Closed | Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

[feistro]

Who: Pom and the Science Cabin folks, plus a few others
What: having blasted himself with copious amounts of arcane radiation by hanging out in the woods by himself for entirely too long, Pom the Mutated Horror Hound has arrived, and is in need of assistance. Plus, he can be a little science experiment, as a treat.
Where: The Science Cabin
When: Mid-to-Late June
Warnings: mutations, mild gore

In good news, the woods are just a little safer, as the beast that's been stalking every hunter for weeks has finally been put to rest. The bad news is that said beast was a hunter himself, and he's only put down by the mutations growing all over him, his legs unable to carry him any farther. He collapses just half a mile from the cabin that a few of the Augmented scientists have made their base. Normally, he would stalk the building, leave a mutated corpse for them to study and depart without so much as knocking: this time, he is the body he leaves.

Weeks alone beyond the barrier of Karteria have doused Pom in so much arcane radiation that even his Augmentation could not protect him: his left side is twisted and corrupted in wild, unnatural ways, his entire form lacking symmetry. His skin is cracked, empty eye sockets forming in the crevices; pockets and pustules have swollen along his side and back, some containing fluid while others have visible digits within them, claws and nails threatening to puncture his skin and escape. One of them did: attached under his left forelimb is another arm, and attached to that arm are a few more half-formed ones, branching off in every direction, each with their own set of malformed claws. His tail has its own set of teeth, misshapen points in an open wound that can roughly be described as a mouth. Even his face is affected, fangs sprouting all the way up one side, forcing his jaw open. Some are hardened, as they should be - others are brittle and rapidly decaying, as though his body knows they ought not be there.

The only features he has left from his human form are his eyes — vibrant orange, though one is encrusted over — and his mane. The latter has gone from a curling pompadour that sits between his ears to a long stripe down his entire back, unkempt, shaggy, coiling around his neck, tail, limbs, and everything between. It sprouts from between his scales, tendrils reaching out to anything and anyone that may draw close. As for the scales themselves, they are overgrown along his left shoulder, new ones unable to push out the old, the bottom-most layer ingrown and risking infection.

And those who get close, be warned: there's a lot of blood, mostly dripping from a massive wound in his side. It's about the size and placement for another limb - one more that didn't belong, that was torn off in a fit of frightened, desperate rage. Even as he collapses, the skin around the wound moves as though it is alive, still hiding something terribly abnormal just beneath the surface.

At least he's not alone anymore, even if he doesn't fully realize it yet.

[Log for the Science Cabin folks, and anyone who would reasonably stop by while Pom's getting help and/or recovering! Feel free to make toplevels, or hit me up at grimmhooke for anything else! And if you're not in the Science Cabin crew but really want in on this, let me know so we can work something out.]

Comments

aftermath.

[opposed]

Pom isn't alone when he collapses. There's quite a large bird with him, similarly covered in gore and ichor. Unlike Pom, she doesn't look hurt, though her feathers (and constitution) have seen better days. She's helped him along as far as they can go, but he's far too big for her to carry or drag. Instead, she's trying to nudge him with her beak, like she might coax him to get back up.

(Frankly, she's shocked they got as far as they did with all of the blood he's lost. There's a trail of it leading back into the woods, which will be rife for other predators and scavengers to find before long.)

Unfortunately, she's left her device and bag back where they've come, so she has no other way to contact the crew once she's sent out the initial message. She'd have to leave Pom, and she doesn't do that. She does, however, start chirping and loudly to try to direct anyone nearby to their vicinity.

[wondrously]

They'll hear him shouting their names before they spot Jayce. He goes quiet when he hears frantic bird calls, following the sound. He has a pack with some medical supplies slung over one shoulder, and an ax in the other hand.

"Mel!" he calls out when he spots her, alarmed that she's fully shifted and picking up his pace.

When he makes out the second form that she's pressed near -

The samples other Augmented bring back - the bodies of mutated animals - he's seen and handled some truly stomach turning things in his time out in the Woods at the research station. This might be one of the worst cases of Katalyth exposure yet, and it nearly stops him in his tracks some paces away from them. He forces himself to move forward, dropping the pack near Mel. There's nothing in there that will do much for him now, and he eyes those undulating tendrils as they reach toward him, taking a half step back, the ax still clutched in one hand.

"Move away from him," he turns to Mel, urgency in his voice. All the blood and ichor makes it difficult for him to tell if they're tangled up together.

[feistro]

'Tangled up together' would be putting it lightly, as every time Mel nudges against Pom, the tendrils attempt to grasp at her feathers or latch onto the nearest plant - something, anything to hold him back. While the branching limb hasn't buried its claws in the dirt to anchor him there, it has continued to twist and change, reaching with incomplete fingers both humanoid and monstrous in nature.

Pom tries to lift his head, but finds it too heavy, the second jaw that's emerged beneath his first one caught in both the dirt and his coiling mane; however, even with the scent of blood and rot thick in the air, he can still smell the newcomer: the scents of engineering and river stones, nothing organic. He only knows it's a person with that scent because he mistook it the first time as no one at all. His voice is low, graveled as he murmurs Jayce's name.

As his glowing eye settles on the axe, he turns his head away as best he can - it's better he just brace himself.

[opposed]

She's learned so far not to give those things much of a grasp, though they try. It's inevitable, as she refuses to leave Pom's side. But for every little tendril that seems to try to wrap itself around a feather or tug at her beak, there are little offshoots of light that crackle, snapping right back. Tiny barriers of light simply trying to protect her, to slough off the worst of it, and try to refuse any hold they might give.

Her head lifts when she hears Jayce shout, gold eyes bright for all of the dark splattered on her. Large wings flutter. "Jayce." And there's palpable relief in that dual, strange voice of the bird.

Mel follows his instructions, giving Pom one last nudge with her beak in assurance. "I told you. We're going to help you." And then she steps away, finally far enough that the corruption can't grasp her, and Jayce can see the full extent of the damage that's been done, the way Pom's body has changed.

[historicallyloaded]

Presumably it's overcast or dusk or night out for Brickston to be here at the cabin when he happens to hear the commotion. Jayce runs out and he titters, pressing himself up against one of the windows to see something large and meaty that's dragged itself not far away. Is that a fresh sample? It looks very big! And very horrible. He has to go see! He runs out into the grass, lagging behind Jayce. The acrid smell of blood is heavy in the air and excites him, encourages his legs to move in faster strides.

By now he's gotten comfortable in Jayce, Palamedes, Viktor and even Mel's presence to not put so much effort in hiding what he is anymore. His long blonde hair is tied back more tightly exposing his pointed ears more and two small winglets protrude from behind him at his lower back. They flex in shock at the scene then shield around his hips, mimicking the way his hand rises and curls in front of his mouth in horror.

"Wh-what is that...?" The ichor, the gore, the rot, the smell is disturbing but it's the very human interactions between Jayce and Mel and it that's unsettling.

He swallows hard, brow deeply furrowed in concern. "...I dare not want to ask who." Said out out of politeness. He does very much want to know who this is.

He now notices the axe Jayce brought, and frowns, feeling a pit of dread in his stomach. Oh dear... Is this a mercy kill or salvage operation? He waits a cowardly distance behind to find out.

later, in the attic

[techmaturgy]

[Viktor tries to stay out of the little attic above the workshop, but the truth is that he's dealing with side effects of his own, and this is the best way to keep himself away from those who might be worrying about him. He's vaguely aware that Pom is has stumbled back into their orbit in something of a state, but the truth is that he's too miserable to care.

He is, also, attempting to vent his regeneration-in-overdrive by seeing how much more of the cabin he can shore up. What the really means in practice is that when Pom comes to the attic, perhaps to rest, he'll find it's already occupied.]

I heard the commotion outside.

[Though Viktor sounds a bit strained, it's clear he understands Pom is in worse shape. Perhaps they can coexist here, for a time.]

How are you feeling?

[feistro]

[Pom is only marginally better than he was on the cot downstairs as he makes it into the attic, welcoming the relative darkness. The light on the first floor was too much, and with all the other problems he's currently facing with his changed body, he just wants to find a corner of the floor to lie in. He doesn't want to think about it - about himself, or what happened, or what he must look like. However, there's only so far he can run from himself.

He stops a step from the entryway, his eyes looking around the dark space, finally landing on Viktor; even with his shades, he finds he can see well in the dim illumination from the single window, a sliver of light peeking through the curtain. He puts a hand on the wall to help hold him up.]

Didn't realize you'd be up here.

[He'd turn and go back downstairs, but he's not sure his body can handle that without a moment's rest; furthermore, Viktor has been polite to him when he's visited, even helpful with previous injuries. Pom notes that he should behave.]

Ain't feeling great. [A beat.] You?

[techmaturgy]

It's private.

[It was private, though if Viktor is opposed to this intrusion, he seems to polite to say as much. For all of his own discomforts involving the Patho-Gen procedure, he knows now of the commotion that transpired outside the cabin. Pom certainly has it worse, so Viktor will not begrudge him wanting to find a quiet place to recuperate.]

I generally feel, eh...not great. [Just as a baseline. But he's not here to get into his own ailments.] But it's manageable.

[For now, anyway.]

[feistro]

[Given how secretive he tends to be, Pom understands, Viktor.]

Fair enough.

[And while he could take desire for privacy as a sign to leave, he doesn't; he does, however, keep his eyes off Viktor as though that would help smooth over his intrusion. He instead meanders his way toward a bench pushed against the wall near the door, a sturdy metal frame with a simple cushion on top. It's barely long enough for him, even were he to curl up on it; instead, he drapes himself across it long-ways, his tail thudding against the floor as it hangs, a grunt escaping him as he eases onto his back. The stitches in his side protest, but hold strong as he squeezes his eyes shut and stifles any further reactions.]

I just need a few days. [That seems optimistic even in his own mind.] Maybe some potions. If I'd been smart, I'd've been carrying some of those to begin with.

idk two or three days after the crisis? time is a soup

[opposed]

[ Once Pom is stabilized and no longer in imminent danger, Mel doesn't linger overlong. She has to go back to the city and take care of some things (and go to work), but she returns occasionally to check in on the others, help with the cleanup, and to sit with Pom while he rests. For all of her guilt around the Imprint (forced or otherwise), she can't find it in her to regret doing it if it meant saving his life. The ensuing hours have given her enough to think on, to worry about continued exposure to everyone else who's been out in the woods, and how much worse things can get if people continue to liberally be in the forest.

When she heads into the cabin today, she doesn't immediately seek Pom out, and doesn't realize he's been awake. She starts water on for tea, sets her bag aside, and goes rummaging for her work. But when she heads over to check on him, he's no longer prone, and she's startled for a moment. ]

Oh, Pom--

[ How long has he been awake and up? She sets her book aside. ]

Are you... How are you feeling?

[feistro]

Hngh.

[It's not an eloquent answer, but it's an answer. He attempts to look around the cabin: his eyes are bleary, watering, making it an impossible feat. He tries to turn his head, hissing as he feels the stitches just below his jawline tug at his tender, healing skin. He eases an arm around himself, feeling his left side - there's only one arm there.

He's alive, and he shouldn't be.

Taking a deep breath doesn't tell him much; the cabin has so many other scents, those of blood and antiseptic still heavy in the air around him, clouding his senses. He tries to look around again, to pinpoint Mel - is she safe? Is she hurt? Is any of that blood hers?

Why was that what crossed his mind first?

Unable to bear even the light inside the room, he squeezes his eyes shut - it's so bright.]

Where are... my glasses?

[His voice is even rougher than it was in his Shifted form, his usual, melodic tone more of a rasp.]

[opposed]

[ It only occurs to her then that the lights are probably fairly bright; between the studying happening in the cabin and their concern over Pom, whether he'd develop an infection, the lights are probably more than he'd been ready for after resting. Me moves to reach for the closest light and turn it off, at least putting him in a shadow of dark for a time.

She steps away to get his bag. ]

You probably had them in your bag, I assume, when you changed? Let's see.

[ His bag is brought back over to the cot, propped up by a small stool that they've all taken turns being at to watch over him. ]

Would it have been in any specific pocket?

[ She doesn't want to be more invasive than she has been at this point, to rifle around in his belongings. ]

[feistro]

There's a pouch. On the belt. The, um. Brown one.

[Sorry Mel - the outfit in there is complicated. He tries to clear his throat; it feels like he's been swallowing jagged rocks, each one carving a path through his throat on the way down.

At least he can open his eyes in the shadows; they have a distinct glow to them now, a vibrant orange like that of a fire. He can't tell just yet, still feeling his side: bandages, lots of them, and the grooves of stitches underneath. He's not sure where his shirt is - or any of his clothes for that matter, a blanket all that covers him. That makes sense, given he clearly needed medical attention.

He brings a hand to the linens on his neck, trying to determine what lies beneath them, only for his fingers to brush against his hair. The curls of his pomp are overgrown, thick, his entire mop hanging down to his shoulders. If that's the state of his hair, he does not want to know how much trimming his chinstrap needs.

He leans forward from his sitting position, trying to accommodate the thick tail behind him; his entire body aches in response. A part of him wants to thank Mel for her help - the other part doesn't want to talk about this at all. Unfortunately, the latter wins out for now.]

arriving later with pizza

[megatheorem]

[While Pom is busy having multiple crises and things chopped off himself, Palamedes is flailing around in the pink lakes, pretending like he can swim.

So he's late in his arrival to the science cabin, eventually, when he gets there. Presumably he's been updated on Pom's presence, so he brings with him a thermos of stew, but otherwise has come straight from his misadventures out across the Kelesis bridge - essentially he still smells like abundant saltwater and mildly of a campfire.

He parks himself by the cot with his thermos and a book, because of course he does; he's not planning on interrupting Pom's rest, but he'll be sitting there turning pages whenever Pom rolls over and feels up to interacting.

So, hello. He glances over, eventually.] Oh— there you are. Are you hungry? I've got soup. Well, stew.

[feistro]

[Pom feels like he hasn't moved in ages; in truth, he barely has for over a day, spending his time curled on his side, thinking. He's thought about his time in the woods, worried about what's happening out there even now, concerned for the balance of the irradiated ecosystem; he's thought about his his body, how changed it's become, how unrecognizable he may be in another month or two.

Most of all, he's thought about his conversation with Mel, about Imprinting, about how it's affected him and will likely continue to affect him, no matter what he does. At best, Imprinting has helped him heal from grievous wounds, saving his life; at worst, it has turned him into a tamed beast, a creature so willing to submit to those he's Imprinted with that he didn't even realize it was happening. He hasn't known them long, doesn't know them well enough at all, isn't sure if he can even trust them - only Purl has earned that. Only Purl truly knows him.

As much as he wants to let other people in, feels he should for his own survival in this place, he's not sure he trusts himself to do so anymore.

And so he lies still, and thinks until he's thought a hole in the ground. He only stirs from a dreamless sleep when he picks up a familiar scent. The aroma of smoke and fire can't fully cover it: the salty seas, old pages brined in the deep, the warmth of a stew so often served in a mug. Palamedes.

For a moment, Pom can face neither Palamedes, nor the thought that they are Imprinted - that Pal, too, will have some hold over him. However, a mixture of curiosity and hunger get the better of him, and as he turns to look over his shoulder at the other man seated in the nearby chair, their eyes meet. His stomach grumbles audibly, paining him as much as his tender wounds.]

Yeah.

[Maybe he's too guarded, but he can't manage faking anything right now, not even a smile.]

[megatheorem]

[Palamedes hums and reaches for his stew thermos, working at unscrewing the lid and doling out a portion. Probably Pom is hungry enough to just chug the whole thermos directly, but Palamedes would like him to get through this stew without the stomach pains of eating too quickly, so controlled portions it is.

Also it gives him something to fidget with, and his tentacle arm really needs something to fidget with or he'll just start touching everything within reach, and people tend to find that rude. Ahem.]

With all of my respect, you look terrible. I don't know how much this will help, but here's to hoping.

[He holds out the stew cup.]

I heard what happened— I'm sorry I couldn't be here sooner to help.

[feistro]

Ain't your fault.

[Pom knows he looks terrible, and he's about to look even more terrible as he takes the cup and drinks greedily; the heat doesn't slow him down in the slightest, and his portion is gone in two seconds flat.

His hand shakes as he draws it across his mouth, his eyes glowing with a ravenous light as they flick Palamedes' way. Now that his appetite has been stirred, he wants more. He holds out the cup, trying not to look so desperate.]

Where'd you go?

Jayce Time

[feistro]

[Pom has been dealing with a multitude of physical and emotional aches during his stay at the cabin, but one is pervasive, ever-present at all times, seeping from his middle to his very bones: hunger. It's been his constant companion throughout his time in Karteria, his Soul turning what was already a voracious appetite into an insatiable, ravenous thing. At times, it's nigh uncontrollable, pushing him to hunt when he'd normally do otherwise.

Unfortunately, Pom isn't well enough to hunt - he's not even well enough to walk back to the city, much less Shift and go searching for something to quiet the hunger gnawing at him. He's not sure he could convince himself anyway, not when his stitches are still so fresh - he presumes they won't Shift with him, much like his clothes. He'd hate for Mel to have Imprinted on him to save his life, only to die anyway because he went out for lunch.

He's shaky as he gets to his feet, unsteady; his tail slides off the cot and hits the floor behind him with a dull thud, reminding him of its presence, of how inhuman he is now. A quick survey of the main room — both with his eyes, squinting even behind his dark glasses, and his nose, which fares far better — tells him there is food somewhere. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tries to pinpoint it via scent alone. He picks up the odor of meat; when he opens his eyes again, he's walked several steps toward the fridge. Closing the gap, he pulls the door open with a grunt... and while he finds what he was looking for, it gives him pause. Sitting on a shelf is a container with raw meat on it - and a note.

'DO NOT EAT'

Pom's brow knits, his stomach growling so painfully that it nearly forces him to double over, his hand clawing at his middle as his fangs press against his upper lip, emerging as though drawn by the scent. The meat is cold, unappealing, and there's something odd about it he can't discern, but he is also desperate.

He waits for the pain to pass - pain first, then perhaps, he'll eat.]

[wondrously]

[ Jayce comes and goes at his usual schedule, bringing extra clothes since Pom seems to be roughly the same size as him. He's been bringing along food too, mostly canned items and fruits that don't need to be stored in the fridge with samples. The danger of cross-contamination here is higher compared to their lab back home - and even there, Jayce had a bad habit of leaving half eaten sandwiches and unfinished cups of tea behind on a workbench.

He tends not to have that problem here - usually because he loses his appetite every time he comes in, either from the Katalyth or a new sample delivery.

(he's also just less hungry in general, lately - which he attributes to the same)

Jayce is walking through the door, a pack slung over his shoulder with more supplies when he catches Pom up and about. At first he's relieved - until he registers that Pom is standing in front of the open fridge, and that growling of his stomach tears through the room. ]

... I, uh - I have food. If you're hungry...?

[ Surely, he was not about to eat the mutated samples. They even helpfully labeled them DO NOT EAT. ]

[feistro]

[Whoops. Pom puts the sample back in the fridge, careful with it. It's clearly not food, if Jayce's question is any indication - maybe that's what the sign was trying to tell him. He feigns a smile, keeping his tone as light as he can manage at the moment.]

Yeah. This nose of mine can't tell the difference sometimes. Good thing you had a note on it.

[Which he definitely, most certainly read. Another pang wipes the smile off his face, his mouth tightening as he meanders his way back to the bed on shaky legs. A groan escapes him as he eases back onto the cot, his arm curling around his middle - closer to his ribs than his stomach.]

It's real easy to lose track of time when you're in and out of it. Don't know how long it's been since I last ate.

[wondrously]

[ Jayce genuinely cannot tell if Pom is being sarcastic - did the note fall off or something? He gives him an odd look and sets his pack down on the nearest workbench, his slightly accusatory confusion slipping into a concerned expression as he watches Pom groan his way back onto the cot.

Jayce tips his head to one side, offering a lopsided smile. ]

If you need something and no one's here, you can always message one of us.

[ From the pack he takes out: an apple, a pear, a small jar of pickles, some jerky - all of this he sets onto a cart (the surface cleaned, obviously) and rolls it within reach of Pom's cot. After that, he starts removing cans and cartons: ]

Do you want 'meat' stew, or spicy noodles?

[ The can doesn't specify the type of meat, which he didn't notice when he was buying it. That's not alarming. ]

eye spy doggles

[historicallyloaded]

[ After all that Brickston was quite exhausted, but keeps going. Pom's leftover parts get sorted and stored, studied and catalogued, and whatever bloody messes he can clean he does. Though he fusses over everything, clearly stressed and sleep deprived, he has great peace of mind when he finally does stop and give in to rest (in the attic trunk, treating it like a glorified flop-couch with a lid)—there are so many competent hands on deck here at the cabin that Pom's recovery is assured.

Though, it is concerningly slow. Did the imprinting not take after all? It's hard to tell from second-hand accounts so Brickston makes an effort to keep visiting the cabin. Keeps cleaning wounds and changing bandages. Keeps biting his knuckles and excusing himself outside any time the acrid smell of blood becomes too tempting. He put a lot of work into him! He'd be very upset if any of his handiwork came undone!

During dusk, dawn, or overcast weather he might be awake but moves more slowly, stiffly, with a cough or runny nose, and squints through a perpetual headache. At night he's much easier to find, more active, more energized tapping away at the Syntrofos or hunched over a desk writing notes or drawing blueprints, or even foraging the local woods for medicinal plants.

Pom takes up a not insignificant portion of the cabin. Brickston carefully moves around him, sometimes even levitating so to let him rest as much as possible.

That said, Brickston seems pleased if Pom happens to be conscious around him. ]

You're awake?

YES BRING ON THE DOGGLES

[feistro]

Unfortunately.

[It's easier to sleep through the aches. Pom isn't healing as fast as he'd like - he's not healing as fast as he'd expected at all. When in Gale's company, he saw wounds that should've needed medicine of the highest make mend themselves in a matter of minutes, leaving behind a scar and little else; he's sure Mel's Imprint must have done similar, saving his life... for however conflicted he feels about that. However, the stitches along his neck still feel sore, those on his side itching, hot, and tender.

But the pain isn't as bad as the light. Even inside the cabin, the light of the day through the windows is too much, forcing him to keep his glasses on at all times. He's considered going back to the attic, but it took so much effort to up there and down again for food that he's not sure it's worth the stress on his body - he nearly tore himself open again from the effort last time. He'd like to not have to be sewn up again.

And the light is unbearable today - it isn't even daylight this time, the illumination for the light in the cabin nearly blinding. He fumbles for his glasses, knocking them off the cart that serves as his cot-side table.]

Shit. Er, shoot.

[He squints, covering his eyes as he tries to find them by feeling around. He can apologize for the crass language when he can see well enough to know if he's offended his company.]

[historicallyloaded]

[ Polite effort appreciated, and he stifles an amused huff.

Brickston bends over and picks them up, discreetly folding and tucking the winglets that protrude out from his lower back flush to his hips. He looks at the shades considerately, flipping them back and forth between his fingers as if to study them quickly before handing them to their proper owner. Funny how novel they are to him here when he comes from a world that never had any need for such a thing.

Much as he's obsessed with the sun it also strains his vision, makes him feel fatigued. He, perhaps strangely, regards the sunbeams breaking through the window with an apologetic furrow in his brow. ]

It's... much, isn't it?

[ He wonders if Viktor re-opened the curtains at some point. Or Mel? Or Jayce? Brickston goes up to the window shielding his gaze and closes the curtain with some effort, standing on his tip-toes. ]

Better?

[feistro]

[The glasses are dark, definitely darker on one side than the other - there's a slight reflective quality to the outer side of each lens, something to help keep his eyes hidden while allowing him to see well enough. Pom murmurs a thanks as he slides them on his face, grateful.]

Yeah. Thanks.

[It takes considerable effort for him to sit up, one arm wrapping around himself as he grinds his teeth and holds in a grunt, but at least he can see. Much to his surprise, it's not even that bright in the room; apparently, the ambient light was too much for his uncovered eyes. That doesn't bode well.]

Sorry. It was just... real bright.

[And not wanting to address that in the slightest, he continues. He grips the edge of the cot, gnawing on his lip.]

You must be the doctor.