Run, Run, Lost Boy. [P]

[Costin Stark]

Clack. Clack. Huff. Huff. Costin hobbled back into the Inn, his black, matted fur completely slicked down with rain. His tongue lolled from his mouth as he clambered up the shaky steps, his legs just as shaky from the effort to reach safety again. He finally reached a room that didn’t reek of the burned-out half of the building, and he nosed the door open with his muzzle. The room was still mostly intact, though the collapsed bed and knocked-over table were the only things left in the room. The window was long since shattered and left open to the elements, and a puddle had formed below it were rain was coming into the room. Costin huffed and pulled himself onto the stained, tattered mattress and finally shifted back into his human form. His dark eyes fell to his left leg, or rather, where it used to be. Costin groaned and flipped onto his side, curling up and closing his eyes. He shivered against the cold, his body still wet from the freezing rain. He tried not to think about it, how his embarrassment of a brother, that freak, had ruined it all. His plan, his pride, his body. Costin had lost it all, and Sascha had taken it from him. This is what he had been reduced to. As far as he was concerned, he didn’t deserve to live. But he wouldn’t off himself either, and so he had limped off to find a place to wait out the inevitable. His first thought had been the studio where it had all happened, but Costin couldn’t stand the sight of it any more. He had continued away from the Carna and toward the Fulsi, hoping that if he didn’t find a suitable place to die, he could at least run into an enemy and go out in a fight like a man. But of course, as his luck would have it, the road had been empty. So he stayed at the Inn, only venturing out every once in a while to scavenge for food. A loud growl indicated that today’s search hadn’t gone well. Costin wrapped his arms around his middle and curled up tighter, just wishing silently for his suffering to end.

[Honora St. John]

Honora glared down at the stub of a pencil pinched between her fingers, narrowing her eyes as the last bit of lead wobbled periously across the paper. "Don't you dare," she hissed. "Don't you dare do this to me, ya munted piece of ... " Crack. "Shit." There wasn't even enough pencil left to shave down. Her shoulders dropped and she hung her head in momentary defeat, staring down at the shaky marks on the tattered piece of paper on her clipboard. "Almost done, too, damn it. Couldn't just hold out for five more ticks, could ya? And our last pencil to boot." She shook her head and set off to drop the coded stock notes to Endora when she saw a familiar flash of purple and pink hair, if a bit faded these days. The young Hunter waved her over and she padded up to him. "Need another dip there, Turner." She grinned, motioning to his hair. "What's up?" "Boone's looking for a medic to tag along on a, uh, retrieval mission. Cleared it with Endora already. Wants to see you soon's you're done down here." Thin, dark brows quirked up. "Right-o. That's me sorted, eh?" She said with a toothy grin. She dropped off the notes for the chief medic and told her about the few supplies she'd not been able to mark down. She grabbed her medic's pack and headed out of the tunnels with Turner. They found the Lead Hunter standing by the water, handing out orders to another hunting party. She watched as the group loped off, nodding to another medic "tagging along." "Here was me thinkin' I was special," she quipped. Boone turned round just then, fixing them with a hard stare that demanded attention; that stern, unyielding gaze of his made her think of Aunt Helena. She'd had that strange and powerful command in her that Honora had always found captivating and frustrating all at once. "St. John, you're here. Good. We're lookin' for Stark." Boone said, ignoring her comment. "The big one or the little one?" "Big 'un. Stark's gone AWOL with some of our supplies. His brother went out to find him but hasn't returned. Might be somethin', might be nothin'. Order's just come down that we need to find 'em." Honora let out a low whistle, grimacing at the thought of Costin Stark out there in the wilds. She'd been there when his brother had dragged him in, bone jutting straight out of his leg and leaking gallons of blood. After the amputation he'd been through ... "Christ, I see why you need the medics." "Boone'll do just fine. No need for honorifics, St.  John." Boone replied, his face all straight lines and serious business. Was that a joke? From Boone? She narrowed her eyes and scrutinized his face with pursed lips; his stony expression provided no indication of humor, save for the slightest crinkle of crow's feet around his eyes. Probably just a trick of the light. "Turner's been advised of Stark's last-known location. You find Stark, you fix him up, get any supplies left and try to get him home in one piece if you can. You'll meet up with the other party at the rendezvous point if transpo aid is needed." Boone said before handing she and Turner their rations for the trip. "On your way."  "Sir," they replied in unison. Honora resisted the strange urge to salute the Lead Hunter, settling for a curt nod instead. Turner headed of at a swift jog she could scarcely keep up with. Minutes turned into hours and her muscles burned, but she could only imagine what the trek had been like for Stark. He'd never been the most amicable of fellows, but seeing anyone in such throes of agony ... It was enough to pull at the heartstrings a bit. She'd helped change his bandages and monitor his healing, they'd talked once or twice. But he'd been very despondent and mostly unresponsive, answering her questions with grunts. The thought of him out here alone was enough for her to step up her game and keep pace with the Hunter as they traveled in complete silence. Turner was small and fast, like her, and she could tell he knew the terrain well. They managed to skirt around a few enemies, something Honora was still getting accustomed to after all this time -- viewing everyone as a threat. Needless to say speed and stealth was their M.O., and they worked well together. Both nearing exhaustion, Turner found a suitable place for them to camp out for a few hours' rest. Huddled together for warmth, too small a party to risk a fire, they slept in shifts. it wasn't long before the sun up and they were on the move again, her limbs still numb from the cold. It was almost a relief to be moving in the sun, but there were dark clouds glowering on the horizon that did not bode well for her comfort.  Hours later and she was staring up at the angry sky again when a sharp, "Got him." came from Turner's direction. She jumped a bit, sending a glare his way. He hadn't said a single word since they'd set off. Selective mute, she grumbled to herself. "Good on ya," she deadpanned. "Let's go get him," she said, hoping that Turner was as good a tracker as she'd heard -- and that there was enough of a trail for them to find Costin before it started to rain.  It wasn't but a few minutes before the rain starting coming down in sharp, cold drops that stung the skin. She rolled her jacket sleeves down and pulled up her hood, grimacing against the harsh gusts of wind. She sorted through the rush of scents in the gusts as best she could, but she was by no means a tracker even in the calmest of weather. But Turner was making a beeline for the old Inn and she hustled after him, tucking her bag under her jacket to help keep the supplies dry. They hopped in through a broken ground-floor window near the back of the old motel, working as a team to clear the rooms. Luckily for them it was relatively empty, only an odd vagrant or two who, upon smelling them as Carna, decided it was better to move on. No Fulsi, thank god. Turner had said his trail had started off in the direction of the Fulsi, where his brother had tried to follow him and has since gone missing. Now he was on Fulsi-kept turf again? Did this guy have some sort of death wish? Good as, she thought. She finally caught scent of another Carna amidst the choke of burnt wood and mildew, and it only grew stronger as she approached the door. Good, she thought, so beyond ready to find Stark and get the hell out of the decaying (probably haunted) motel. She vaguely recognized the scent, though she couldn't be sure if it was Costin or not -- distinctly Carna, though. She could see the faint outline of footprints in the grungy, thread-bare carpet.  The door was ajar and she could hear the wind howling through a broken window just inside. She pushed the door open as gently as she could, grimacing as its rusted hinges protested with a loud, over-dramatic groan. "You in here, Stark?" She called, peeking into the steadily darkening room. The storm picked up in tempo, roaring outside and sending cold, stinging rain every few minutes. "Hello? Costin?"  It was empty except for a broken table and what looked like a bed in the corner, too cast in shadow to tell exactly what it was. As her eyes adjusted, she could make out someone laying on their side, see the rise and fall of their body as they breathed. The air was thick with his scent, a mix of sweat, fur and possibly infection. Not good. "Costin, I'm Honora. You remember me, right?" No immediate reply. Maybe unconscious, potentially hypothermic. "I'm here to help you get home." ooc: in which Honora talks/thinks way too much . why. why is this so LONG,g. H E L P p

[Costin Stark]

Stark. He heard the name through a thick haze that only allowed a moment or two of consciousness creep through. Stark. That was him, or what he was supposed to be. Costin. That was him too. Someone was here, looking for him. He could smell them, feel their eyes on him. With the energy he could muster, Costin forced one heavy eyelid open and found the room had grown darker since he’d last opened his eyes what seemed like only a moment ago. He closed his eyes again. Home. He caught another word and awoke again. The Carna, then. Everyone had said it was no use running from a ring, but sending people for him? A waste of time and resources, surely. Sweat poured from his brow and his jaw clenched tight as he forced his shaking arms under his body. He took a moment, his chest heaving from the effort, before he pushed off of the flimsy mattress into a sitting position. His head hung for a long while as he panted, long greasy tendrils of black hair hanging in front of his face. Finally he was able to look up and saw who had come for him. Honora. The name didn’t sound familiar and he watched her with wild brown eyes that held the last hint of fire left in him; the last spark of survival instincts that had kept him alive this long. She was vaguely familiar however, but looking at her made his stomach flip and he looked down at where his left leg used to be, wondering at the connection. He opened his mouth to speak and his cracked, dry throat only left him coughing and hacking. When it had subsided, he looked up at Honora again and spoke in a gravelly, heavily accented voice, broken from strain. “Leave me alone,” was all he hissed at her.

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