→ for which I have to howl.

[lupa]

Who: GG Giordano, Cliona Donovan
What: They're brought to Baedal together, a reunion somewhat marred by the fact that GG's sanity is apparently due to arrive a while after she does.
Where: An arrival room in the Valhalla Inn.
When: Coardi.
Notes: rrrrrr.
Warnings: Violence, blood, mentions of murder, nudity, probable foul language and discussion of torture. More TBA.

At least he's dead. Some people bring items to Baedal; GG, aside from a pile of dirty, sturdy clothes, brings a chunk of flesh in her teeth; the best part of a man's neck. So: she may be mad, she may be dead, may be captured, may have broken all of her own rules and done something terrible and horrible like she has always always wanted to and she may not regret it at all, but at least he's dead.

--is what GG will think later. Right now, she isn't thinking in words, but in smells and sights and feelings, flashes of instinct which cross paths in her mind and go straight to her paws.

This isn't where she was a moment ago. She took that bite and worried that flesh away, and then she couldn't hear him screaming, was tumbling, and landed- where?

Sight doesn't chime in as much as her other senses do, her hearing and her sense of smell, the fact that it's warmer here, wherever she is, wherever she's locked and whoever's taken her. She can smell people, so many of them, not all of them humans, in and out of this room all day long, their scents fading but distinct, cleaning supplies, she can smell fear and sweat and panic.

Somewhere in the backseat of her brain her rational thoughts are screaming Numen, Crisse, it must be Numen, how--

The wolf can't remember what Numen is, only that a) she is in danger and b) she is not alone.

The faerie smells like the earth after rain, with the scent of unwashed skin and hospitals and chemicals overlaid over that, an ugly mishmash of scents which she can almost see in streaks of orange and grey, sickly colours, on her tongue more than in her nose.

The same human rationale that knows what Numen is is screaming at the wolf, no no no no!

And the wolf, scared, whimpering, snarling, backed into a corner, does not listen- and springs.

Comments

[caoineadh]

This is not where Clio was half a second ago. The cold metal operating table she was strapped to is replaced by a cold tiled floor, the cruel, impassive, sneering faces of the scientists is now a green ceiling and instead of the sound of their voices she hears a snarl.

Crisse.

There's no time to worry about how she got here, she just knows she has to avoid the wolf that's attached to that snarl. Fortunately for Clio, five months of captivity don't undo nearly six years of living in a state of constant readiness, and despite that face she's injured, groggy and scared, she forces her body to move. It drags a groan out of her, but she rolls to the side, avoiding the lunge of the wolf and gets to her feet as quick as she can, putting the table between herself and the creature that wants to eat her. There's nothing else she can do, her wrists are still bound with iron and there are no weapons. Maybe she can make it to the door before the wolf attacks again.

[agrat]

Once Lea is at the door to the arrival room, she realizes, truly, what is about to happen. Since seeing the faces of her friends on the screen, she's been in a mad rush to pick up the clothes (a loose t-shirt and track pants, flat flip-flop sandals, nothing fancy but Lea has no idea what would fit both of them) and make it to the Inn, never stopping, never really thinking.

Outside the door, she takes a deep breath. She's not dressed in a terribly fancy fashion, leather leggings and a sweater and boots, still acclimating to the change in climate, and she's got the clothes she brought for Clio in a bag clutched to her chest rather than hanging at her side. She'd thought to bring food, but it might be better to get them back to her place and then tear into the bags of bread and similar that she has waiting. Carefully, pacing things, because she has a feeling they're in a place of starvation where too much at once might make them sick.

A quiet flash of hatred bursts through her, directed toward the people at home who just can't seem to stop fucking hurting the people she cares about. She quells it. Later, later. Always later.

With her hand, she knocks once, to let them know she's arrived. "It's me."

In French, of course. When the door swings open, now, it's using telekinesis, not her hands.