08-07-2008, 03:36 PM
[Yays! and no probs. I hereby give my permission to power game/bunny Grayson for da rest of da thread.]
A low grunt and possibly a curse - the only sounds to escape his throat at the abrupt movement. Gray's neck prickled. He hated feeling so weak. Although the manhandling was a sour frosting smeared on the proverbial cake, it was necessary and he allowed himself to be half dragged through the remains of the human grave markers, his numb legs scrabbling for purchase. His 'saviour' likewise did not appear to be too incredibly enthralled by the fact, but Grayson didn't really care. He would have to resign himself to this and whatever else, if he were to have any chance at all.
This morning, when he had awoken under a sweep of blue-slate clouds boiling over the thick canopy, Gray had first felt the warning effects of a toxin delivered nearly a week prior. An ominous heaviness had settled over him like a suffocating cloak, and a tingling had begun in his fingers. He was feverish, shivering despite his thick pelt and the mild summer temperature. The colours of the forest and sky seemed to blend together, moreso than before, like an amateur watercolor painting. He knew he had to move quickly; if help was not found in the next six hours, he would die. Once in the blood, and depending on the dosage, the plant-based poison took it's time destroying the central nervous system. The victim gradually lost motor control, sometimes even their sanity. The pain could get excruitating. By the time the fever and numbness set in, your moments were few. The immunity Grayson had built to this particular dirty favourite of the assassins from his homeland helped him fight the effects for perhaps a day or so longer than an unexposed wolf would have been able.
Cassos must have thought it would make for some fun, trailing his prey at his leisure, allowing Grayson the mental and physical anguish of a slow and helpless death. Everything was a game to that bastard. But now...now Cassos was likely miles from here, probably dead, though Gray would prefer that his allies had left the brat alive, for reasons of his own.
As he thought about it he realised, not for the first time, that he should never have run. He should have stayed in the clearing they dumped him in and simply waited for them to show up, and faced Cassos. It should have ended there. He had been a coward to run. He had nothing to loose. It should have...
But...he found a pack, hadn't he? Someone who was willing to help him. If Cassos was alive, and if he survived this - which of course, he would - they'd face each other again, on even ground. Maybe he had run sensing it would be a gamble he could win...
His chest was a pit of fire eating away at the bandages. The world was indescribable. The numbness was spreading. Even at their breakneck pace, even as branches and shards of rocks broke the skin on his ankles, as it finally started to rain, Grayson felt very little. There was just the pain, and a vague awareness of a solid form supporting his. He willed his legs to keep moving, wherever they were.
"A gash...my chest." He responded quietly after a minute. His voice, normally guttural, was practically a growl as he forced himself to speak. "In my pouch, there's...a white flower. Th'poison. Antidote...t'be given while I'm unconscious." The pouch he was referring to was on his belt, the sole accessory he wore. A sheath holding a short knife and a bolas accompanied the pouch, which had been sewn on. Any healer worth their salt would recognise the flower for what it was and be able to formulate the life-saving elixir. "We there yet?" he rasped with the merest trace of an odd chuckle.
A low grunt and possibly a curse - the only sounds to escape his throat at the abrupt movement. Gray's neck prickled. He hated feeling so weak. Although the manhandling was a sour frosting smeared on the proverbial cake, it was necessary and he allowed himself to be half dragged through the remains of the human grave markers, his numb legs scrabbling for purchase. His 'saviour' likewise did not appear to be too incredibly enthralled by the fact, but Grayson didn't really care. He would have to resign himself to this and whatever else, if he were to have any chance at all.
This morning, when he had awoken under a sweep of blue-slate clouds boiling over the thick canopy, Gray had first felt the warning effects of a toxin delivered nearly a week prior. An ominous heaviness had settled over him like a suffocating cloak, and a tingling had begun in his fingers. He was feverish, shivering despite his thick pelt and the mild summer temperature. The colours of the forest and sky seemed to blend together, moreso than before, like an amateur watercolor painting. He knew he had to move quickly; if help was not found in the next six hours, he would die. Once in the blood, and depending on the dosage, the plant-based poison took it's time destroying the central nervous system. The victim gradually lost motor control, sometimes even their sanity. The pain could get excruitating. By the time the fever and numbness set in, your moments were few. The immunity Grayson had built to this particular dirty favourite of the assassins from his homeland helped him fight the effects for perhaps a day or so longer than an unexposed wolf would have been able.
Cassos must have thought it would make for some fun, trailing his prey at his leisure, allowing Grayson the mental and physical anguish of a slow and helpless death. Everything was a game to that bastard. But now...now Cassos was likely miles from here, probably dead, though Gray would prefer that his allies had left the brat alive, for reasons of his own.
As he thought about it he realised, not for the first time, that he should never have run. He should have stayed in the clearing they dumped him in and simply waited for them to show up, and faced Cassos. It should have ended there. He had been a coward to run. He had nothing to loose. It should have...
But...he found a pack, hadn't he? Someone who was willing to help him. If Cassos was alive, and if he survived this - which of course, he would - they'd face each other again, on even ground. Maybe he had run sensing it would be a gamble he could win...
His chest was a pit of fire eating away at the bandages. The world was indescribable. The numbness was spreading. Even at their breakneck pace, even as branches and shards of rocks broke the skin on his ankles, as it finally started to rain, Grayson felt very little. There was just the pain, and a vague awareness of a solid form supporting his. He willed his legs to keep moving, wherever they were.
"A gash...my chest." He responded quietly after a minute. His voice, normally guttural, was practically a growl as he forced himself to speak. "In my pouch, there's...a white flower. Th'poison. Antidote...t'be given while I'm unconscious." The pouch he was referring to was on his belt, the sole accessory he wore. A sheath holding a short knife and a bolas accompanied the pouch, which had been sewn on. Any healer worth their salt would recognise the flower for what it was and be able to formulate the life-saving elixir. "We there yet?" he rasped with the merest trace of an odd chuckle.