[ WERE YOU SO AFRAID? | LOST/JOINING?? ]

[LAZARUS]

[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 9.5pt; line-height: 1.4;letter-spacing:.1px"]His lungs are filled with some kind of venom. The spread is slow but insistent, inexorable; some black tar that burned through every kinder thought he has. It makes breathing difficult with its weight, its too-full emptiness.

He's well aware of the fact that it shouldn't be where it is, but if you tell yourself a lie long enough, apparently you start to feel it. Grief and guilt and anger still wrap around each other and coil into the poison he feels everywhere. No matter how many times he tells himself now that it wasn't his fault — it was asked of him, it was necessary — the days that stretch on without any sign of Gabriel are getting to him. Part of him wants to wander off to the weird pirate island he'd gone to, but in the end he knows that it could cause more trouble for the hybrid. He has no idea how his adoptive dad is settling in, or if he was even okay. It would have made more sense for him to stay back and wait for news, his return, something. Anything. But the poison in his chest kept him from speaking to anyone, avoiding every breathing creature like the plague.

Leaving had been intentional, a choice that he made. There was no denying that or shifting the blame. His choice, his results. But he hadn't intended to end up here. The hot sun beats down on the Cane Corso's back, his dark fur trapping the heat in close. It leaves him panting, and every step burns the pads of his paws a little more. To say that Lazarus was lost would be an understatement, but there are scent markers, borders. This place smells like people. Since that was one of the few lessons he'd managed to learn flawlessly, the mutated canine hesitates here. He stands with his stance wide to support tired legs, completely unaware of what he's about to find.

Clear his head, clear his head, that had been the only goal in his mind when he set out. Fix it and go back to the other place he lived, get this poison out of his chest. Now it seemed that could turn into something else entirely.

[Lokisaurus]

Butch hadn't seen anything dog like him in a long, long time.  Sure, there had been dingoes and direwolves and other canids, but never a dog - something with his build.

The old pit bull surveyed the newcomer as he approached, taking in the sight.  Male.  Antlers.  Eyes like a radioactive pit.  He would fit in well with the rest of the group, but Butch was looking for featuring specifically like himself, something he could gravitate to.

The other dog had docked ears, very similar to his own, though Butch could tell that whoever cut this other male's ears didn't have as steady of a hand as his mutilater's.  His jowls came down over his mouth, longer than Butch's own, and his coat was about as long as fighting breeds would allow.

Butch sniffed at the newcomer, trying to get a read on his age, and he paused in his once-over once he realized: this new dog was just a pup.

With this new information, Butch changed his game plan.  Instead of sizing this creature up, he took a step forward, head low and body loose, showing minimal aggression.  He moved slowly, turning his body to the side to show off his own scars that he collected over the years - humans, other dogs, cages, fences, every wound on display.

"What's your name, kid."  He eventually grumbled up, his voice a moderate bark - it was safe to approach him if he wanted.

[LAZARUS]

[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 9.5pt; line-height: 1.4;letter-spacing:.1px"]Everything Butch said was right, of course it was, but to watch the other canine realize he was a child and relax — Lazarus isn't sure if he should be insulted or confused (maybe relieved?) but whatever he feels is some combination of all three, something that makes the guilt and shame ebb a little bit. The younger male's own posture seems to relax from the wary, just keep standing aggressiveness to confused attentiveness. Short ears face Butch, wild green eyes soft and round even though his mouth is pulled to a line. He draws himself up higher — even being as young as he is, the Cane Corso is a massive breed, and he nears the tallest of the bunch already. The other dog has scars too, a rough life. It puts his mind at ease, just slightly, but it makes his heart ache for some sign of Gabriel. At least then he wouldn't have to worry about staggering through this situation alone. He'd never learned how to be normal.

"Lazarus," he finally murmurs, voice low and tone unsure. "Why are you here?"

[melantha]

[align=center][div style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 10pt; width: 60%; text-align: justify;"]Dogs. Melantha never really liked dogs. Nothing personal, of course. Actually, she is not really sure why she experiences negative reactions towards canines. Her memories are...shattered. Broken. Filled with vague images of lush green forests and bone-chilling tundras. Of laughter, of screams. However, there is a scar on her shoulder, shaped like the jaws of a dog, where an unknown creature clamped down on her skin, tearing flesh and ripping tendon. That leg often becomes sore. Never too much as to impede her movement, just a constant reminder of the dangers of life. Mel is sure that a dog gave her that injury. Perhaps that is where the prejudice arises from. A fear that she cannot quite remember, but is ingrained onto the very wiring of her brain.

Even so, the lithe puma approaches Butch and the stranger with the grace characteristic of all felids. A stone-faced expression neutralizes all emotion upon her angular visage, pallid olive eyes sweeping across the mutated form of the young cane corso. She is large for her species, and not even fully grown. "We live here," answers the strong arm in her low, rasping voice. She is not much older than the pup, and if she knew where her parents were, she would not leave them for another six months; but the young female carries herself as if she is much older. And much more closed off than most youth. Chiseled muscles ripple beneath the solitary wildcat's pelt as she slows to a halt beside Butch. "Are you lost?" Clearly the boy is, but Melantha does not like to assume. Maybe Lazarus already joined but she does not remember? It's doubtful.

Although the young huntress is not aggressive in her stance, she does not sit. Mel does not trust strangers, and will not put herself at a disadvantage should they choose to strike. Her gaze lingers on the powerful jaws of Lazarus. Those are weapons she wishes to avoid. Her old wound seems to ache in agreement. "My name is Melantha and this is Butch. You're at the edge of the Pitt's territory." there is an awkward nuance to the way she speaks; cold, yet somehow uncomfortable with the act of communicating with another. She prefers silence and solitude, and though she is capable of performing the interrogation duties when meeting a stranger at the border, she would rather not. She will do her job, however, whether she likes it or not.