couldn't focus on anyhing, not with his stomach doing somersaults and his ears ringing like the songbirds above.

Why here. Why now?

He had already driven off Valour with a stern talk. He thought that would be the end of it. End of the Nightwalkers tracking him down. End of the hot feeling in his bones. Of the shivers that wracked his core.

But it couldn't be that easy. No. It never was.

After heaving up the mess that was his lunch onto the terrain, and giving it a glare as if it had personally pissed on his mother, Clay turned tail and stalked his way towards the direction of the stench. And when the form of another appeared, hunched over in the grass, he wasted no time in charging forward with a deafening snarling—tail raised and body taunt and he attempted to tackle them to the ground.