ain't no grave can hold my body down [P] [C]

[Honora St. John]

The first thing she became aware of was blood; the stench of it, the taste of it, the feel of it, slick and thick as water as it streamed down her face and pooled in her lap. Then slowly, the flickering light of a candle as she managed to crack one eye open – the other was swollen firmly shut, the skin hot and livid with a sharp ache. For a moment she wasn’t sure where she was, or why the thick, stifling air in the room reeked of a stranger. Blood oozed into her one open eye and for some reason she couldn’t wipe it clear; she couldn’t see much beyond the hazy blur of red. But she could still smell. She was supposed to be at home, in the Carna. But there was no salty tinge to this air. This air was laden with earth and dirt…sand. Fallen. “Mornin’, sweetheart,” The voice cut through the ringing in her ears, sudden and sharp, as the world came back into focus. Fear and loathing were the first things she felt, rushing back with immediacy as her head jerked up and she stared into the Fallen man’s eyes; she remembered anew why she was here, and who she was with. She tried her hands, wriggling her wrists in the tightly knotted ropes she was bound with. He’d done a good job, unfortunately. The room was alarmingly small, just four cement walls and a steel door with a small grated window, so choked with sand hardly any light shone through. There was a small vent in the ceiling, small enough for her to fly through, if only she could shift -- “You ready to talk to ol’ Harrel yet?” She took in her captor with an eerie calm, even through the sweat and blood that poured from her brow. Honora watched the man from beneath hooded lids, her head hanging heavy between her shoulders as she swallowed a mouthful of blood. She rolled her tongue in her mouth, immediately regretting the decision as a jolt of pain ran through her. Bitten her tongue, she could only hope it didn’t need stitches. She could feel the warmth of the liquid flooding her mouth, the sharp coppery tang of it thick and repulsive. She felt herself gagging and tried to keep it back, but with a roiling clench of muscle that started in her stomach she felt herself heave; she glared down into her lap as blood and saliva dripped from her clenched teeth as she tried to choke back the involuntary sting of her watering eyes. Her breath came in controlled heaves as she focused her thoughts. She wouldn’t let this man break her; she had been trained for this. Helena had arranged for her to be taken when she was only 16, tortured, tested, pushed to her limits. And they had been professionals. This man, this man was some bastard with a limp dick that needed to beat someone up to make himself feel big. “C’mon, Carna. It’s been nigh on two days now. Just use those pretty red lips ah yours and tell me what I wanna know and you can scurry on back to your sewage.” Slowly, surely, her eyes raised and fixed on his hand, his knuckles bloodied and raw from the impact of flesh against bone. She jerked her chin up, bringing her eyes to meet his small, rat-like eyes. His face was lined with anger and hatred, and Honora could sense this was about more than gathering intelligence on the Carna. But she watched him as he watched her, waiting for a reply. "I'm gettin' real tired of this, bitch. Tell me what I want to know. You best start spillin' your guts, or I'm gonna start spillin' 'em for ya." The silence grew protracted, only broken by the heaving rattles of her breath slipping through blood-slick teeth. He was still as he could be, but she could see his limbs were shaking slightly. Was he tiring already? Wee lamb. The corner of her red, blood-stained lips pulled up in a smirk, dried blood cracking as fresh blood poured from the cut he'd given her two days ago, which had already begun to heal. She blinked, drew in a shaky breath--and then suddenly, he was looming over her, grabbing a fistful of her short brown hair. He jerked her head back with a sharp yank, and she could see, smell, hear, nothing but him. He stank of sweat and body odor, a tinge of smoke and whiskey, and blood. Her blood. She glared up at him, the smirk replaced by a feral snarl as she bared her now-crimson teeth. He laughed, grabbing her chin roughly with one hand as he released her hair, his fingers digging deep and hard to her skin. Blood pooled anew around his fingernails as he gripped tighter and tighter, his fingers shaking from the effort. "Talk." She opened her mouth, as if to speak--but in one quick movement jerked her head sharply away from him, only to bring it right back toward him. He went to grab for her again but she snaked her head out and sank her teeth deep into the crux of his thumb and index finger, biting fast and hard with all the strength her battered jaws could muster. She tasted his blood, or hers, at this point she couldn't tell--triumphant in his screams of pain as he tried to free himself. He was raining blows on her, hard and fast, but still she clung, and clung, and clung, like an animal who knew nothing else. His last blow knocked the wind out of her, and she blacked out for a second; she awoke to the sound of his labored breathing, his garrulous stream of curses under his breath. She let out a blood-wet laugh that rattled in her chest, a grim chuckle she couldn't stop. She knew it was the wrong thing to do, and the sting of the back of his hand against her face told her true. “I warned you, you Carna bitch. I warned you.” He said between panting breaths. Sweat beaded on his brow as he wrapped his bloody hand in a cloth. He moved around behind her, and she felt him untying one of her hands. They were tied separately to the back of the arms of the chair. He ran his fingers up the length of her arm in a soft caress that sent shivers of disgust running through her; she was about to rip her arm away from him and was grinning in spite of the situation because he’d just given her the upper hand. And then she heard a loud, sickening crack—an instant later a scream tore through the air and nearly deafened her, and she realized she was the one screaming. Her throat burnt with a sharp rawness as she screamed, so hard she couldn’t breathe around the sound that escaped her control. Harrel was standing in front of her, grinning like a mad dog. Honora glanced down to her arm, which hung limp and broken at her side. She struggled to move her fingers, but even that small movement sent the world reeling. She slowly dragged her eyes to meet the Fallen’s, green eyes leveling through the blur of blood and tears. She drew in a deep, shuddering breath, and on its release she sent a wad of blood-flecked spittle into his eye. He took a step, raised his hand—and then all she saw, all she knew, was darkness.

[HUSHER]

THROW THE BOOK IN THE FIRE Husher had eaten some rough stuff in his lifetime. As a Marine he’d tolerated MREs for months on end; as a wolf he’d consumed several days-old-carcass countless times, and as a man, he’d managed to bolt down bad cooking (both his own and his daughters), but this … The chipped cup he looked in tested his stomach’s resolve on just how hungry he was. Lara liked to call it, ‘Stufato Di Sorpresa’. She always chuckled when she said it, then handed over the serving with a scowl that dared the recipient to complain. It was only recently that Husher found out; Stufato Di Sorpresa was Italian for, ‘Stew Surprise.’ She liked to hide mystery meat in the unrecognizable geal. Lord only knew what kind of butchery it was. To her it didn’t matter. The Italian Terror had been through the trenches of The Menagerie, survived the Ring wars – all the way from the first few thrown into The Dome. She knew hunger like no one else, and would do what she had to in order to keep her people nella carne, as she said. In the flesh. Anyone that ever griped was promptly lectured in wild, high volumes of Italian, and then ... the spatula came out. That, was never good. So it was with this thought in mind that Husher tilted back his head and let the brown geal slide down his throat. He swallowed with difficulty, said a prayer with watering eyes, and finished it before he could reconsider. As he passed off his cup to clean-up, he leaned over and kissed Lara’s cheek. She huffed with her double chin shaking, swatted at him halfheartedly, chuckled, and rolled her eyes. It was people like her that kept the Fallen together and too many people took her for granted. Countless times she had saved rations for people (including Husher) with that crazy gut feeling of hers that they would be back and starving. With an almost a boyish grin too few saw – Husher ducked from the way, rose a hand in thanks, shoved his hands in his pockets, and headed toward his train car. It was only a few days ago that he’d come back from a hunting trip wounded. Delilah had stitched him up, and it was mending well. The stitches itched, but that was good - it meant he was healing. Subconsciously he scratched at it with his knuckles as he passed the shadows of the main express building, and, as he passed a low window, peculiar noises caused him to slow to a halt. Gurgling ... a sick, hollow wet sound ... another, and silence. Just before Husher was about to continue on, a scream – primal and agonizing pierced the air and he was in motion. The door to the room was open, and Husher ducked behind the wall, then cautiously peered in. There She sat, head lolled to one side, her face and body battered. There He stood, a hand raised ... Her hazel green eyes lifted to her interrogator, brazen in exhausted defiance ... Those simple Figures were the only things he saw, and before he knew it the meaty, large hand that was lifted high to strike was seized by Husher’s immovable grip as he stood between them. The eyes of the large man were enraged, fevered. Harrel was not know for his patience, kindness, or chastity ... and was certainly no friend of Hushers. “What exactly, do you think you are doing?” Husher challenged in a stoney voice. A flash of fear crept into the towering tormentor’s eyes. Harrel and Husher had never said more than passing words, but it was clear he knew the Hunter’s reputation, and was utterly unprepared for the intervention. “I uh, she – I ...” he started doltishly, then shook his head sharply as if clearing his thoughts and pulled his arm from Husher’s grip. He attempted to compose himself, looked to the girl as his eyes narrowed in hate and looked again to Husher. “I was interrogating a prisoner. A Carna,” he spat the word as if it made a living human another species, or a lesser being – deserving of any malice or pain brought upon them. Husher’s tolerance wavered. “I think you are needed elsewhere,” Husher said tactfully. Husher, as a Marine, had been programmed to think of their enemy as alien, inhuman – lesser and, or undeserving of life in order to physiologically mend the sins they committed in combat by killing their foes without mercy. It was not a concept foreign to him in any way. However – that was combat, that was battle. The decision to take down your opponent intent on killing you and killing them first because there was no other choice was different. Torture was another animal entirely to Husher, and it was for personal beliefs that he was rarely commissioned for this task. Husher had a limit, and torturing a young woman who obviously would rather die than answer questions was far beyond his threshold. Be damned if some considered it weak. If his daughter, Akane - or Cole, or any other person he cared about had been taken by the Carna, God (or whatever sick asshole ruled this joint) forbid, he would be grateful to the man that decided to kill rather than torture her; or, if he be merciful ... let her go. There were certain atrocities that one could not come back from – should not ... and too many people in the Menagerie had been forced to live through them anyway. Neither man had moved, and Husher could see the doubt clouding in the younger, larger man’s eyes. “Now,” Husher said firmly and turned away from him. His eyes focused on the back wall as he turned his back to the towering moron dismissively. Every molecule of sound and feel was concentrated on Harrel as the crucial moment of indecision passed and, finally he huffed his displeasure and stomped from the room – slamming the door behind him. No flicker of relaxation took hold, for Husher expected nothing less. Regardless, it was only then that he turned his attention to the girl. The instant his eyes took hold of her his resolved hardened. There was so much damage to her - he hardly knew where to begin. With a deep breath and a glance to the door, he lowered on his heels behind her and untied her arm, then her feet. It was obvious she was played out, and with these injuries there was no way she could pose a danger for many days - even if she summoned the strength to shift into a lion. Harrel had pulled no punches. Her slight body seemed lifeless in his hands, and he gingerly collected her then carefully lay her to the ground on a rough blanket. It was only then that he saw her arm, the damage that Harrel had inflicted. To Husher, it was like a punch in the gut just to see it. There were certain boundaries that Husher had been raised with. Respect and protection for women and children were one of them. In spite of that, even now, even with her being The 'Enemy' ... To see a women so badly used was beyond his endurance. It made him feel ill. Injuries and death among females was not something new in The Menagerie, but he had never liked it. He might not agree with it, but this was more. Something about her ... through her bruised and swollen face he could see her exotic attraction; the large eyes, freckled skin, and high cheek boned face. However, it wasn't something as frivolous as her obvious beauty that urged him so quickly into action. There were many beautiful women in The Dome, many of which he had seen killed in combat both Friendly and Foe. It was that last look, that fearless dare in her eyes that only left her when she'd lost consciousness ... *** Hours later, after a medic came to set and bind her arm, and went, Husher sat in vigil. She lay wrapped in a blanket, her head pillowed by his own jacket as he sat by the door, back to the wall. His elbows rested against his knees as his unseeing, violent eyes gazed at the far wall. He'd kill him. It was half the reason Husher remained guarding a prisoner. Half in protection, half to keep from hunting him down. If that asshole sets so much as a foot anywhere near ... Movement. Noise. Husher was not one for hovering, and if he didn't miss his guess she'd likely know rather quickly he was about - so he did not move. Instead, he watched from his tense, semi-recumbence several feet away. From his own experience he knew she'd be combative, ready to fight - for all that she was as weak as a newborn kitten. It was her last memories, holding out against Pain and the Devil. Husher was all too familiar with it ... and all concern for Harrel (and his plans for him) vanished instantly in the wake of the woman's stirring.

WORDS:1,500+ | TAGS:Honora St. John | IRONCHILD@THEMENAGERIE

[Honora St. John]

She came to consciousness suddenly and this time there was no confusion. There was no forgetting where she was, who she was with. But she was lying on the floor, no longer tied to the chair. She could feel the bandages on her various wounds, feel that her broken arm had been set and wrapped. There was something soft and warm under her head to keep it off the floor. A scent rose from it in thick waves: another man, another Fallen. Not Harrel. Her eyes were still shut as she used her senses to survey the room. The faint breathing of another person. The stifled air in the room provided no current for her to catch a scent, but she thought perhaps it was the same man whose jacket was balled under her head. If the Fallen thought the ploy of “Bad Cop, Good Cop” was going to work on here, they were even less skilled than she’d imagined. They’d sent ham-fisted Harrel in to do a job he knew nothing about. She tested her broken limb, slowly curling and uncurling her fingers. It was painful, but the medic who’d obviously attended her had done well. But it meant she couldn’t shift; even if she could bear the pain of shifting, there would be no way that she could fly with a broken wing, not even the short distance to that small vent. She’d have to deal with the man, then. Disarm, disable, kill, whatever she had to do to get out. Now that she was unbound, he was the only thing standing in the way of her freedom. She’d kept her eyes closed, her body still as she could in the few minutes she’d regained consciousness. She was still sprawled on her back, but her one functioning eye was at its very corner to find him. He was squatting against the wall just a few feet away, as the room was unbearably small. Good. She was best at fighting in close quarters. He was big, but smaller than Harrel. She knew she could handle him. She slowly rose to a sitting position, pushing herself up with her good arm. Oh, sweet baby Jesus it hurt. Every move sent shocks of pain coursing through her. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt. But she kept her face as smooth as she could, free of winces or grimaces of pain. She had known pain, she had always known pain, and she would continue to know it. But she would do her best not to show it, not to the enemy. She was not unfazed by it, not in the least. But she knew how to control what she revealed to the enemy. She leaned back against the wall. She regarded him with unyielding hazel eyes, her lips twitched up into the slightest smirk. “Harrel tap out, then?” She said, her voice hoarse and ragged. Her lips were chapped, and as she spoke the cut at the corner of her lip split open again. Jesus, she hated the taste of blood. She dabbed at the blood with the back of her hand, wiping it free. “Didn’t like my little love bite, eh?” There was no venom or hostility in her voice, she held her tone smooth and casual, if even tinged with a bit of light bemusement. “You should tend to your man, Fallen. Bites can get easily infected.” Deep down she knew that she was in trouble. She knew she could die. There was an undercurrent of fear, beneath the confidence, to be sure. But then, her entire life had been training for situations like these, and as she regarded him from behind a bruised and battered face that demanded she break, she knew that her confidence would ring true. This was no veneer, no feint at strength. She was a woman who would brook no defeat. IronChild - sorry this took so long :|

[HUSHER]

THROW THE BOOK IN THE FIRE Husher remained still as the Carna shifted about, carefully at first. Testing pain, doubtless, and assessing the damage which, in all respects was God awful. He’d seen many men bawl with those kinds of injuries, and with good reason. He himself had withstood wounds in the past, extensive ones even … but each incident where a bone was broken or his flesh was ripped or stabbed was its own experience. Control was a tumultuous animal one attempted to keep in sight like a scope and a target. Sometimes you just couldn’t see it, sometimes the sun was in your eyes, and sometimes … the pressure was just too much. As the woman sat up carefully the only betrayal that she was in pain was the stiffness in movement, and the paler shade of white her face developed as she rightened herself and leaned against the wall. Her manner was of stinted ease and repose. She’d not undergone torture and exhaustion – no … she was just settling down after a long hard game of softball. Her one good eye blazed at him in an unfriendly myriad of greens and browns across the small room as she sneered. The bravado of a shot lioness in a zoo cage, cornered and injured but too proud to admit defeat. Her casual brio and light hecklings rolled off Husher with apathy … pity had no place here. Letting his guard down in a cage with a lioness, wounded or not, was flirting with death. An amused huff escaped his nose, and the side of his mouth kicked up as his unyielding eyes remained on the wall. His response in part was because he hoped Harrel did catch every infection and plague in existence and die a slow death, but more that he wanted her to realize he wouldn’t be baited. With a heavy sigh his head rolled back to rest on the wall with a light thunk, and finally, tilted in her direction. The Hunter regarded her with a concrete blue-grey gaze and stony expression. “I think he’ll be hard pressed to find someone he hasn’t pissed off enough to actually help him,” he said evenly. Including me, he thought to himself. “How’s that arm?” he asked mildly, as if asking how she liked the taste of her eggs in a breakfast joint. Her response would hopefully give him a clue as to how she assessed herself, giving him the basic bare bones of what she thought she was capable of – not that her actual words would tell him anything. It was easy to see she was a fighter, a warrior. People who went through that kind of trauma and sat up smiling were people used to pain, and a lot of it. Half broken he guessed she’d try and escape – and he wouldn’t let her. Partly because she was there for a reason, though the why of it he hadn’t figured just yet … but mostly because if she did somehow manage to get passed him, they were in the middle of an entire ring that would likely kill her first and ask questions later. The sun was beginning to lower in the sky - it's golden light filtered through the dusty room - setting the particles in the air to glitter as they circulated. He took out his buck knife and pulled out the small piece of wood he’d been idly working on for days, and began shaving away tiny pieces. Akane’s child would be born soon, and toys in the Menagerie were hard to come by, so he was making one. Slowly, a little wolf was taking form in his hands, but it would be some time before it looked like one. On the floor were leavings from previous rounds with the lumpy thing, and now and then he blew at it, assessed an angle, and went back to it. One might of thought he was posturing, and maybe he was ... but if he were honest it was to keep his mind and hands occupied from one too many things, and one particular neck.

WORDS:670+ | TAGS:Honora St. John | IRONCHILD@THEMENAGERIE

[Honora St. John]

Honora drew in a few shallow, shuddering breaths as she regarded the Fallen man. There was no more crackle of blood when she breathed, but she was sure she had more than one broken rib as each breath felt as if a rhino had taken up residence on her chest. The corner of her mouth twitched up at the image; Osborne would have loved that. Nolan and Phoenix would have too. The back of her head tapped lightly against the wall, her one eye squeezing shut as she struggled to push them from her mind. She couldn't think of her brothers and sisters. She didn't have the luxury of reminiscing, of nostalgia, nor, indeed, of the sinking desolation and sense of utter and complete failure that came hand in hand with thoughts of their once-happy faces. Honora couldn't afford to be distracted anymore than she was, what with skull-splitting migraine ricocheting around her brain. On basest assumptions, she didn't think she was in any immediate danger with this new guy, though that in itself was untrue. She knew too well situations and people were capable of change instantaneous. She would stay focused, in the moment, watch him for signs of threat. He obviously had some different tactics than good ol' Harrel. She took a deep breath, barely managing swallowing the yelp of pain. She used that agonizing stab to focus, to drive her. Slowly, the image Osborne's still, lifeless body sprawled in the mountain snow faded from her memory, as did the smiles he had always been quick to brandish. She would not be distracted. Another breath, another jab of pain from her torso. She couldn't remember ever having had a broken rib, let alone a few, and was unaccustomed to the lancing, stabbing pain with each breath. She wondered if Harrel had actually stabbed her. As far as she could tell she hadn't been stabbed. Slapped, cut, punched, kicked, arm near snapped in two ... But no stab wounds. She tried to account for each and every of his hits over the past few days of Harrel's attempt at torture. Normally as a medic she kept a rolling record of any and all injuries her patients had sustained, and, well, she was her own patient now. Trouble was she couldn't move well enough to examine all the bits that hurt and couldn't remember half of the hits the big oaf had swung landed. Guy had fists the size of dinner plates. The Fallen's voice nearly made her jump when he spoke after ... she wasn't sure how much time had passed, actually, now that she thought about it. Concerning, she thought to herself. Things were hazier than she realized, the days without food and water and the blood loss must've hit her harder than she thought. It had been a while since training, since she'd been behind enemy lines. She was good, sure, but concussions didn't put much stock in good training. "Harrel? Disliked?" She dead-panned. "What a shocking turn of events." She watched as he whipped out his knife and a hunk of wood. Oh, nice. Very subtle, very smooth. It was a good tactic, she supposed, if that's what he intended, Mr. "I'm obviously very skilled with a knife." Her vision blurred again in her one functioning eye and the world went black for half a second. Her skull felt like it was simultaneously exploding and caving in on itself. Probably a yes on the concussion then. "Arm's good as it can be for stepped on by a ... What's a step below a gorilla, intelligence-wise?" She grunted, trying not to laugh at the situation, trying not to cry, trying to what was it, stay focused? Right. Honora rolled her tongue around her mouth, grimacing. God, even her tongue hurt. Her brows quirked up when her tongue poked through a gap between her molars that definitely hadn't been there before. "Ah. I think he knocked out a tooth. She leaned forward a bit, fixing the whittling Fallen with a serious stare. "If you can find it anywhere, I'd like it back, please." She flicked her tongue over the small gap again, not liking the feel of her soft gum against her tongue. It turned her stomach. "It'll make for an effective visual aide during story time." Her Carna friends would love it, Angus especially. Dominic would just stare blankly. Tamra would probably try to pull out her own tooth to shoe she was tougher. Angus and Agnes'd probably try to make a necklace out of it or something . Dumb foxes. She let out a laugh-snort through her nose at the thought of the fox duo, wondering how she was gonna make it back to them. Honora kept her eye on his hands as they worked away at the soft wood, deftly and with purpose. He had nice hands. She couldn't see from where she was, but she imagined they were scarred and calloused from years of work, a good pair of hands that knew what to do with a knife. Excellent.  "What are you carving?" ooc| definitely-maybe concussed Nora is kinda fun haha IronChild

[HUSHER]

A silent chuckle escaped him as the side of his mouth kicked up again. He paused the whittling to lift the -maybe it’s a dog maybe it’s a horse – looking wooden piece into the light. What was below a gorilla?

“Quite a lot actually, and I know someone who would take offense to that sentiment,” he chided in mock lecture. His mind lightly touched on John, a gorilla shifter who, previous to capture had been working on his degree in Physics. He set the piece down and yawned and stretched. It had been a long day. Her comment about her tooth caused his steely eyes to snap sharply at her as she laughed at herself. It was a mistake looking at her, busted and hurting. It might have been his imagination but she seemed to flinch with movement, her breathing shallow and pained. His temper flared and he stood up impulsively, as if to do something. No, he couldn’t leave her unattended; Even if it was to skin Harrel alive. Damn. More calmly turned to fetch a canteen from the floor.

With slow movement, he unscrewed the cap and took a sip. His eyes narrowed to pin her to the wall, a silent “watch me” as he lowered the canteen and slowly walked toward her. His heavy boots made near silent passage. He stopped several feet away and lowered to a crouch, his elbows resting on his knees. Slowly, he offered the container of water. Husher personally wouldn’t have trusted anything given to him if he were captured. She still might not, but he figured showing her he’d drink it himself might help. He didn’t know her so he couldn’t say.

“I will make sure to keep an eye out,” he said – meaning her tooth. Hell at this point he would give her every one of Harrel’s. His jaw set at the thought as his own teeth ground. He set the canteen on the floor beside her, watching to see if she’d drink.

“The medic will come by again in a few hours. He refuses to give you any pain meds but he set your arm and wrapped your ribs,” he stared at the floor while he said it before looking at her again. In truth, he’d had to threaten the medic just to touch her, and it was a testament to how much the guy disliked Carna that neither pay nor threats could elicit a single pain med for the beaten woman. The only way the medic said he’d help her again is if she were tied. His knuckles ruffed at his fresh stitches unconsciously. Maybe Lara would help him instead. Maybe the played out Carna would allow him to help her himself. Maybe that was better. He didn't like the idea of putting Lara in danger and there was no question: This woman was indeed dangerous.

TAG: Honora St. John

[Honora St. John]

Honora watched his hands as he whittled away, pausing only to hold the figure aloft to examine it; she watched them as he worked the blade, observing the shavings as they fell to the floor of the shack. She wondered what he was thinking as he worked, or if he was thinking at all. Maybe it was meditation, clearing his mind before he resumed Harrel’s task. It was important to have a clear mind when interrogating … And escaping. Her eyes trailed around the room again, and there were no ready signs of egress besides the door; and the whittler was in the way. Her gaze zeroed in on him again. She knew she wasn’t in any shape to take on a healthy man of his size. When he spoke, something tickled at the back of her mind, almost like she’d heard him speak before. “Mm. I’m Carna. Can’t take a breath without offending someone,” she said, her lips twitching up in a half-hearted grin. “Or, apparently, single-handedly slaughtering their entire family in front of them.” She said with a slow, wry grin. People always made the Carna out to be monsters. As a Carna, she had blood on her hands -- but so did everyone else living behind the Walls. “I’ll be sure to keep a running list of pardons to beg later.” Her heart was loud in her ears and she pressed herself against the wall, good arm snapping up to defend while she drew her broken arm tighter against her, quick and subtle as she kept herself still and composed as she could, though her breath came in rougher, heavier pants that betrayed her exhaustion. Honora wanted to get her feet under her and test her strength, but she could tell it would be unwise. Instead, she fixed him with a glare that, even with one eye, told him to reconsider his next move, her lips drawn tightly together as she watched. It seemed though that his sudden vertical inclination had not been meant for her. He seemed distracted by his thoughts, troubled by something. Angry, maybe at her, maybe at something completely unrelated. She wasn’t sure. But the man returned her fixed stare with one of his own as he reached for a canteen she had neglected to notice. It seemed as if she watched him slowly unscrewing the cap for hours and raise the rim to his lips. Honora watched a small dribble of water drip down his scruffy chin, her lips parting in the slightest as she heard the delicious slosh of water in the container. She was suddenly very aware of how dry her mouth was as she tried to keep her tongue from wetting her cracked, chapped lips, not wanting to show him how thirsty she was. It was petty, sure, he already knew the state she was clearly in. But it was the little things. She barely contained a grimace when she felt the paste of blood and saliva that coated her tongue as she rolled it against the roof of her mouth. Honora followed the whittler with her eyes as he lowered into a crouch, offering her the canteen. She flinched when he spoke, and she hadn’t realized how focused she’d been on watching his hands and body for signs of threat. She’d gotten tunnel vision, and his voice, as soft as it was, had jarred her back. Her brow furrowed deeper and her eyes flicked to his scruffy face, taking in his features up close. He looked somewhat familiar, and she could swear she’d heard his voice before, if only for a moment. It was only a few seconds of hesitation before she remembered: Right before she’d blacked out after she’d spit in Harrel’s face (hah) and he’d nailed her in the head, she’d heard the whittler’s voice. He’d come to stop Harrel, for some reason or another. Probably to replace him seeing as he wasn’t getting the job done. “I think you know it’s not going to work,” she said after a moment. Her voice was quiet, but sounded loud in her ears. “This whole bad-cop, good-cop routine.” Her gaze flicked to the canteen, then back up to his cold blue eyes. He placed it on the ground beside her, and it took every fiber of her being not to grab it and drink every last damned drop. She dragged her eye away from it, licking her lips. She regarded him with a weary, hard-won calm. “And as much as I appreciate the quick breather and your medic getting me all tickety-boo for round two," she paused, lips twitching up again in that little quirky grin. “I’ll tell you exactly what I told Harrel.” Nothing. Her one functioning eye regarded him with a determination that would not yield, and it would tell him exactly what she meant. She would die before putting any of her family’s lives at risk; not only was her brother by blood in the Carna, and worse yet her little Phoenix, the Ring had become her family. She would protect them at all costs. She would tell the Fallen nothing, even if it meant her silence would be forever. ooc| HUSHER IronChild - ok oops it turned out longer than I thought, she has too many thinks

[HUSHER]

Though no emotion flickered to the surface of his face, her response to him was like a razor across his chest. A curious reaction. He didn’t know her from Eve, but she was like a starving stray dog too fearful of humans from abuse to eat free food offered. This woman, however, was nothing like a dog … her good eye was fierce, a lioness gaze that echoed of the hot savannah and in their depths, was the tiniest hint of fear. That was good … fear meant the soul wanted to live. If the soul doesn’t want to live you have nothing to work with.

Husher couldn’t help but sigh, his hand coming up to chafe against his stubbled face and rub the sweat at the back of his neck. He winced inwardly at the thought of him being a ‘good cop’. Had she known him professionally, she never would have accused him of such an honorable title. When Husher did interrogate, he got what he wanted. He became cold and calculated, somehow knowing instinctively the exact thing that would make them break. He was patient. That scared him … what that side was capable of, so much so he made it clear to Tomas he was not available for that kind of work. At the end of the day, he had to be Akane’s father … some deeds you can’t be forgiven for.

Her words were forged in iron, but bits were chipped away by pain and exhaustion. She’d slept for hours yet the ring under her good eye was almost black. I’ll tell you exactly what I told Harrel.

The man nodded as if she’d made a theological statement, he rolled her words around in his mind and curiosity flickered. “What is he wanting to know exactly?” He asked, and nudged the water closer to her. He couldn’t tell her he wasn’t going to hurt her. She wouldn’t, couldn’t, shouldn’t believe him, and Husher didn’t make promises he couldn’t keep. If he came across her in the future on the battlefield and it was him or her … he stopped that line of thought. He’d do what he had to – just as she would. It was the nature of the beast.

He shuffled back a touch, and slowly reclined to sit on the floor – she needed some room. He didn’t want to make best friends but … hell he didn’t know what he was doing. All he knew was that in that moment when Harrel’s fist rose and he saw her face, something in him twisted sharply … and it hadn’t unwound yet.

[Honora St. John]

The whittler was a tough read, a near-inscrutable mass of man. Harrel had been easy to read, only all too. This guy proved more skilled at hiding what was going on behind that facade of his. He'd slipped up once or twice that she'd seen, the clenching jaw, the sudden burst of movement; but those could mean a lot of things for a lot of reasons. It didn't really reveal anything to her other than that he was troubled or frustrated by something. Conflicted, maybe, about what he'd been ordered to do? She felt a dull flicker of hope at that thought. If he had doubts, she could work with that. But as she stared up at him, into those blue-brown eyes that regarded her with steeled indifference, she wasn't so sure. She hadn't known the Fallen to be fond of torture, though she supposed her being a Carna made for a nice treat for those blinded by vengeance and all. She was no fool. She knew of dark tunnels or the rusted ship where the Carna got their information, but she didn't think it was all that common, only if the person were truly valuable (or their intel was). She wasn't important, not really. She was just a medic. She supposed that she could just tell him what she knew. Maybe they'd let her go, maybe not. In the long run, there was no telling what would happen if she spilled her guts, as Harrel had put it. She could tell them everything and they'd still probably kill her in the end. But she knew things that the Fallen could use against her Ring, her family. She knew schedules, rotations, vulnerabilities in the defense, supplies and stocks. She knew things that could bring about great harm to those she valued most. But she knew why she had been captured this time around, why Harrel was sent to interrogate her. He wasn't working of his own volition, not from what she'd seen at least. She'd been seen with a stash of cure-all pills she'd scooped up from a Keeper drop. It was hard to believe that had only been a few days ago, and already it felt as if none of it had happened and she kept thinking that she should be waking up at home, snuggled up next to one of her bunkmates. It still felt surreal. She'd accompanied a hunting party and they were making their way back from the Huntinggrounds, cutting through Fallen turf to get back quicker, when they'd seen it, a Keeper drop; metal containers full of wonders that made life inside the dome just a bit easier. Well, usually: sometimes the boxes were chock full of fun experimental substances or objects and you never knew what you were really getting. She could see it clearly: They'd approached with caution. A lookout had been posted. She was digging around in the crates when she found it, the mother lode, a stack of pills that would keep her Ring healthy for months. Months! Maybe even a year if they were lucky and didn't encounter too many infections (yeah, right) or those terrifying creations of the Keepers that spread disease. These pills did just what they said -- they cured everything. It would save so many lives. She'd just gotten her hands around them when a warning cry erupted, but it was too late. They were set upon by a Fallen patrol, and chaos swarm around her as the Fallen fought to claim the drop. She'd managed to stuff the contents in her medic pack when she looked up and saw a man, who would turn out to be Harrel, and some unknown woman watching her. They'd seen her take the pills, and Honora could see in the woman's eyes how badly she wanted them. Honora was already moving away from them when she saw the woman say something to Harrel. He nodded, then started towards her. She swore under her breath, shoving a Fallen who stumbled into her path away from her and towards Harrel. She really didn't want to fight the likes of him. Just then the leader of her hunting party called for a retreat, taking to his winged albatross form and leading the way with a scree. She managed to dodge her way mostly unscathed through the throng of tussling Fallen and Carna. She headed for the tree line, helping out her Ringmates when she could, grabbing up Reno, a weasel shifter, who'd gotten injured. She ran as fast as she could carrying her friend and her supplies until she couldn't hear any noise from the fight. The forested foothills were quiet, and she set Reno down so he could shift back. He was bleeding heavily and wouldn't make it back to the bay if she didn't do something. She found a place to stash the pills, and set to work. It wasn't long before she heard someone coming, probably Fallen. She'd gotten Reno bandaged up as best she could, told him to book it, that she'd lead the Fallen the other way. She couldn't remember exactly what happened next, only that the last thing she'd seen was Harrel's ugly mug and a baseball bat. That son of a bitch, she thought. When she got herself out of here, if she saw that man ... No. It was foolish. If she escaped, she would just fly until her wings couldn't hold her up anymore. She wouldn't risk her freedom, her life, for something as stupid as revenge. Even if she saw Harrel again, and she was sure he would be brought back in as some sort of tag-team effort with the whittler to make her talk, she wouldn't let anything come between her escape. She eyed the canteen again, knowing she should drink. She'd likely die in a day or so if she didn't drink. Harrel hadn't given her any water in the time he'd spent "interrogating" and she'd lost a decent amount of blood. It was stupid of her not to drink the water, she knew it was. But she didn't trust this man anymore than she'd trusted Harrel. And some part of her thought that maybe it would be easier to just let herself dehydrate. Her skull throbbed and her arm ached, her face felt numb and on fire all at once, and as she drew in a shallow, trembling breath she considered it for a moment, just letting herself slip away. It would be easier to give up. Not just to keep her family safe. But it would mean the endless struggle would be over. There would be no more senseless bloodshed, no more hunger, thirst, no more walls. She would just cease to be, and she yearned and ached for that peace. She felt her body go slack, her head lolling slightly to the side as she stared past the whittler's shoulder, to the small window just beyond. It was a tempting thought, for that narrow pause, that held breath, to let herself die. But then she could feel her lungs burning, begging for air, and she let the thought go as easily as it had come. She breathed out through her nose and raised her head, fingers balling into a fist. She was meant for more than this. She looked up at him with tired eyes, waiting for the inevitable to begin again. She gave a light shrug in response to his query. "What do you want?" She asked, her voice was quiet and soft, somehow cutting -- yet it did not waver as she watched and waited, expectant, exhausted. ooc| oh, my god. this post is so long and she talks so little. Got a tad carried away. I hope it's enough to reply to. Sorry ;_;

[HUSHER]

Husher watched her for what seemed like an timeless moment as she reflected, then shrugged and looked up at him.

What do you want? his hopefulness withered. He couldn't blame her, Harrel worked her over hard, and she was going to be out of commission for a while. The side of his mouth kicked up again sadly.

What did he want? He wanted the man who had done this to pay. He wanted to let her go. He wanted to know what she knew so he could give his people what they wanted. He wanted ...

He sighed.
He didn't know.
He levered himself up and wandered toward the door with the carelessness of a teen asked to take out the garbage and sighed.

"I want to know your name at some point, and I want to kill that bastard that put hands on you," he said evenly. His eyes remained fixed in the distance. She wasn't going to budge, certainly not tonight. He was an idiot for trying. Instead, he picked up a sack from the floor and tossed it gently by her. It plopped lightly with a bounce closer to her and he smiled. The teeth he flashed her were genuine, perhaps - more of a real smile than he'd given anyone in a long time.

"Eat. Drink," his voice more suggestion than command. He'd left a small amount of food and a piece of fruit in the bag along with the water he'd already offered. "Then rest," he said quietly.

He sat just outside the building, still visible to the woman but where he'd have to crane his neck to look inside to see her. His head tilted back to rest against the building and he took a deep breath and released it as he closed his eyes.

Quietly, so quietly he said, "I want you to know that I am very light sleeper, and as of now there is nowhere within ten miles that you will be safer than in that room for the night." He would see to that. He'd done too much for the Fallen to have a heavy argument on his hands. Tomorrow would be another day, he had to talk to Thomas, but for the time being this was what he could secure.

At that moment, Harrel stalked by in full view. The sun was almost gone and even from the position the woman sat she might see that he was lurking. Husher's head remained against the building, eyes close and relaxed. It was only if one was close enough that they could see the building tension in his jaw that only released once Harrel was out of sight. 

[Honora St. John]

The slight incline of her brow and the firm set of her mouth were the only response she gave him at his bold, confusing statement and toothy smile. Good cop game too strong, she thought. He'd thrown a wrench into the churning metalworks in her mind, befuddled as they were by the pulsating fog of pain. Honora watched the Whittler, realizing he intended to let her be. He wasn't going to start round 2 then, for now at least. She was silent as he tossed her a small bag, suddenly too tired to move. She had built herself up for another session, if not with Harrel then with the Whittler. But now that she realized he was going to give her some peace, she felt as if she could barely keep her eyes open. But she had to, she had to stay awake. She couldn't let her guard down.

Honora's eye was on the bag when Whittler spoke again, another confusing sentiment on his behalf. She was safe? She let out a small snort through her nose, regretting it as the sheer dryness of her nose and throat made it almost painful. She gave her head a light shake, not even sure herself if it was a response to him or trying to clear her head. Her one functioning eye flicked up to watch him as he left, holding her body taut and still as a drawn bow until he was on the other side of the wall. She could hear the heavy, plodding steps of Harrel just beyond, her breath coming in small, shallow gasps around her damaged ribs as she waited for him to storm in and for it to start all over again. Her heart slammed in her chest and she was deafened by the pounding rush of it in her ears. She had to be strong. She had to outlast anything they threw at her. She had to win. She had to survive.

But then she saw the Whittler, just the tip of his dark hair, sitting outside, standing guard. Maybe he had been telling the truth. Maybe he would keep Harrel away. She didn't trust the Whittler not to harm her as far as she could pick up and throw a mountain. But she was willing to believe, if only for her own momentary sanity, that he would keep Harrel off her; and for the moment, that was enough.



ooc; end thread