TREBUCHET [P] Jun 29, 2013 14:20:54 GMT -5
Post by Tarrik Rosdahl on Jun 29, 2013 14:20:54 GMT -5
Coming to was a lot less like daytime TV, and a whole lot more like something out of a Die Hard sequel. Tarrik had fallen off his bedroll, whacked over a bowl of water, struggled to his feet and tipped over no less than three tables and two people by the time inertia caught up with him and knocked him flat.
The garble of Spanglish that he growled into the concrete floor went mostly ignored or misunderstood, because instead of getting out of his way two pairs of arms grabbed him and dragged him back onto his bedroll. He impolitely disagreed, and the resulting brawl slash shouting match left the tenderfoot hiding behind an upturned table, and the medic storming off with a bloody nose to get someone to strap his stupid ass down. Panic threaded in at the mention of the ties, and he snarled at the tenderfoot when they made a move to do something, and stood there in scared confusion. Everything was a painful blur of familiar and unknown, and fear pounded under all of it like a war drum. Or maybe that was his heartbeat, he couldn't tell. He knew they were medics, but he didn't know who they were. The piles of spare clothing, food, and water where all in places he knew before he looked, but the room itself seemed strange. His headache was getting worse and worse, and he struggled to focus on what he knew.
His name was Tarrik Graywall, he was twenty-two years old. His brother was named Tain. He was in the Menagerie. He was Fulsi. He'd seen Charm recently, she hadn't looked happy or pleased. There had been a fight, outside the hospital, Holly had helped him and... what? Helped him and what?!
The pounding grew louder, and faster. Outside the door he heard someone yelling a relayed message; the tenderfoot behind the table squeaked an answer, then repeated it when Tarrik was too out of it to demand he shut up. Bandages covered his arms, back and chest, and he was wearing nothing else. He was freezing cold despite the heat, which meant he had a fever. And he was still missing something, something that had him in a panic as he tried to remember what it was. He couldn't stay in the room, it was stifling him with it's lack of answers and the smell of sick and blood.
Gravity fought him as he lurched into motion, but he ignored it as he made for one of the interior doors, grabbing a pile of cloth from the counter of clothes as he went. He'd thought they were pants of some kind, but as he shook it loose with fumbling, numb fingers in the hallway it revealed itself to be a baffling length of plaid that he tied clumsily around his waist anyways.
He had no idea where he was going, but his feet seemed to as he dodged through hallways and struggled up stairs. Any sound or sign of people he avoided like the plague. Soon, the ruckus of the medical wing was behind him and all he had was the quiet darkness of the hallways. It was nearly dark out, but ambient light was just barely lighting his way. Dawn, then, or some time before it.
Finally, a door. His hand stilled on the handle as he tried to grasp why he was there, but his mind was turning over nothing, other than he had to look inside. So he did, quietly entering and pulling it shut behind him, then looked around the dark room. His heart plummeted; there was nothing. Some gear was piled against a wall, an old futon-style bed was in it's couch position, tucked into some of the deepest shadows under a massive bay window. And across from it a balcony with a sliding door, the door standing ajar to let the air circulate. A large, covered container of rainwater was just inside it, and on top of that a plate of mostly ignored food, though it had clearly been chosen for its inability to spoil quickly. Whoever it was for was consistent in refusing their meals, then.
A muffled noise made him spin in place, bare feet silent on the moss-covered carpeting, and stare at a corner of the futon. What he'd dismissed as a pillow stirred a little in it's sleep, tucked into a ball so tight it hadn't even appeared to be an animal. Quiet, as quiet as he could be and still live Tarrik crept closer, pale eyes wide as saucers to try, desperately, to place the lump of fur. It was so achingly familiar it hurt, and he knelt down and leaned his elbows on the futon, fingers just barely not touching. It was the scent that did it, finally. That made connections tumble together, fuse, ignite. He remembered fighting for his life at the hospital, desperate not to let them get to where his friend was sleeping, remembered the hit to his head that made everything turn to a haze. And before that, running for their lives from Ann, who'd chained them and so much worse and he was alive, alive.
"D..Dalton?" he whispered, and touched the tip of one of the coyote's long ears. And then a bit louder, though his voice cracked dangerously, the molten heat of tears burning lines down to his jaw. "Dal?!"