2019-10-10 - The Wild Hunt

Roxy is sick. She doesn't know if she got it from tending to Joey (she didn't), or someone at the Platinum Cabaret (dingdingding!) but she has been very ill. She doesn't have any sort of health insurance, because until a few weeks ago, she didn't even have good enough paperwork to open a bank account. She's been trying to suffer through it on her own, but it's at the point where the fever is starting to spike, and she's not able to care for herself.

She is drenched in sweat, her thin tank top clinging to her, her hair gone just slightly curly from the dampness, as she lies in bed, her skin on fire and her head pounding. She hasn't eaten in two days. She reaches for her phone on the nightstand, and sends out a text to her dance partner, Joey.

(TXT to Joey) Roxy: I am unwell. I think I need help. Can you bring some cold medications? I am at motel. Room 10. I think I have what you had. Will unlock the door.

Unlocking the door is going to be an effort, but necessary. She keeps the phone in hand, waiting for the response to her text, as she slides her legs over the side of the bed, trying to ignore how they tremble. Her limbs feel weak, like jello, like they are no longer properly attached to her body. She persists though, and pushes herself up, using the furnishings in the small room as support as she stumbles across to the door. She unlocks the deadbolt, pulls it open with a herculean effort, and slides the do-not-disturb hanger card against the strike plate before closing it again. Now the bolt can't engage. She is proud of herself as she turns to head back towards her bed.

The world tilts on her, her equilibrium abandoning her, and her head spins. Everything fades in and out of focus for a second, then everything hurts. She realizes she is on the floor, she must have fainted. Her phone is under her, and she pulls it out before she tries to get up, and just...can't. She expended all her energy. She looks at the phone, if Joey is coming he hasn't replied yet. She sends out another text, one agonizing tap at a time.

(TXT to Ruiz) Roxy: Please help. In room. Fell. Sick.

Is he even home? He has a job. He is likely not home. Her head swims and aches and she drifts in and out, waiting.

Footsteps in the hall, several sets of them; people coming and people going, voices too. None of them know, of course, that Roxy's collapsed in her room, or that she has the door jimmied open. But maybe that's for the best, given the clientele around here.

It's some time before there's a thud of boots that pauses outside the door, followed by a rustle of clothing shifting and then an indistinct click. The door's nudged open, and the do not disturb sign drops to the floor. Another pause before the interloper makes his way in sideways, and shoulder first followed by the rest of him. Is it any surprise that he's carrying a gun? Likely not. What might be unexpected though, is that it's de la Vega. Twenty minutes after Roxy's text message to him, he's deigned to show up.

Spotting her easily, he shuts the door and drops the deadbolt, and does a quick walkaround to ensure the room's secured before moving to crouch beside the girl. Is she breathing? Does she have a pulse? You do the kind of work he does for a living, and you tend to come prepared for the worst.

The room looks lived-in, as it has been her home here since she arrived. She stopped living out of her suitcase and actually put her things in the drawers and hung her dresses and performance outfits in the closet. The desk has been turned into a crafting station, with a small sewing kit and a variety of rhinestones in little boxes, used for modifying her stripper costumes.

It also looks like she's been sick for a while. The baskets are full of tissues, there are water glasses on both nightstands, she has gone through a package of Tylenol cold. Her sheets and pillow are damp with sweat from the fever, and she likely hasn't let housekeeping in for the last few days. There is a definite dearth of food packaging, indicating she's not been eating at all. If he recalls his own experience with Veil Flu, eating wasn't a thing anyone wanted to do.

The girl is crumpled in a heap between the door and the bed, her phone under her limp hand. She's alive, breathing albeit shallowly. Her skin is on fire and she is soaked in sweat, dark curls pinned to her forehead and face by it, her tank top stuck to her, boy shorts as well. Even her vintage nightgowns were too much for her in the fever state. She is dehydrated and burning up.

Ruiz finishes counting heartbeats by his watch, and slings one arm under Roxy's shoulders and the other under her knees, hoisting her up without much difficulty. She's a tiny thing, comparatively.

Over to the bed, he eases her down mostly upright and goes to fetch a towel from the bathroom and soak it in cool water. A cup is procured and filled as well, and a straw if he can find one. Then he thumps back over to the bed and settles onto the mattress beside her, using the damp towel to dab at her forehead with surprising gentleness.

Then? He simply waits, patiently, for her to come to.

She is featherlight, especially considering this has cost her a few pounds she did not have to spare. He can feel her ribs through the tank top when he lifts her. She radiates heat like a miniature sun. She looks younger without the makeup and fancy clothes, or maybe without the makeup and WITH simple clothes.

It takes a minute or two of dabbing at her forehead before she stirs. Dark lashes flutter and a tiny whimper escapes her as her eyes slit open. Her bright blue-green eyes are red and watery from the flu, her skin is paler than usual, which is normally pretty damn pale. She looks drained, a crack in her lower lip form the dehydration and worrying at it from the mundane nightmares.

Her pupils are dilated, but slowly the dark apertures close down to something more normal, as she focuses on the face of the man beside her. She croaks out, through a parched throat, "Javier?" She doesn't even remember sending that last message. There are bruises coming up on the shoulder and hip she landed on, and her head is pounding.

He could be an apparition, a figment of one of her dreams. She might even glimpse the hazy-pale halo of his aspect, that ferociously burning wolf, though it's muted at the moment. As if he's consciously trying to keep it at bay for her benefit.

"Si," he replies in a low voice, rough and warm. "Here. Drink." The glass is retrieved from the nightstand, straw adjusted, and held out to her mouth. He watches her eyes for a moment as if to make sure her pupils retract, then looks away. To the bruises. "How did you get these?" The cloth is dabbed to her collarbone, her throat, catching on her dark hair momentarily. The older man is dressed casually, so she probably didn't pull him out of work, at least: one of his usual dark tee shirts, cargo pants and motorcycle boots. He smells like the woods, and rain.

Roxy squints at him, as if trying to determine if he's really there or not. She's not sure how she feels about it if he is. He frightens her most of the time. Granted, there is something about him, that underlying menace, that is also as enticing as it is terrifying at times. She worries more that she's hallucinating him and that says way too much about her mindset.

She accepts the straw between her lips and takes a small drink from the glass, worried it will come back up like everything else did yesterday. Was it yesterday? What day is it? How long was she unconscious? When he asks about the bruises her eyes track to them slowly. "I fell. Went to unlatch the door for..." For who? Did she ask someone to come? Did she order pizza or something? "I don't remember, it's all a little fuzzy."

The cloth doesn't stay cool very long, her skin is like an oven, her dark hair curls wherever it gets wet from the copious sweating. It must take her some effort to straighten it as she does, but the straighter hair fits the persona, the era she seems committed to portray. She senses the wolf, but weakly, as her aspen-crowned doe is struggling in the grip of the illness. He can feel it, inside of her, a pure creature, normally bright and strong within, but built fragile. A deer can total a car, but it rarely survives the encounter. The creature is down, unable to get back up on spindly legs that seem to defy physics to hold up the animal. It lays it's head down on what smells like dark earth, exhausted.

He watches her steadily while she sips, though doesn't allow her to have too much. Enough to wet her tongue and swallow perhaps once, and then it's pulled away and set aside. The cloth, then, he withdraws from her forehead and shakes out a few times to cool it off. "My girlfriend is a paramedic. If you'd like, I can see if she's off work. She has those.." He hunts for the word. "Banana bags. Whatever they're called." And other goodies, besides. His eyes seem unfocused for a moment, like he's seeing her but not seeing her. Then a breath, and the cloth is touched to her cheek, and skimmed along her shoulder.

"I'm going to get you some tylenol," he announces then, a little curtly. The cloth is pressed into her hand, and then he pushes off the bed and prowls off to do just that.

Girlfriend? She blinks after him as he gets up to get Tylenol for her. "But, you were at the strip club," she murmurs in confusion. She's not used to men being 'allowed' to go to those places when they have a girlfriend. She leans her head back against the headboard, trying not to think of how often, if ever, the motel wipes those things down. She's pretty sure at the temperature she's running, she'd kill anything living there. "Paramedic?" she is unsure of the word in English and has to think hard to translate. "Ensihoitaja?"

She shakes her head a little bit and regrets that immediately. "No insurance." Stripping rarely comes with benefits after all. "Cannot afford doctors." She groans and puts a hand to her temple, willing the world to stop spinning.

IT's amazing how much work you can still miss when you are sleeping in the back of the damn establishment praying for death. He is in that phase where he feels like he's been hit by Poe at high speeds, which is a lot like being hit by a bus but more focused and usually buys him a beer after. Ruiz gets it, don't ya, Javi? A text is thrown out there to let Roxy know he's en route, and again when he arrives.

It's like deja vu all over. Two knuckles rap on the door and that rumbling low tenor announces, "Is Joe." And then there's the sound of something in the tumblers of the lock. He fusses for a moment and POP! the latch unlocks and the door opens. He murmurs not looking up yet as he's gathering a paper grocery bag he's set down. "I didn't want you to have to get..." He takes one look at the police Captain, his arch frenemy, and there's a pause. "...up."

Yup. That just happened right in front of him.
Again.

Yeah well he wouldn't take it back if he could. He lets himself in and pulls out one ice pack and cracks it giving it a lob across the room which will either hit the Captain, or be caught as intended and applied thusly. The other two go into the small cold compartment of the mini fridge. More things come out of the bag with 0 ceremony or presentation to them. Joey Kelly is not a flowers It'll be alright guy. He's a get shit done guy and that's if he even gives a shit (See Lukas Collins for details. 0 fanfare).

Set out on the counter is several thingies of instant ramen (chicken flavor because the others are vastly inferior), Tylonel, a thingie of Vicks Vaporub, two boxes of Kleenex, and several single person sized bottles of Gatorade. He's tired and for a moment stares at the assembled mess and sees if there's anything else that is immediately let out. his weight shifts from one foot to the other and back again. It's a small thing but for the man that generally had low telegraphing of his body language it's a read for the dancers and fighters in the room it means one thing: be ready to move.

Turning he waits first to see where her state is at and pulling the bluntness back a bit he says bringing one Gatorade over cracking the cap to open easy, "Drink this. Get your electrolytes up. It'll help hydrate you. Ramen you can make using the hot water from the hotel coffee pot. Mild enough it's not going to make you feel terrible. Kleenex with aloe because you are going to go through it. Your nose will thank you." Moving the Tylonel to the side table for her he looks to Ruiz to read his face for a moment which is usually about as useless as someone trying to read his own, but there is a silent conference there. "How you doin?" He does, eventually and in his own way, ask.

It's a few minutes more after Joey's B&E that the door to room 14 opens and closes. What, is Joey the B&E King of the Sea View?

There's some shuffling around in there, and then the sound of more footsteps coming along the corridor. The sound of flip flops on the walk. The blonde just ditched off the last few hours of her shift after handing the FNG off to a pair of vets to ride bitch for them while they patrol the town for patients.

A text pings into Ruiz's phone.

Sutton doesn't knock. The blonde pushes into the motel room without warning anyone other than a text about four seconds before it happens. That's how people get shot. "Does no one realize the water temperatures in the fall drop to the low 50s? Some idiots just walked down to the beach in bikinis." She's one to talk, wearing a pair of short-shorts, flip flops, and an oversize GHPD hoodie that's definitely not hers over a tight white camisole that is. "Oh, hey. Joey, you the snack patrol? Good to see you, pet. Javi." Her gaze lands on Roxy last. "Aw, love. You do not look well at all."

That's why she's the medical professional. Alertness.

What the fuck is this, a party? That's roughly the look on de la Vega's face as Joey rolls in first (after jimmying the lock), and then Sutton two minutes later, while he's still digging his phone out of his pocket to check her text message. "Are you two allergic to knocking?" is what he asks as his gaze ticks up to Joey. He's in the midst of wringing out a wet cloth to bring back to Roxy, along with the promised bottle of pain pills, when the pair of them show up. The latter's cracked open, and a capsule knocked into his palm before being offered to Roxy with the glass of water and sippy straw.

Roxy looks blearily over as the door opens, and there is Joey Kelly. That must be who she sent the other message to. She tries to watch him puttering about but that just makes her dizzy. She closes her eyes a moment and opens them again when the boxer is shoving Gatorade at her. "Joseph?" she asks, to confirm he's actually there and not a hallucination. "Have you been practicing your Pas de Deux?" That is the fever talking. She begins shivering. The air that comes in with the opening of the door for Sutton hits her feverish, sweat-covered skin and her teeth start chattering. The misery of being impossibly hot and yet frozen at the same time. Fevers suck.

With yet another person in her little room, it's beginning to look like she sent out invitations to a party she forgot she was hosting. She squints woozily at the blonde woman. "Are you Javier's girlfriend?" she asks in a small, confused voice. "But you're so pretty." Pause. "And young." Pause. "And you let him go to strip clubs?" Is this an American thing? She is so confused even as her whole body starts shaking from the chills.

She looks between the scary colored Gatorade sans straw, and the identifiable water with straw, and chooses the latter to take the pill with. She swallows the Tylenol and squints at Ruiz, realizing what she just said sounded like she was saying he was old and ugly or something. "I don't mean like that." Sure she doesn't.

Joey is the B&E King of Seaview, Sutton. Accept no substitutes! He will fight all takers.

Javier asks him a blunt question and it just gets a dead stare in return. Holy. Shit. This kid is ready to fight the world, all of it, at any time. But then Roxy asks him questions of a very French nature which makes the junkyard dog cool his heels. He asks half in jest, serious tone to Roxy, "You think I shake my ass for just anyone?"

And then there's a Sutton who gets the response greeting, "Shit had I known you were gonna show up I'd a brought you a corn dog." With a sigh he turns to Javier and says short of a growl, "She fucking called me dude. I ain't gonna make her get up. How'd I know you were lurking like a bat?" That said he takes the coffee pot and starts to hook it up so it's ready for when she'll need it. "You two look better. "

Sutton's hefting her enormous first aid kid and thumping it down on the table. That thing sounds and looks like it weighs a ton. It's a huge square duffle with a white cross on the side, tons of pockets and mesh compartments for various delights. "Did she say your pas de deux?" Her hazel gaze flicks to Joey. She flicks a look down his body. You know what she's thinking, right?

The paramedic's lips quirk into a smile. Yeah, that's exactly what she's thinking.

The girlfriend question has Sutton's lips parting. No one's directly asked her that before. She's quickly shut up by the next few comments, and her lips press together. "Aw, love." Her brows go up, a soft smile on her lips. "Aren't you a dear. Thank you." Her smile twitches though. And young and pretty... too young and pretty to be Javi's girlfriend being the implication, of course. Let him go to strip clubs. "Yes, preciosa, I let him go to strip clubs, drinking. I let him cook me dinner, too. I enjoy a good strip club." She grins. "Even if Javi's a little up there in years, he has a wallet full of cash., and there are lots of ladies working hard for their money at the Platinum Cabaret." All of this is spoken softly as she collects a few items and wanders on over to the bed where the shivering woman is suffering.

"I'd like to see you shake your ass." This must be to Joey, because Roxy's barely hanging on, but, you know, it could be for Roxy too. "May I touch to check your vitals, love?" She pulls on a pair of non-latex gloves, bright blue. "I brought some rally packs," banana bags full of fluid and vitamins. "I like to avoid Tamiflu tabs if possible." Some people hallucinate in a not fun way on those bad boys. "Are you on any medications?"

This room is so full of love. Lurking like a bat. "Corn dogs sound pretty damn good right now. I missed lunch. Feeling better, thanks." Boy, she's a talker when she's not cranky, sick, and in pain.

Ruiz should probably be offended when Roxy accuses him of being old and ugly. But in truth, and is pushing fifty. And his nose has been broken two or three times. And he could probably stand to shave, and cut back a bit on the donuts. So it's not un warranted. "Drink," he murmurs to Roxy when she tries to assure him otherwise.

Joey, for his slightly defensive response to his overly aggressive question, gets a grunt of acknowledgement. The man seems to know when to back off, at least. And he does, literally, when Sutton pulls up with her medic bag. A slightly sharp look for her comment about a wallet full of cash (is it open season on him today?) and he retreats to give her space to work, phone coming out so he can respond to a few messages.

There is a weak smile for Joey about shaking his ass. And then Roxy looks to Sutton. "Yes," she consents to the vitals checking with a curious expression. Something in the back of her mind itches at that, like there was somewhere that she was not asked for her consent for medical treatments. That Asylum. It's all very foggy though, too many blank spots, too many shadows she can't seem to see through.

She sips again from the straw Javier offers. "I dance at the Cabaret," she informs Sutton after swallowing a mouthful of water, as if this is vital information, her eyelids getting progressively heavier from all the effort expended in the last few minutes to focus and talk to people. "I took Tylenol cold. I don't remember when last," she mumbles groggily. Then she fades out of consciousness again, slumping on the bed.

Before the others can act, they are suddenly not in that hotel room any longer. Nor are they quite themselves. They are together, in a dark forest. Instinctively they know this forest never sees the dawn. It is forever in shadow, lit only by a pale moon, where its rays are able to trickle down through the thick canopy overhead. The trees are massive, countless, and so old they can feel the history of their roots where they curl deep in the thick, black soil. Roxy is not there.

The Horse:

Joey is no longer Joey Lee Kelly. He is, perhaps, as Roxy would see him in her mind. Massive, powerful, stubborn. He has no name. He is simply the Earth of the Hunt, the Huntsman's legs. A warhorse, a creature resembling a Friesian, glossy black save for his eyes, glowing red. From his nostrils, smoke rises, like the mist that seeps across the ground. He instinctively knows all the paths, the trails, where the underbrush can be broken through, where he must step lightly, or quickly, to avoid mishap.

The man on his back weighs nothing to him, the cloaked and hooded figure whose eyes are mere pinpricks of orange light in the shadows. The bow and blade on his back glint in the moonlight, and on one raised arm there is...

The Hawk:

Sutton is no longer H. Everly Sutton. She is, vigilant as a paramedic would be, something else entirely. Small but swift, sharp-eyed, perceptive. She has no name. She is simply the Air of the Hunt, the Huntsman's eyes. A hawk, resembling a Gyrfalcon, but with feathers of glossy silver-grey and glowing crimson eyes. She is invisible against the cloudy moonlit skies while searching the earth below. She knows all the hills and valleys, where the ravines and the rivers meet, where the canopy thins and the color of the coat of their prey. She directs from above with plaintive cries to the Hunter.

She has known none but him since her birth, and the jesses around her ankle tie her to him in spirit as well as body. The arm lifts and she is launched into the air to find the target. The Huntsman barks a final order, hissing and sibilant to...

The Hound:

Ruiz is no longer Javier Ruiz De la Vega. He is similar to what Roxy has seen him in her mind, though a hound more than a wolf. He is fierce and fast and driven. He has no name, though his kind do, the Fire of the Hunt, the Cwn Annwn. The Hounds. His fur is pure white, his ears red like blood, and he too has eyes that glow red in the night. He is the scout who brings the prey to bay. He is the teeth and claw that tear and hold it, so that the Huntsman can make the killing blow. He knows every nook and cranny, every spot that the fleeing creatures may try to hide, to go to ground, and he can smell their fear on the air.

The order from the Hunstman sets him off, on the trail of their prey. The white stag, or white doe in this case. She who is crowned in aspen. She who has eluded them for so long.

Joey squints at Sutton. Hell he'll fight her too. Maybe. Well... with her consent. Can't just throw hands at lady-people. Both eyebrows go up with the faintest of shrugs and he responds to the Pas de Deux by saying, "Hey, everyone's got their own stress management." Yeah yeah, cheeky bastard. Though with all truthiness he eyes Ruiz. When the old dog backs off on him the younger mutt seems to back down.

Joey glances back to Sutton stating, "Well there'st two witnesses here. They can tell you how it went. Might happen again. Without my twin it just ain't the same act. But I might for shits and giggles." He pauses and honestly admits, "Or if properly incentivised."

His head turns down and he steps past the break in the wall into the vanity where the sink is. But there is no vanity and there is no sink. There is no wall, only the blanched bone bark of the trees at his shoulder. He is stone in will and belligerent brawn. His hooves are thunder and his blood is rage and thirst that shakes the ground as he runs forward through the break in the trees.

"I'm teasing you." This comment is mostly for Roxie, but also Javier and Joey. There's no malice in her words, just a friendly shit-giving. She was just at work, and the more she's around cops and firefighters, the more piss-taking she does to everyone else in her vicinity, except the sick and injured. They always get her best bedside manner, unless they're combative assholes. Sutton was in the middle of saying something like, "You'll be fine, love," as she approached the bed, but the scene shifts before she finishes speaking, and with that shift a serenity comes into place over her body. Her entire being lightens with the hollow bones under a coat of feathers. She ruffles wings she didn't have before, talons opening with a release, wings unfurling to flap hard, powerfully catching the air and using it to lift her with the ease of a being who lives most of its life in Above.

The stretch of her wings is all she needs go glide through the air, tracking what's Below, eyes sharp, instinct finely honed.

There is no before, no Sutton now.

There is now for the Hawk skimming across the tree-tops in the silvery moonlight. A shrill cry shrieks into the shadow-thick night, sharp and piercing, triumphant at this Hunt's beginning.

Her talons itch for something to blood.

How did it go, Javier? "You missed out," he informs Sutton without looking up from his phone. "Kelly's easier on the eyes, the less clothes he's got on." He did not just say that. Except he did. His smile is brief and cheeky; he might just be yanking Joey's chain. Or Sutton's. He goes to shove his phone in his pocket and drop into a chair to wait. Except it isn't a chair.

It is, however, fitting that Javier should find himself in the form of the Hound in Roxy's dream. He is a natural hunter, predator as much as she is prey. The earth is cool and damp beneath the animal's feet, and his powerful frame slices through the mist-laden grass at the Horse's side. Compatriots, though one couldn't quite call them friends. Ears pricked forward, red eyes sweeping the treeline, he moves like a ghost in the twilit forest; held at bay until the command is given, and then with a guttural snarl-scream, the beast sprints away like a bat out of hell and crashes through the underbrush.

The Huntsman gives the order, but it's the Hawk he trails after, following her lead as if they're bound together by a fine filament.

The Huntsman urges the Horse on. The trio, they know him by no other name, but they know he is one of many on this Hunt. There is one though, above them all, and should Arawn be displeased, they will suffer for it. They must find their quarry. If their Master is punished, then he shall punish them in turn. They have known the bite of the crop, the muzzle, the hood. The pain lingers in old scars on flank and jaw and head.

The Hawk is high above, and her keen eyes sweep down through the canopy for that flash of silvery white. It does not come at once, as the doe is clever and tries to stick to the deepest parts of the forest. But then there! A flash of silver as the moonlight hits her hide.

She is near the river, heading for it, hoping they lose sight and scent of her in the rushing waters. She is smaller than a stag, but upon her brow sits a crown, from which sprout aspen branches, with living leaves upon them. A queen to the forest's king, the mighty White Stag, the true nemesis of Arawn.

The Hound catches the shift in the Hawk's trajectory, and he can smell the doe's fear mingled with the scent of the river. He knows that smell, the one that washes away the traces of his prey's progress. He needs to beat her to it, or risk losing her there.

The Horse's ears pick up the subtle changes in the sounds of the wood. He knows the river is close. He knows this has become a race to find the creature before she enters it. The spurs of the Huntsman dig into him, urging him on, faster, after the Hound.

Joey might strut. But they're not there for him to do so like the ghetto peacock he is. The warhorse, this Rolling Thunder to the under dwellers, wants, right now, to do little more than bite and throw his rider for the fucking spurs. He can smell her, the cool dampness of earth and mud, the wind shift across the water and he breaks wide to take the shortest distance to it. The hunts man might get slapped with a branch, but he can have the easy route or results. The horse goes for his directive heedless of stinging, snapping branches against this bulk to bear down on the bank.

Moving in tandem with the Hawk, the Hound shifts its trajectory and cuts left when his winged companion wheels away. They have hunted together many, many times and he seems to trust her intrincically not to lead him astray. His great paws tear up the ground as he races out ahead of the Horse, a bundle of muscle and long limbs, tail brandished behind him like a whip as he runs. A burst of speed is put on as he realises where his quarry is headed; the beast zigzags through the trees at a blinding pace, snapping twigs and scattering leaves as his pale form threads through shadow and darkness with that gut-wrenching scream as the chase calls to his boiling blood.

There's a scream from the Hawk above when white flashes prove out the location of their quarry. Again, the flash of hide, slipping in shadow and between trees, her pure, snowy color giving her away in even a sliver of moonlight. The river might delay the Hound for a time, but the both of them at once?

Another cry from above, a warning to spur the Hound to hurry before the little queen slips into those waters.

The doe is turned aside by the baying of the Hound, as it rings in her ears like a death knell. The percussive pounding hooves of the Horse echo in the direction of the River and she changes course. Her pale hide flashes through the undergrowth, her flight panicked, her choices driven by fear and swiftly dwindling options, rather than intellect. She stumbles, her head lowering, aspen crown catching on the thorny vines that scrape gouges into her sides. She struggles to find a new path, a new escape from her pursuers, her bright eyes glowing blue, wide with fear.

She skids to a halt when she finds herself in a small ravine, rising in front of and on both sides of her, ending in the wide expanse of a massive tree. She scrabbles at the loose earth, trying to climb out, but she cannot. She slides back down, cornered, as the trio and their Master descend on her.

The Hawk follows her path, leading them straight to the ravine and their trembling prey. The Huntsman reins in the Horse when he reaches the ravine's entrance, and he sends the Hound ahead with a barked order in a language that means nothing to the animals, but the tone which does. Catch her. Another to the Hawk with a wave of his arm. Mark her.

The broad shouldered horse follows the cry of the hawk above and the smell of doe and hound. Hooves spark and skid on stone at the edge of the ravine pulling up with forelegs rampant and pulling in a circle before striking down again. How's that for pirouette! Hoof paws at the ground as if calling the doe. Attention. Here. Look. Know. There's sweat in his coat and it stings those crimson eyes waiting for the command run, jump, pursue, coral.

The Hawk winds in a wide gyre, the forest floor below flashing by, smaller wildlife spotted and ignored. Potential other prey spotted and ignored. Darker, more dangerous things spotted and ignored. It's the ravine, the white body trapped within it, that have her full attention now. There is nothing else, just the trembling prey with those gashes already opened, so small, dotting the coat with the beginnings of blood. Her sharp talons twitch in anticipation of the rending of flesh and the pieces she'll take out of their vulnerable quarry.

There's a flurry of wings, brief, and then she pulls them in close, going silent and diving lower, looking for the first opening to sweep in to attack. The second there's an opening and the doe's head is turned just right, there will be deep dive and the flash of knife-sharp talons.

The Hound streaks out of the underbrush, completely ignoring the branches and thorns that try to snag his fur as he moves, scraping bloody gashes here and there that curl away into licks of flame. His pace slows as he reaches the little clearing, and he stalks in after the quivering stag even as his winged companion dives in from above with talons outstretched. His lips pull back, long white fangs bared in a guttural snarl overlaid with an ear-piercing shriek, and bloody spittle drips from his mouth before he bounds in. His body coils, tenses, springs, with a flash of claws like knives, all of him bent to the purpose of bringing her down and marking her as his.

The doe trembles, blood oozing in the gashes from the thorns, her pale hide striped in crimson. She dances back and forth on spindly legs, as the hawk and hound sweep in, trying to get away, but she is not so swift as they, and she seems ill. Weaker than they expected.

Joey has a guy with a bow on his back. Close range is not always the requirement here. Crowdcontrol is sometimes the key. They bear down on the doe and he can smell and taste the blood in his nostrils and feel the burn in his flesh from bent and broken trees. Turning back he picks his path down into the ravine with directive and no question.

The Hawk sees her opening and drops from the sky like an arrow in flight, cutting sharply, silently through the night. She hits hard, claws digging in deep and ripping a furrow through the doe's white pelt, scoring deeply into the flesh underneath. Long wings buffet open and flap hard, sharp beak scoring too. The doe is lucky, and turned her head away just in time to avoid the loss of an eye, but her shoulder takes the brunt of the attack.

The Hound does not stop to think what might be wrong, why his quarry might be moving so sluggishly. The question thrums in his snarl, and with the singing of teeth and claws as he bounds in, all lean muscle and blood red eyes burning like beacons in the mist. The Hawk dives in to rake at her prey with talons and beak, and the burning beast that barrels in from the trees aims to finish what she started. He lunges, claws gouging her shoulder, making her stumble but not quite fall, and then a snap of jaws at her leg to try to break it and stall her escape.

Joey hears the inkling in his head. He turns with the rider on his back; spurs digging in. He's rushing up the Ravene path taking that rider with him The instinct is there. Find the forest again, head low use the branches. Knock the rider. Pull up tight and bring those plated hooves down. Crush. Repeat. He doesn't stay to help the doe, he goes for the systemic threat: the man with the command. Warhorses even know; to win a war, go for the general. And like a dart into the black night he is off at a tear.

With a great buffeting of wings the Hawk rises into the air again, a shrill, angry cry tearing through the forest night. Claws still warm with the doe's blood, the bird disappears into the sky for a time, gone through the trees.

The Hawk-Sutton is going to have her eyeballs to sup after all. She flies wide and comes back for another pass, but this time, this time her target is that cloaked figure. Her hunter's eyes have turned to him, who is nothing to her now but the enemy. This hunter's worst enemy: three of the most attitudinal, knock-you-senseless members of the Gray Harbor community in possession of hooves, fangs, claws, and a taste for blood... and someone innocent to protect with their combined killing power.

About two seconds from rending the doe limb from limb, the Hound is given pause. Stricken with a jolt of understanding, he stands over his downed prey, breath fogging in the chill air, maw dripping with blood as he pants harshly. A snarl issues from his throat as he withdraws, slinking back with puffs of smoke as his paws hit the ground one by one. He locks eyes briefly with his quarry, I'm sorry communicated in the beat before he swivels and crashes back through the trees, directed by the dark shape of the Hawk above and the thundering of the Horse's hooves.

The doe's eyes close, sleep or death? The trio is too busy to know as they turn on the Huntsman. He is knocked bodily out of the saddle when the Horse unseats him with a branch, and then there are hooves pounding him. Bones snap with loud audible CRACKS. The Huntsman screams.

The Hawk's aim is flawless as she drops from the air to pluck out one of those shining orange eyes from the Huntsman and the screams pitch into wails of agony and fury.

And then there is the Hound, who needs no boost to the predatory nature he has outside of this place. His jaws sink into the throat of the thrashing Huntsman. He finally goes still....

And they all wake. Well three of them. They are where they were before the Dream began, but their feet are covered in mud, and their hands are bloody. Ruiz can still taste the blood in his mouth, even though he can't see any.

Roxy is still unconscious, and now bleeding from her shoulder and arm, with scratches along her side that ooze blood as well. There is a good thing though, from all this. Her fever has broken and she looks to be sleeping more peacefully than in the grip of nightmares.

Joey is in that mode. All three of them with their murderface on and blood in their teeth. It takes Joey a moment to re-calibrate and he looks to Roxy and that look is just pissed He looks to Ruiz and Sutton and growls between clenched molars one request, "Get her on her feet. Please." And with that he steps into the bathroom and SLAMS! the door. A moment later the shower goes on.

Sutton is silence for the space of ten seconds, staring at her hands in shock, at her feet, over to Roxy, Ruiz, Joey. All of them marked clearly by something, this Dream that pulled them in quite suddenly. She wipes her hands on her white camisole without thinking about it, then checks to see that, yes, there's a stain on her hands. She doesn't even say anything except, "Don't move her. I'll be right back." She just makes her way to the bathroom to wash, even with the shitty little tiny soaps housekeeping leaves, the ginger-orange scented ones. Joey can stay in there, but he's about to get a cold(er) shower, cos she turns on the taps.

Softly, over the rush in the water, three clipped syllables: "Eyeball jelly." There's a hiccuping sound, but Sutton keeps it down. One, two. Nope. Sorry, Joey. At least it's in the sink. She spits a couple times, rinses out the basin, and then she returns to the room.

Gray Harbor.

The captain, meanwhile, finds something to staunch the flow of blood. A tee shirt, a towel, whatever's close at hand, and crouches beside where Roxy's reclined on the bed to put pressure on her injuries. He's trying not to think too hard about the blood he can taste in his mouth, or the smell of the trees still in his nostrils, or the knowledge that he harmed her. He simply holds and waits until Sutton returns and can take over for him. And then? He's going for a fucking smoke.