the house that heaven built + open, joiner

[body]

[size=10pt]To call himself a fugitive wouldn’t be… well, he can’t say it’s wrong, but he doesn’t like the sound of it. There’s a bounty on Ottawa’s head, though he wouldn’t ever consider himself a crook. The creatures after him sure would, but for them, anything is a crime. He had apparently committed quite the serious offense - treason, which is defined as daring to question the authorities. To be fair, it wasn’t hard to follow his old gang’s rules. You were either with them or you were rotting in their little dungeons. You kept your mouth shut, head down, and you did as you told.

He had been born into it. He had no choice in whether or not he was part of such a thing, his parents decided for him. Unfortunately for his mom and dad, Ottawa had grown up to be a rebellious free spirit. They gave him plenty of thorough beatdowns in hopes that if he got hit upside the head enough, he’d become compliant. It didn’t seem to work.

Though he’s been on the run for so long now, yellow warpaint is still caked on his face. It serves no purpose other than to act as the target on his back. He’s got plenty of other identifying marks, such as the thin scar running down his muzzle, his tattered ears or the funny way he talks. Ottawa wouldn't look too odd otherwise, just a bit battered, however the paint, minimal as it is, is still flashy enough to draw attention to him, wanted or not.

He’s vaguely aware that he’s stumbled into a camp of sorts. He’s clearly not well-received, judging by the glares he receives, however a rustling sound behind him makes him bolt further and further until he’s stopped by some poor creature blocking his path.

Ottawa has never heard of the Pitt. His view of the outside world has been limited to what the gang was willing to tell him - he was often confined to home base, so everything he’s learned so far, he’s learned while on the run.

He knows what trouble looks like, and obviously trespassing has landed him in some deep shit. In any other case he would chuckle nervously, maybe try to smooth-talk his way out of a beating, but he’s too on edge and uptight at the moment to so much as offer half a smile. If anything, all he does is grit his teeth. Despite all this, he still has the nerve to ask, ”Uh, where am I?”

[B. DELORIA]

[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-size: 9.4pt; line-height: 1.4;"]Butch hadn't heard of The Pitt either, or any of these groups; it was kind of a given, since he'd been living literally underground for all his life. He was still adjusting. Everything was freaky, all right? The sky, all the kinds of land, the open space, the abundance of people- when he thought about it too much, it was overwhelming. So he tried not to think about it, which was harder without Val around to call him a dunce and answer any questions he had. He didn't like to go down that road, but he was starting to wonder if maybe he wouldn't see Val again for a good long while. They'd had an awful spat -though he couldn't remember the details- and they split up, and Butch didn't even know if Val had forgiven him yet. If he hadn't, it was no wonder he hadn't found Butch yet- he didn't want to. One more train he wasn't interested in following. What ifs were less important than what was happening in the here and now, especially when the here and now had him as a slave to Nowheresville.

Honestly, it was kinda crazy stupid how many people wound up here. It was a desert.

Yet here they had one more shmuck who'd gone right past the doorstep. That didn't bode well. Butch didn't need a demonstration to assume The Pitt didn't take kindly to people who crossed the border. He was a slave, though, so he should just let them do what they will. No skin off Butch's nose, right? Ugh.

"You're in The Pitt, pal. Nowheresville. You cruisin' for a bruisin', or what? Can't just walk in like that."

[body]

[size=10pt]Even if he had such limited knowledge of the outside world, it would be understandable Ottawa has no idea where he is. He's a long, long way from home. He would expect that by now, after travelling so far, running for hours and hours on end, they would've dropped it and just let him go. However for some reason, the gang is insistent that he be caught and punished. Well, assuming he doesn't get his throat slit right here, Ottawa knows that at some point he'll have to turn himself around and face them.

"I, uh, sorry," he mutters, as if that will help his case. "I, um, I just - y'see, I'm kinda on the run here. I - I got nowhere to hide." It's hard to excuse himself when he's out of breath. The last place he'd intruded in, he had met a lot more people, however they were a lot more understanding to his situation. He doubts he'll see that kindness here, after hearing what Butch had to say, but he can hope. "Listen, I - I need somewhere to hide. I mean, uh, stay. I'll - I'll work for it, too." He would consider himself to be relatively young and healthy.

Ottawa peers around the canine to see if anyone else is coming. He hopes they don't corner him. If shit hits the fan, he's ready to make a run for it, but he's hoping he can use his master negotiator skills to deter them from tearing out his throat.

[EROS]

[align=center][div style="text-align: justify; width: 55%; font-family: georgia; font-size: 11pt; letter-spacing: -1px; color: black"]"You'll work for it?" Thick smoke seemed to coalesce together, turning what had once been see through matter into a solid darkness. The blackened pelt of the sha moved forward then, smoke trialing behind him as he came upon the scene, pink marble gaze focused on the one that had unfortunately trespassed upon the Pitt's territory. They didn't take too kindly to such a thing and he understood that punishments were punishments. But this one seemed frightened already and he had no ill will towards him. The fact that he would work meant something and he could work off the debt of his trespassing. He deemed it unnecessary to be hostile and he allowed a soft breath to leave him, sparks twitching off of his claws for just a moment as he attempted to contain the blight within. Always hard to do but he didn't need his hunger rising. "Alright, you will work for us. It won't be to labor inducing as the slaves do much of that work. What is your name? I'm Valkyr." The canine had thought that he could have made him a slave if he truly wanted to but that life wasn't something that benefited him to push someone else to be in. He had done so to Sven and immediately regretted his decision and now who knew where the male was currently.

[body]

[size=10pt]Valkyr's arrival makes him jump, visibly so. Ottawa takes a step back or two, ears laid flat against his head. God, what is that? In all his time on earth, never once has he ever seen something like that. Is it a... dog? Would it be rude to ask? Is this some higher power physically manifesting itself before him? Man, he sure hopes he hasn't suddenly incurred God's wrath.

It speaks. It's calm, so he thinks. No bolt of lightning from above has come down to smite him, so Ottawa lets himself slump just a bit. He doesn't think he'll need to run at this point. He wonders if they'll hunt him down if he makes a break for the exit. "Slaves?" Ottawa repeats softly. He grimaces. Hopefully he hasn't been misunderstood - he didn't plan to sign his life away or anything today. "...that's not..." It probably isn't his place to say anything, though he's sure the look on his face makes it clear he disapproves.

"I - I can't tell if you're being serious," he says. Is this a joke? No one is laughing. "Ottawa," he mumbles. "I - I won't be here for very long." Assuming he even has the choice to leave anymore, he plans to book it out of here the second he can. This doesn't seem like the kind of place he wants to be.