Chapter Two: Now, use time skips in rapid fashion!

Carrow enjoyed the black darkness for a bit, feeling his soul wither and writhe inside what he assumed to be his mother's womb. He meditated on his soul, feeling it out, stretching it, pushing it, controlling it.

Every once in a while he'd push it out and get glimpses of the outside world. He knew that hunters could use Aura as a sensory tool, able to tell if something was looking at them, or an attack was coming in at a blind spot. Hell, blind people could use it to see in a way.

Carrow, while having no teacher for these techniques, had nine-months to practice and experiment. From blasting out aura randomly, extending it, pulsing it, and more.

Slowly, but surely, he started to get images and feelings from the outside world. He knew the dull fires of his mother and father, he knew the fire of his doctor, the fires of several people in the village, and the energies of trees, grass, and animals.

His body developed, and as day turned to night, time became meaningless, and soon he was born.

His newly born-self was left on a sort of auto-piolet, waddling around on mere instinct and biological intelligence rather than his mind-soul. His mind soul would sleep at times for months, if not even years, and on his fourth birthday, his parents never showed back up from their trip to a neighboring village.

At the time, he was left with his mother's grandfather, a kind old man who was a retired hunter. He still looked in his middle ages, an effect of him mastering his aura and had outlived his wife. It was him who he accompanied to the funeral, and him who he'd live with for the rest of his younger years.

...

...

"Chrome!" An rough and grizzly voice yelled out in the thick expanse of a dense forest. "Get back here! Grimm are about!" The man yelled as he hobbled through the thick foliage, hampered by his cheap prosthetic leg. He was dressed in lumberjack garb, jeans, a plaid shirt, and his hunter's weapon of a saber and crossbow hybrid. It was currently in its crossbow mode.

"Bas! Get back here right this instant!" The man yelled into the forest with an almost desperate mien. Suddenly his eyes widened and he felt a weight on his shoulders.

Sweat dribbled down his back as he stared into the sharp point of a stiletto blade ready to be driven into his eye. Aura or not, people still felt the bullets, claws, and bites through the mystical energy. Dulled and dampened, but a blade to the eye was still a blade to the eye.

"You're getting old, old man." The young boy of eight drawled as he balanced on his shoulders, looking down at the man with his toxic yellow and green eyes. Scales surrounded his orbitals drawing further attention to his otherworldly eyes. The boy was as agile and flexible as the snake his faunas blood expressed him as.

The grandfather, blood related or no, couldn't help but shiver at the boy's eyes and general demeanor and mien. Predatory, sadistic, paired with maturity and juxtaposed with the boy's childish facade he held in front of 'unsuspecting prey'. The old man had long since graduated from unsuspecting to oh so alert and on edge. Still prey, just a worthy one.

He honestly couldn't tell which was better.

The boy flipped off the man as his arm came up to slap away the knife and punt him into a tree. The boy landed on the ground, ducked under a bolt to the back of the skull, and leasurly dodged the following flurry of blows from his old grandfather's blade. His body, young as it was, was a gift as his aura gave him supernatural strength to clear distance and his size gave him leeway to hide, crawl, and dodge in places normal sized men wouldn't dream of.

The flurry of blows ended when the boy lunged forward, grappling and flinging himself over the old hunter and onto his back. He crawled through the mans legs, over his side, onto his head, under and over his feet whenever he threw a kick. His joints popped and dislocated, getting out of holds and joint locks whenever he pleased, and laughed as negligence and arrogance got him a blade to the temple, dazing him long enough for his grandfather to tackle him into submission.

Draped over his grandfather's shoulder, the young boy was dragged back to the cottage they called home.

"Damn freaky brat, what eight year old can casually play with a huntsman! Why can't you just be a normal freaky brat and play with other freaky brats. Not bother old men like me." The old man grumbled and huffed at the boy listlessly listening to the man rumble. A few chuckles and giggles left the boy's throat, before he rolled and slithered through the man's grip and joined him on the journey back home.

"I wouldn't be a freaky brat if I wasn't the only one. Then I'd just be a brat." The boy smiled, revealing a set of poison laced fangs and a pair of sadistic eyes. The older man shuddered and cuffed the boy on the back of the head. "Keep those things in your mouth brat, gives me the hibbe jeebies." The old man grumbled.

"Ah, they're my best feature though. A nice set of pearly whites." He grinned further, annoying the man. "That's it, no more T.V, brat."

The boy pouted, but accepted the punishment. Eventually making it back home. The old man bee lined straight to fridge and gave a deep growl, his own set of honey badger fangs dropping out of his mouth. He glanced at the dumb brat picking his nose by the door.

"Brat!" He got the boy's attention, Basalin flicking a bugger into his grandfather's discarded shoes, causing him to growl further. "Ugh, fucking, sigh, take this cash." The man grabbed a wallet and tossed out a set of five hundred lien. "Go grab some beer, a bottle of vodka, a bottle of whiskey, and a bottle of scotch, we're out." The man glowered at the lack of alcohol. "Then go and get a bag of ice, and some dinner for both of us. Lastly, I want some weed. Go to Jim's and get a kilo, that'll last a bit." The boy rolled his eyes at his grandfather. "Yeah, yeah, fucking alcoholic." The boy muttered, grabbing the cash and walking out of the door, not even shutting it.

"Damn brat."