Difference between revisions of "Thrall"

Sandra just looks-- frustrated, more than anything, one hand rubbing over her mouth as she tries to settle herself. "This is so ridiculous," she says under her breath, one her hand raises to rub at her forehead, pressing her thumb and forefinger to her temples. "Everything about this is ridiculous. I feel like some malfunctioning--"

She pauses-- just looks even more frustrated for a moment, casting an irritated look to one side. "I don't even have the correct analogy for it," she says. "If it's not one thing, it's another. Or another. I'm *tired* of it." And getting worked up again, apparently.

~I know,~ Ouroboros says -- presumably about the tiredness, not the ridiculousness. ~We know we can mitigate the dreams, at least, even if it's going to take some work. So that will help. And maybe there's something that could keep the change fully under your control, somewhere, too. I know it happens to other people; I knew someone who couldn't have a drink without changing, before. But for tonight...~ He glances to the sky. ~The umbra'll be bright. We could go across and patrol that side a bit. Maybe we'll luck out and something will need killing, mm?~

Sandra's arms cross loosely over her chest-- then a little tighter, the tension better explained by a slight shiver, the breeze doing a human body absolutely no favors. Her jaw tenses, suggesting some resistance to her teeth chattering, and she looks up at the sky, herself.

"Maybe," she concedes. "I just wish there weren't so many concessions that needed to be made. So many--" She looses a breath. "Accommodations. You can at least go teetotaler if you have to. Me?" She grits her teeth-- less against the cold this time, more in frustration. "Not only do I-- at least, for *now*, have to wonder if it wouldn't just be easier to sleep with a silver chain around my throat," she says, her voice starting to raise the more she speaks, "I have to sleep out in a *park* like some derelict to keep from scaring the hell out of half a city block." She shakes her head, sneering visibly. "I do *everything* in my goddamn power to keep that from happening," she snaps, starting to look like she's ready to pace, to do *something*, "*everything* I can to mitigate damage," that anger and resentment starting to flood into her words, aimed at nothing but the circumstances themselves, "but all it does is waste time. Time we *don't--"

The words fall short. While a brief surge of Rage is expected - even slightly encouraged, where it comes to venting - this is something altogether different. Like a sharp crack of white noise the leaves behind a tinnitus keen, too sharp and too sudden to be avoided. Comes on with a gasp, her hands raising easily to either side of her head as if to try and block the noise, body doubling over as, already, the grind of bone and muscle starts to sound off.

Ouroboros doesn't interrupt, though his body language still says calming, supporting, things being okay. Until they aren't. As her frustration swells, he almost does interrupt -- but it's too late, that surge of Rage coming off her and hitting him like a bucket of ice water through the veins. It's too sharp, too powerful, and his own rises up to answer it, channeled into swift movement. A step toward her, the momentum fed into a swing of his arm, the huge paw curled for a quick and ruthless strike to her temple... before that target gets much higher or better protected.

It's something she'd probably thank him for later. For now, however, the part of her that knows the concept of gratitude is already being lost to the nightmare halflight of amber eyes, and an incoherent shout that's already turning to a furious snarl. The hit staggers her, the changes taking place in her body making it easy to send her crashing to the ground, arms half-shifted between her human and war forms barely able to snap out and brace for impact.

The beast knows pain, though. It knows aggression. And as that massive crinos shape is made manifest, eyes with no comprehension of who it is in front of her hazily trying to focus in on Ouroboros, a rough, wordless snarl snapped out from an open maw of bared teeth. But though she may not know *who* he is, there's clear understanding of *what*. Attacker. The one that hurt her.

Not a good place to be. Not at all. But for one she can't bite back -- and he's seen her bite back plenty -- the Ragabash's chances are probably better taking the opening as soon as there is one. Ouroboros follows through on the punch, twisting at the waist so that his paw comes back down to meet the back of her now-changed head. It's not quite as powerful a strike, alas for his aims, but it's something. The more he can get in before she gets going, the faster he can take her down, the better for everyone.

Assuming he can take her down at all.

It's a good start, as they go. But that's it for his main advantages. Now she's stronger and more resilient... and not the one who has their joint survival here as a goal.

Stronger, more resilient, and snapping her teeth at his wrist before it retracts entirely. It's not just the once, either. Once, twice, three times, the Ahroun just dazed enough that it looks more like a violent tantrum than anything effective, but the way her claws are digging at the earth to right herself, it's painfully clear that he only has a short while to make up his mind. Fight, or flee.

Ouroboros makes an unhappy noise, stepping away from the snapping jaws, and then darting in suddenly, trying to get another good shot at the back of her neck, where it's at least slightly more difficult for teeth to get at him. It's not a bad movement, aimed to send him past her if he misses, and to put the force of the momentum into the impact if he doesn't, and the angle as it nears her skull looks promising...

With her hands and feet underneath her, Razor-Eater rears up at the last second, one clawed hand raising upwards to try and strike out in return, the force behind the blow felt against his wrist as his own aim is knocked completely off-course. The only real bonus here is that it does the same for hers, the snap of her teeth soon after, coming frighteningly close to one side of his face, falling short of its target. But she's up now, looking a hell of a lot less dazed, every bit of focus she has placed clearly on him.

Damn shit fuck bollocks! Ouroboros's eyes widen slightly at that focus from her as he recalculates the new situation. Fast. Which, apparently, is the operative word; instead of attacking again, he throws himself away from her, melting instantly from Crinos on to Hispo and sprinting off.

Or, well, trying to sprint off. Despite the claws, his paws slip on the mix of fallen leaves and other late-autumn detritus, unable to get the purchase they need for a proper start. In other circumstances, it would be pretty funny; it's probably the most like a cartoon character he's ever managed to look, with that much movement covering that little distance. Somehow it's not the lack of dignity in it that currently concerns him most.

Neither does it seem to concern the Ahroun, either, but at least one of those stumbles manages to keep him clear of the claws that rake overhead, the sheer velocity of the intended blow felt in the way it ruffles his fur. An outraged snarl follows immediately after, and again, that scurrying manages to come to his rescue, ending with the distinct, troubling sensation of her claws combing through the fur of his back, just above his tail. Doesn't quite touch skin, but it's close enough to be hair-raising all on its own, and it goes without saying that she fully intends on dishing out more of the same, for as long as she can manage it.

It certainly qualifies as motivational. If Ouroboros weren't already convinced of the wisdom of discretion over standard issue valour here, those near-misses would probably have done the trick. That last one comes right as his claws find the right angle for purchase -- or perhaps they just finally scrape away the slick foliage enough to reach the dirt -- and they dig in, giving him the leverage to finally hare off. It doesn't quite manage leaving a Ragabash-shaped cloud of dust behind, but if he could go that fast, he probably would've.

Ouroboros runs. Like the wind! Unfortunately, like the wind on a not particularly breezy day. It's not nearly the quickest he's ever been, and it'd really be quite a good time for that. He can practically feel her breath on the back of his neck as he goes, and while that beats feeling her teeth on it, there's the definite sense that she's getting closer to that particular goal with almost every step. He doesn't dare look back to check. Not now.

For the best, all told. Every time he banks, she's right behind him. Every time he tries to alter his course, she's right there, barreling through trees and underbrush without care or concern. It's *him* she's after, and *him* she's clearly aiming to put an end to, every killer instinct she has focused on this one goal.

May well be by the grace of God, or Gaia, or whomever's watching out for him tonight that, when she gains speed and overtakes him, the lunge she makes at seizing his neck in her teeth falls just short of its goal, her teeth, like her claws, combing through the fur of his nape.

...That, however, is not the worst of it. For whatever reason, through whatever means, she's overtaken him just enough to launch another attack, one clawed hand raising up and over her head to swing down against his back, as much a means of clubbing his spine as raking him with her claws. To make matters exceptionally worse, she's got him dead to rights, the snarl she unleashes felt in a hot cascade of her breath against his back, that reach just enough that this could very well be the end of the chase.

Ouroboros can feel it -- the faint heat of her massive form nearing again and then the much clearer heat of that breath -- and in that faint breeze of the beginning of that swing of her arm, he throws himself suddenly to the side and into a roll. Comes up on his feet with the white of his fur dingy and smeared with mud and detritus, but still: comes up on them, past the arc of her arm, and ahead. Not by much. Nothing to take any relief from. But ahead... even if it feels as though she's already catching up.

It's only thanks to claws plunging deep into the soil with an audible *THUNK* that Razor-Eater manages to bank hard on that turn, the grip she has on the ground propelling her forward, right behind him, her teeth snapping at the air so distressingly close to his tail that, even this, he can feel. It costs her, though, her shoulder slamming hard against one of the trees he weaves through, costing her precious ground in gaining on him. She's still following - still intent - but she's not directly on him anymore.

Run run run run duck swerve run jump zig TREE THAT IS A TREE-- Ouroboros manages not to hit it, quite, but the unexpected dodge required throws off his stride, not to mention shortening the distance between him and his pursuer via the new angle when he basically skitters almost directly sideways for a good few feet while trying to get his own properly under him again.

Indeed, Razor-Eater is gaining on him again. Those snarls and snapping teeth are getting closer, the outpouring of pure fury coming off of her in waves a palpable force in and of itself. She digs in, so hot on his heels by the time he's recovering that he can practically feel her breath again, that murderous intent communicated in something akin to an outright roar, right behind him.

Ouroboros yipes in a way that he would probably be fairly embarrassed about if he were less, you know, running for his life -- and may be, later. Assuming there's a later, which currently, he isn't necessarily. He's running on 'now', for the moment, fairly literally. Another tree, but this one he uses, running toward it as if he might run right into it and then leaping, pushing off of it with all the strength in his legs to send him off at a new angle, already going as quick as he can. If he's really lucky, maybe she'll hit the tree. At the least, maybe it'll be surprising enough to gain him a little more leeway.

The Ahroun goes skidding into the tree whether she likes it or not, the sudden change in trajectory unplanned for. She manages to halt her progress before it becomes an issue of knocking herself out (oh, if only the both of them were so lucky) slamming her side up against it as she looks every which way for her quarry. He'll hear the otherworldly snarl that comes of it, and the sharp *CRACK* of the tree being hit, the sound echoing through the forest like a gunshot.

He has his space now. Continues to have his space. But there's a problem inherent in that, isn't there? There are no sounds of something following him anymore. Not even the snarls can be heard after that sound. Maybe he did get lucky; maybe she actually knocked herself out in an attempt to pursue him. Or maybe, possibly, she found something else to sink her teeth into.

It's a good ways before the Ragabash becomes pretty sure that, in fact, he's NOT still being pursued. That maybe -- just maybe -- the tree gambit worked as well as he could've possibly hoped. He takes the risk of glancing back over his shoulder, and slowing down a bit. A bit more, when it's clear she indeed isn't on his tail.

Lets him focus more on things other than Not Dying, which aren't all entirely relieving. Maybe she's knocked out -- best case scenario. Maybe she got badly hurt, and needs him to heal her. Or maybe she found something else to chase. Game would be okay... He can't be sure from here, though. He takes a breath, and starts back the way he came, somewhat more slowly and making a few quiet connections to and then silent bargains with Gaia as he goes.

When sound becomes a factor again, it's not good sounds he hears, and the smells don't help the case any.

There's a distinctly human scent on the breeze, beneath blind fury and adrenaline. A sound of something massive plowing through trees and underbrush in a direction that is distinctly 'away,' the split-second of having gained a significant lead allowing for just enough room for distraction. That the underlying fear of the human scent has quickly turned to a kind of primal terror says nothing good.

Snarling has reached an apex again, followed by shriek that matches the frenetic panic of the Delirium. The only upside to the pungent odors of bladder and bowel being evacuated is that the target is now far easier for him to track. The problem is that it makes said target far easier for *her* to track, as well, and judging by the escalating snarls, it's only a matter of time before she's on him.

Ouroboros can curse in at least seven languages, and is probably using all of them right now to cover the situation. In his head. Outside it, he's as quiet as he can manage while still running like hell. So probably 'not very', really, but of the things he needs to hear right now, 'himself' fails to make the list. The shriek does, though. And the snarls. The direction they come from and the way they attenuate give a picture of the chase in progress, one the scents back up.

He runs, curving if need be to try to stay out of her likely view -- less worried about the wind, since his own scent won't be wafting to her regardless, but downwind when possible for the information carried on the breeze. Unlike the running before, now that he isn't being directly chased, he pays more attention to his actual surroundings, in case any of it strikes him as possibly of help. Anything to add to the vanishingly small pool of options at hand.

How long had they been running for? And for how far? It's a question that gets answered by what comes into view: a small, open shelter that's been left untended for years, one of the 'landmarks' that the Ahroun has used to an acre or two worth of land outside the outer perimeter of what can reasonably be guarded-- for now. She's spoken before about scaring off anyone who appears as though they could be trouble, and leaves be those that had the dumb luck of parking themselves near a werewolf haven.

It's a spot that gives the homeless that wander here shelter from storms, and, more importantly, from the police scouting the other side of the island. It also happens to have been occupied.

The scene is almost as ludicrous now as it must have been when Ouroboros was the one being chased. The man wrapped in about as many layers as he can be is flinging himself every which way, *somehow* managing to maintain a narrow lead that Razor-Eater is doing her damndest to close. Every time he switches direction around a tree or obstacle, she's right there on him, her bulk hardly seeming to prove much of a hinderance where it comes to banking on a turn, though more than a few are patently inelegant. Not that she's trying for style.

Nonetheless, one can't help but applaud the man's dedication to remaining in one piece. Delirious with a capital D or not, his instincts for when to turn or dive are spot-on, though it obviously won't last for long.

Ouroboros's gaze briefly follows the quarry, then his packmate, and then the surroundings again. Good work that man, making it this long without getting caught and ripped to shreds. And good work as a distraction, even if he probably wouldn't have volunteered for the job.

The Ragabash takes the moment to study the area, analyzing their surroundings for things that might do a better job of stopping her than he can himself, and how he could make them do so; it's a fairly quick assessment, and alas not quite as productive as he might have wished. No twenty foot pits or dart guns in cabinets labeled 'in case of Thrall, break glass'. The shelter area gets a lingering consideration, however; that has some possibility. And the land behind it is probably kinder to him than to her if he still has to run afterward. Beats just trying to run her into some trees, at least. And it LOOKS like it'd come down with a good hit. Probably. In the right place. Which is... well, probably one or another of those supports? Probably...

As Ouroboros takes a good look at the surroundings, assessing his next move, the man isn't quite so lucky in finding his footing. He turns a little too abruptly, the yelp that comes from him beyond the straight-up shrieking before he plummets suggesting a twisted ankle. He rolls to the ground, just as the Ahroun moves in to overtake him.

She seizes hold of his leg first, which may well be the only reason that he makes it through the first round of the attack. Once her teeth dig in, she shakes him roughly, the sound of flesh and cloth tearing, the leg itself damn near twisted off at the knee, it's clear as day that he's not coming back from this without divine intervention of some kind. With her prey properly subdued, Razor-Eater is already releasing the leg in an effort to put an end to all that wailing.

...And as his analysis continues, honing in on the structure itself, putting an end to the wailing is precisely what Razor-Eater does. To the man's credit, he makes her fight for every inch of ground, rolling onto his back to pummel at her face and muzzle with his fists as she tries to snap her teeth at him, not once but twice knocking her trajectory off-course. When *that* ceases to work, he blindly grabs hold of the corners of her mouth, seizing the skin there in an attempt to keep those jaws from crashing down on him, but all it takes is one good shake of her head to dislodge him.

It doesn't stop him from trying again-- even if it is a heartbeat too late for that. Her teeth snap down on his neck, and the shrieking turns to an unearthly pitch before stopping entirely, the man's body shaken back and forth like a ragdoll. Bones shatter, blood continuing to spray from his now-limp body - into her mouth, onto the soil - in gouts in those few moments before his heart stops pumping, but she isn't quite done with him yet.

Whether or not it means that she's moving on to something she'll deeply regret - more than the murder itself - once she comes back to her senses-- it can't be his concern right now. There are at least two struts holding up the structure's roof that, if he could guide her through them, would bring the whole thing crashing down on her. It'll take leaping the railing *into* the structure, and making a turn on a dime to get out from under it to make it work, but the closed-in wooden wall she'd be facing may well stop her progress enough to maximize the impact.

Well. Even if Ouroboros is the closest thing present to divine intervention on the poor guy's behalf, there's no way he'd have time to get the Gift off before the Ahroun made it moot again. Not to mention the trickiness of explaining why the guy would still be so wounded. He winces just slightly at the attack and the wailing, but -- well, the guy's both doomed and still being a hell of a good distraction, so no reason to let that go to waste.

He turns his attention back to the shelter, studying it with more focus -- tracing its various supports with his eyes, assessing what materials he can see, their state of maintenance, what they suggest about the parts he can't. Whether it seems likely an intentional bump of his own through there could improve the odds of getting the right result... the angles he'd need to get in and out...

The sound of the fight being soundly lost indeed can't be his concern, but it sure suggests a rapidly nearly time limit. Right: he has a plan. That leaves it a question of execution and luck. He takes a look at the paths between the three points -- himself, her, the shelter -- and shifts position, readying himself to run right through her field of view. As he crouches into sprint-preparation, though, he sacrifices a second to trying to blend into the scenery as well. Running right through her focus ought to negate it when he wants her attention, but... just in case...

It's once the man is well and truly dead and her aggression slaked that Razor-Eater pulls her head up, eyes already searching her surroundings, ears moving this way and that to pick up on any ambient sounds. There's only a heartbeat of a moment spent on this, and on sniffing the air, but it's that last move that has one fortuitous effect.

Be it viscera, blood and other debris that coats her, or something else, something about that one breath makes her shake her head abruptly, one clawed hand raising to paw anxiously at her muzzle, the Ahroun taking a couple quick steps back from her prey. This turns into a series of snorts and coughs, that hand actually *smacking* her muzzle as if this might loosen whatever it is that's irritating her sinuses so badly. Either way: it's another distraction. Borrowed time-- but it's something.

It's a bit of a suprise that her attention leaves the man so soon, really -- whether a good one or a bad one, Ouroboros isn't entirely certain. But he'll lean toward good, for now, particularly when her sniff goes so poorly. Hoping she continues hitting herself to a useful extent seems like really overdoing the optimism, however, and so... he's off.

It hasn't been a huge rest, but it's been enough to charge him up for a good sprint to be starting with. He pushes off and barrels in her direction -- or rather, in the direction of her victim, leaping over him and right past her, taking advantage of those couple steps back she took to be tauntingly close but not so easy to reach. And speaking of taunting, there's definitely something impertinent about that body language and the little noise he makes as he passes; if a hispo's mein could say 'nyah nyah', it does. He doesn't wait to =see= if she's following, of course, but at least he's pretty confident she noticed.

She has, indeed.

Razor-Eater gives another sharp snort, and starts to charge after him, on-point enough in spite of the delay to close the distance between them rapidly. She's still several paces behind in spite of her best efforts, however, most of which are interrupted by periodic snorts until the blood in her nostrils has either drained or been dislodged. Or has simply become something she's ceased to care about.

One way or another, she's following. Just as intended.

Several paces is about right, even if it does give Ouroboros a not entirely comfortable feeling of deja vu. Takes a bit of focus on the fact that this is in fact the plan to persuade himself this is also in fact a good thing. She needs to be close enough to follow him where he wants her to, after all, and not have time to think. Or worse, go haring off after other prey.

He leads her in a circle around the structure, and then makes a turn sharp enough that he nearly skids a bit to redirect their course toward it. Not from too close -- far enough to rebuild any speed they might lose in the course of that turn itself, as he heads toward the railing that stands between them and the inside of the shelter.

Had she a mind of her own to actually think with, the pursuing Ahroun might find herself subject to the same feeling. Instead, she just chases relentlessly, as she did before, digging into the ground to follow and snap at him, even several paces away. Be it the irritation in her sinuses or merely the taste of fresh blood - or perhaps recognition of the prey that slipped her grasp before - there's something that much more intent about the way she follows. For better or for worse, he has her undivided attention: hook, line, and sinker.

Somehow, not quite as gratifying as some other times Ouroboros has had someone's undivided attention, though these days there are probably a few it's not much worse than. Except, of course, that it's also present rather than past. As earlier, he's focused very much on now, and on those parts of the future measured in handfuls of heartbeats and breaths. This time those future portions are more defined, however, and he makes the leap over the railing and toward the wall across from it, twisting at the last moment to turn and slip right through the open space and back out directly under the moon-bright sky.

It works exactly as intended.

Razor-Eater goes plowing through the railing and support beams, her claws digging into the wooden flooring just a heartbeat before her back end collides with the back wall, that hit alone proving to be all it takes to send the entire structure caving in on her. It's nothing but wood, in this case, but the beams overhead are heavy enough to make an impact, flooring the Ahroun for a precious second before the debris starts to get hefted upwards.

She breaks out of the confines not long after that, another would've-been-a-roar-in-another-life raising from her. As per any frenzy, there's no sign of the damage that's been done, but that was a hell of a direct hit, and her clawing at the debris itself to pull herself out from under it isn't exactly coordinated. Then again, what is?

Good! And yet not good enough. There's just the briefest moment of elation as the plan goes off as, well, planned, and then Ouroboros fails to entirely surpress a small whine as it proves to still not be enough. He makes another sharp turn and redirects his run toward her again, leaping into the air in an attempt to finish with his body what the roof itself couldn't...

And as it turns out, this isn't enough, either.

The Ahroun bursts from the debris with a snarl as he comes charging in, meeting him head on with a swipe of her claws that begins at his shoulder and digs into one side of his face, powerful enough to use his momentum against him, and send him sprawling. Powerful enough that there may well be ringing in his ears as he's toppled over, and a sense that one ounce more of her strength put into that blow would have probably knocked his jaw off its hinges. It leaves four stinging furrows through his pelt, deep and ragged-- very nearly enough to stun, but not quite.

She's over him not long after that, leaving him with an upside down view of a snarling face, blood from the man whose entire body lay shattered and bloody not far from the shelter dripping down onto his muzzle.

There isn't time for any real planning this time; barely time for the yelp that comes with the rending from her claws and the shift of his own momentum. He expected an impact; that's built in to any sort of tackle. But he didn't expect it at that angle, or quite that time, and it knocks almost all the wind out of him. The pain and desperation are enough to turn what remains of his breath into a snarl right back as he rolls enough to let his hind legs come up and plow into her with all the force they can muster.

With the hard impact of his back paws striking her jaw, the beast's head snaps backwards, her teeth clacking together hard enough that it's audible. Unfortunately, all it does, apparently, is make her mad. Her head is angled right back down in his direction just seconds later, bloodied maw opened to loose another defeaning roar, her entire body primed to strike the killing blow.

Not for the first time in the last... has it only been a fraction of an hour? Ouroboros's main thoughts are less than eloquent, and it's easy enough to read what they are right now, no psychic powers needed: NO, repeated about a million times. It comes out not in any sound at all, just the urgency barely short of panic in the retraction and second kick, everything he has going into the thrust of those legs to propel his feet toward her chin.

As with before-- in this case, it wasn't meant to be.

His body moves, legs kicking upwards, and just as they're about to hit paydirt, his entire left leg, from knee to thigh, is caught by her teeth. Teeth that dig and grind, the Ragabash dragged roughly across the ground-- and tossed bodily by his leg across bloodied soil, tumbling and skidding to a halt just short of a nearby tree. There's no time to assess the damage that's done - though, perhaps, time to thank the powers that be that the leg wasn't ripped off entirely - the Ahroun already dropping to all fours to start rushing towards him again.

"Oh, Jesus--"

The words come from behind the Ahroun, her head snapping around to look towards the sound. That invocation gets repeated - 'Oh jesus, oh jesus, oh jesus' - that scent of raw, Delirious terror pouring over the clearing a second time. It may well be by the grace of that invoked name, or at least by Gaia's grace that he hasn't been given time to move, instead left for dead as the Ahroun charges after the source of that voice.

More of a yowl than a yelp this time, and a completely ineffectual movement as if to try to get his claws into her in return as he's dragged. The angle's wrong for him to get anywhere much, and before he could really try to fix that, he's flying bloodily through the air, landing limp as a ragdoll by that trunk. He gasps a breath and tries to force what's left of his will into the idea of getting up, trying to run on his remaining legs, SOMETHING -- but there's not enough of it to get anywhere before that voice distracts her. Time luck came down on his side, apparently. He watches as she turns and charges, and for his part, continues to stay still. At least... at least for a few more seconds.

It happens this time much like it did before. There's a lot of shrieking, a lot of snarling, and eventually the shrieking just-- stops. Faster than it did with the first victim. It may be a small mercy that there's no sounds or tell-tale scents of a feeding taking place. In fact, once the victim is down, there's just another outpouring of snarling and barking, and the whiplash cracks of trees getting torn into.

It's possible to hear her a good twenty minutes out, occasionally. Sometimes she circles back, catching the scent of blood only to discover that it's the body she left behind, at which point she heads deeper into the forest again. He, for the most part, is left alone, his almost-lack of scent making him less of a tempting target, but that doesn't make her returns to the second corpse any less hair-raising. Her absence is heralded by the sound of a sharp *CRACK* in the distance, after which she no longer circles back. For all intents and purposes, save the sound of the breeze, it's mercifully silent.

The trail of destruction he finds is-- impressive. There are trees that have been overturned, their limbs visibly chewed. Underbrush that's been ripped apart. The second corpse she left behind is reminiscent of ones he's seen before from her, the man's ribcage and spine half-pulled from his body. An old McDonald's sack lays not far from him, though it doesn't smell like it contains food. By the way it's seated, it looks more like a small travel bag of supplies, or personal affects.

Coming back to 'room' with the first victim, probably. Maybe out on an errand of some sort. Both men are caucasian, with layered on clothes that still barely look like they're enough to weather the chill outside, shelter or no.

As for the woman responsible for all of it - and it is, thankfully, her breed form she wears when he finds her - she's amidst a small clearing, face down in the underbrush. blood covers her body, matting her hair at a specific point on her scalp with such abundance that it's clear she'd done herself damage before finally collapsing.

Her heartbeat is present, albeit thready at times. Her breathing is shallow. She's alive, at least, albeit completely unresponsive. A far cry more manageable than the beast tearing its way through the woods in a desperate search for more targets to sink her teeth into.

Not much Ouroboros could do, even were he at his best. When she's definitely gone, he shifts to Crinos and drags himself up to sitting, using the tree's trunk to prop himself up as he heals. Doesn't dare move much farther; he's virtually scentless, but even if that goes for his blood trails as well, they're still visible and potentially interesting. It's not the best Blur he's ever managed, but with the lack of scent, the stillness, and the more interesting smells around, it's enough to keep him 'safe' for now.

He's healed somewhat before that silence finally falls, but in the absence of a plan better than the ones that failed... waits. And waits just a bit more when it does, before he starts following that trail. Not running, this time, though he does speed up when he sees her body, dropping down to Glabro and beside her to check that she is, indeed, all right. Or as all right as reasonable to hope. The state of her breath and heartbeat isn't wholly comforting, but still: alive. He gathers her up gently -- perhaps remarkably so, considering the carnage he passes to reach her and how close that came to being him -- and carries her back to their campsite, into the tent with its insulating furs, and covers her with the blankets before he returns to his birth form and lies down beside his packmate to wait.