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ataraxionlogs2014-01-26 02:45 pm
loyalpup) wrote in ataraxionlogs2014-01-26 02:45 pm
Entry tags:
Howl
CHARACTERS: Tom and You
LOCATION: Gardens -- Level Two
WARNINGS: Werewolf Logic
SUMMARY: Tom decides to change in the gardens. What could go wrong?
It's a familiar pain. Bones break and his skin stretches and pulls until it feels as though it will tear away. His heart stops as his organs reshape themselves to support this familiar form. It's a pain that has been with Tom for as long as he can remember.
He knows the "rules." Stay isolated, drag something enticing around, keep your clothes out of the reach of curious claws. There's little screaming on Tom's part as he starts the change. He doesn't cling to his humanity or fear what he'll become, and so it flows over him, rippling from head to toe. It isn't until the man that was Tom is gone that any loud noise is heard; a chilling howl echoes through the gardens.
A flex of his form and then the wolf is catching the scent of something putrid. The ship provided them something meat-like, and Tom had set a bit aside, letting it rot enough that the wolf would want to follow the scent. It was dangerous, stupid even, for him to let the wolf roam so freely, but it had been so long since the wolf had this freedom. Derek didn't have to know, not that Tom cared.
Except maybe he cared a little, but he wanted to show George and Mitchell that he wasn't some blind follower of the other man. He wanted to prove that he could be a friend because that small group was all he had from home and he so desperately wanted them to accept him. So, here the wolf ran, nearly free, chasing the scent of something that must be delicious, unaware that anyone could stumble upon its location.
LOCATION: Gardens -- Level Two
WARNINGS: Werewolf Logic
SUMMARY: Tom decides to change in the gardens. What could go wrong?
It's a familiar pain. Bones break and his skin stretches and pulls until it feels as though it will tear away. His heart stops as his organs reshape themselves to support this familiar form. It's a pain that has been with Tom for as long as he can remember.
He knows the "rules." Stay isolated, drag something enticing around, keep your clothes out of the reach of curious claws. There's little screaming on Tom's part as he starts the change. He doesn't cling to his humanity or fear what he'll become, and so it flows over him, rippling from head to toe. It isn't until the man that was Tom is gone that any loud noise is heard; a chilling howl echoes through the gardens.
A flex of his form and then the wolf is catching the scent of something putrid. The ship provided them something meat-like, and Tom had set a bit aside, letting it rot enough that the wolf would want to follow the scent. It was dangerous, stupid even, for him to let the wolf roam so freely, but it had been so long since the wolf had this freedom. Derek didn't have to know, not that Tom cared.
Except maybe he cared a little, but he wanted to show George and Mitchell that he wasn't some blind follower of the other man. He wanted to prove that he could be a friend because that small group was all he had from home and he so desperately wanted them to accept him. So, here the wolf ran, nearly free, chasing the scent of something that must be delicious, unaware that anyone could stumble upon its location.
no subject
After a few seconds spent letting that howl resonate through his nervous system, he’s asking himself the same question (investigating the water and oxygen recycling systems). Eyes cut left to right across matted undergrowth (previously thought to house nothing larger than the average butterfly), he closes out a program on his comms device and tucks it carefully away.
The jungle is oppressively, overwhelmingly green.
His sports jacket is red.
Burgundy, actually. It’s burgundy, trim lapels pressed sharp over a grey shirt and khaki slacks.
There probably aren’t any scrubbers on this level, if he hasn’t seen them yet. He should go back down. Back to the first level. A decisive nod to this effect has him turning slowly on his heel.
His dress shoes press cartoonish cutouts into the mud when he retraces his path across a stream, leaves rustled and branches snapped on his way back into the brush. This way, probably. He’s convinced -- confident, even -- until he sidesteps over a root into a clearing he doesn’t remember. He stands there on the edge a moment, recalculating.
A lump of something putrid catches his eye, giving him pause.
That --- is definitely not a butterfly.
no subject
changed character journals it's the same doral
In tandem: the artificial neurological processes in Doral’s cylon brain fizzle. He stands stock still, blank as a dead television set when the rancid rush of the roar buffs his shoulders and rifles through his hair.
Oh. ...Kay.
A vacant up-and-down marks height and conformation as registering somewhere in the region of frakking terrifying. The teeth, the claws, the tail.
“Sorry,” he says. Sorry. “My fault. Totally. I’ll just -- “ he gestures vaguely off behind himself, thumb hooked after the sidearm under his belt in an extension of the same movement as he turns casually to go.
He doesn’t smell human. Not exactly.
no subject
no subject
At the moment she's looking through the data that has been collected on the temperature fluctuations. There's nothing she can do about it, but she's still been trying. Spending most of the month going over the facts and figures she's been organizing. At the sounds coming from deeper in the gardens she can't help but be curious. She pockets her device and moves toward the sounds. When the howl resonates she's so close that it feels like it's right next to her and it shakes through her to her core. The gardens were supposed to be particularly safe. No one told her there were wolves in here.
She presses her lips together and reminds herself that several people here have wolves as pets, maybe it's one of them. Instead of turning back however, she presses on.
"Hello?"
no subject
It snaps it's teeth at her and crouches down prepared to give chase.
no subject
"It's, it's alright. N-nobody's going to get hurt ..." Her voice is shaking as she's talking. She's pretty sure she probably won't make it out of here alive.
no subject
no subject
He had gotten away from the rest of the ship, gravitating towards something vaguely familiar to him; leaves and foliage and thickness of trees. It was a little too tropical for his tastes, but there was something about it that was more comforting to him here than the sterile corridors of the ship could offer. But it would be naive to think that there would be a complete calm docility in the gardens, though he almost scoffs at the irony of his potential company being that of another wolf.
And yet he's more curious than scared, more intrigued than cautious. The last time he remembered being threatened by another wolf was a long, long time ago, when he was still a runt of a pup and his brothers were inclined to pick on him. Even then, he snapped at their muzzles without hesitation, without fear.
Thus he doesn't turn around, but simply walks until he sees the lump of something rotting in the distance. It is then that Bigby stands still where he is, leaning against a tree, behind a thin wall of leaves. He's watching to see who his company may be.
no subject
Stretching and standing on its back legs, the wolf takes in short whiffs of air trying to pinpoint the scent. Suddenly he stills as he lets out a low growl.
no subject
He moves, barely, the leaves surrounding him rustling. He won't be the first to make a move forward, nor turn heel and run. Neither would guarantee safety, and he's more interested in seeing how this particular wolf may react to his presence.
no subject
It could be thought of as lucky that Tom had lived his life with the wolf. He didn't fight against animal instincts and the wolf didn't feel threatened and frustrated by that other side of him. There's an intelligence in it's eyes as it stares down the man before it. This wolf isn't always driven by anger and hunger (mostly, but not always). That small bit of intelligence keeps it from quickly attacking, but doesn't stop the posturing.
no subject
He sees that intelligence; he feels as if there's more than just plain savagery in this one, and so he speaks. His voice is unwavering and low, easily heard even at the distance they stand apart.
"I was just sniffing around. Not here to hurt you," he says.
no subject
Memory was always a hazy thing, but the wolf knew that it was usually alone in a small, dark box. It was never disturbed even though sometimes there was a scent on the other side of the box. Sometimes that scent was familiar and sometimes that scent that of prey. Alone and angry. Now it was free and curious. It was a toss up as to which was more dangerous.