[ FROM ME TO YOU ¦ pitt gift ]

[Grimm]

[align=center][div style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11px; width: 60%; text-align: justify; line-height:120%"]Twisted anatomy of misshapen beast, a foul dinner guest besieging shores of sun bleached grains.

Once tawny the heaving chest that produced ceaseless vocalisations, bore upon the reverberation of each rumble the edge of amusement. Cruel the press of too many limbs, against chest situated accessory bearing hooked spines, an insect pressed to the sand chosen morsel. A creature of felidae origin once, rugged the strained pant of each agony laced breath, above widened eyes hovering the duel set of dripping jaws.

Wrong. Alien this thing cast in the fine coat of mount dwelling beast, above back curled the segmented extension of quivering tail. Into the pliable flesh of neck did teeth dig, bright the eyes that watched, fragmented those set above, brow occupied where it should not have been. Death may not come easy even as scream painted the air of still dusk, broken sob falling from a grimace worn upon blood smeared visage, twitching and jerking where it lay.

Too late any to find the scene, grisly mess left in wake of departure, life taken in tantalising mouthfuls. If friend or foe what lay spread, mere husk for the thin flesh of abdomen was cut into and enjoyed the delicacy of torn out organs, none may know, a present left in the wake of departing Pittian for the unfortunate fool brave enough to seek the origin of long silenced cries.

[devland]

[align=center][div style=" background-color: transparent; border: 0px solid black; width: 60%; min-height: 8px; font-family: arial; line-height: 110%; text-align: justify; padding: 25px"]Devland could admit he was a pretty curious fellow. He was constantly enchanted by a variety of things: weather patterns, bugs, reptiles (snakes, specifically), journal-keeping. Other than his hyper-fixations, however, the curiosity he held was not uncontrollable. In fact, more often than not, he found he had to push himself into certain situations.

Screams, he knew, often pushed people forward. And so forward he went.

His gait was awkward and slow from his injured shoulder, but more than that, he was extremely cautious. Group dynamics were not an easy thing to learn overnight, and Devland still very much valued his own life more than anyone else's. The pained screams and horrible noises that rushed towards him filled him with all too familiar dread, and he debated turning back. Still, he knew if other Typhoon members were around, it might not look well to run from this. He had appearances to keep up.

When he finally arrived on scene, he realized his own hesitation might have saved his life. Had he shown up any earlier, the murder might have gone after him as well. He supposed he should count that as a win, but seeing the corpse in front of him twisted his stomach into knots.

"Fates," he groaned, eyes surveying the damage. He had seen a lot in his eight months of life, but he had never seen something so terribly gruesome. The deceased's body was so mutilated that Devland couldn't even begin to make out who this might have been. Above the blood and gore, there was a strange scent that he couldn't - and quite frankly didn't - want to identify.

Something about all of this didn't sit right with Devland. The entire scene was almost like a calling card. A tight frown turned down his lips. What the hell was this place? And what the hell had he gotten himself into by joining?

[michael t.]

LIKE THE MOON SAYS TO THE DARK — Disgust. It was an emotion not often felt by Michael, consider his career choice – or rather, former career choice, considering he hadn't stolen anything in quite a while. Being a thief, the bobcat had grown used to caring for nothing but himself, and his partner in crime. He and Trevor had been vicious once, moving from place to place without hesitation, stealing whatever they could get their paws on, and killing anyone who stood in their way. Back then, Michael had cared little for anyone who fell to his claws, or his elementals. He had been able to lie easily right in the face of families, with a shiteating grin on his face, because he knew he was going to make off with all their valuables. Disgust was not something that you could afford to feel, not when you were doing that. However, since then, the reaver liked to think that he had grown. That he had improved. Meeting Roxie, growing to care about the Typhoon, accepting his sexuality, doing things for the group as a whole... he liked to think that all of it had been for something. Steps, on a larger path, that meant that he would be a better person in the end. Never a perfect person, but a better one, at the very least.

So, for the first time in what may have been ever, Michael felt disgust laying his eyes upon the desecrated body that had been left on the territory. The fugitive had been drawn over by the smell of blood and fear on the air, and he had felt his heart sinking lower and lower the closer he got to the scene. It wasn't long before he came up beside Devland, his stomach twisting and bile rising in his throat when he saw the corpse, and smelled the very clear scent of the Pitt on the air. The disgust was soon joined, by quick and fiery rage. He dug his claws down into the sand, his body faintly shaking as he hissed to the open air, "The Pitt... the fucking Pitt. They're going to goddamn pay for this. They're going to pay dearly." At one time, Michael had thought that the Pitt wasn't so bad. Kydobi had been their leader, and they had taken him in after he had nearly been killed by the Lost. Now, however? Now he was going to give them no mercy. They had killed someone belonging to the group he loved, and it wasn't in the nature of the thief to forgive, or forget. It was in Michael's nature to get even. — WE WILL NEVER BE APART

[PAOLA]

Paola has taken to sticking to certain people during her time in the Typhoon. It's easier to know that the person she's trying to get a reaction from won't try to drown her to ease their miseries, and quite frankly there are only a handful of people who seem to allow her to be her full, authentic, dumbass self without giving her a smack on the head. Devland, for example, might be one of them, considering the tom hadn't knocked her out when she all but crashed into him when he joined. He'd been injured, too, but Paola had somehow left the scene relatively unscathed with a new buddy to boot, so she sees it as a victory and decides that maybe she can trust him enough that she can be stupid around him.

So she follows his scent, trying to locate the newest teenager to the ranks, nose all but pressed against the ground and picking up his trail easily enough. What's concerning, however, is that she tastes blood in the air, too—blood, and something sweeter, almost sickeningly so, writhing horrifically through the sea-smell and rendering the combination unbearable. Her nose crinkles at that, concern lodging in the back of her throat, but she tries to convince herself that the smell of death is only prey and nothing more.

Coming up to the scene, Paola finds Michael and Devland, and for a moment her fears are forgotten as she bounds up to them eagerly. Her jaws part to form a greeting, but then she catches sight of the display just beyond, and each follicle of fur stands up on end immediately, bristling from the shock. "Mierda..." She strays forward a fraction, but it's clear she can no longer tell what the creature might have been other than a bloody, half-eaten carcass. Something warm and bitter pricks at her eyes, belatedly realized to be tears, and she recoils farther from the gruesome sight, instead inching closer to Devland and Michael.

Her form trembles almost violently, bones rattling with the sheer force of what she doesn't even realize is terror, and Paola forces herself to look away, gaze focusing on Devland's shoulder instead. Ears pinned to the back of her head, she opens her mouth and attempts to speak, "W-why would—Is that..?" Nothing sensible comes out, interrupted by a rattled breath as her pelt continues to bristle. She screws her eyes shut and forces the words off of her tongue. "Why? Who?" Why would they do such a thing? Who would do such a thing?

© LEXASPERATED

BABY'S GOT A FACE LIKE THUNDER:

GENERAL.
• paola vasquez | paola, pao, papa, paw
• unknown origin | unknown birthplace
• appears to be 10 or 11 moons | unknown parentage
• female | she/her | lesbian
• the typhoon | beta | the blackjack rats

APPEARANCE.
• thick-furred black she-cat with an absurdly long tail
• wears multiple gold earrings on each ear
• carries a small leather satchel filled with trinkets
• physically fit, no injuries, no visible health issues

PERSONALITY.
• non-judgemental, friendly; easy to get along with; relaxed, patient, sincere; can usually be encouraged to accompany people without struggle; usually in a happy mood
• strategic but takes her time; unwilling to make decisions for other people; unbothered by both isolation and company; an anything-goes type of person
• usually undriven and bored; self-criticizing, self-doubting; mischievous and does a lot of things for attention; lonely and desperately craves company; lost

INTERACTIONS.
• physically moderate | mentally difficult
• fights only when necessary or playfully
• hard to truly provoke | unknown powers
• non-violent interactions are always allowed
• attack in bolded #f7a57b text | mention [member=15708]PAOLA[/member]

[GEORGIA.]

Georgia didn't know what to think.

She'd arrived on the scene not long after Paola - a foul stench littering the breeze where sea salt should be. It drew her attention, and when she discovered the carcass, she almost expected it to be an ocean creature's body. But this smelled warm and fresh and absolutely vile.

For a moment, all she could do was stare. Georgia wasn't foreign to death, not really; ocean life died all the time, and accepting that had been a core part of her morals. However, this...this... She was frozen, rooted to the spot, hardly aware of the others as the cloying scent of blood polluted the air. Gia's eyes roamed over the body, her neck and body tingling where the victim's had been torn apart. She was equally horrified by the state of the carcass and the fact that it seemed to be someone of conscious thought that had done this. Her jaw clenched, a bitter breeze picking up and sweeping the scent of the decaying body in the opposite direction.

Similar to Paola, Georgia felt tears prick the corners of her eyes. There was a day like this, not to long ago, where she was younger and still bobbling about with more kitten fluff than she knew what to do with. A day like this, where the sun was out and the clouds swam peacefully across the sky; where she found her father, a man with no sin, brutalized and bleeding. He had died, sprawled on the ground, his daughter's name on his lips. That was the day Georgia had caused her first thunderstorm - her desperate cries lost to the howling wind and rumbling thunder.

This situation was different: Georgia had no personal or affectionate ties to the character bleeding on the beach. She had no reason to be upset, per say; only revolted in every sense. However, the harder she tried to ground herself, the more she found her vision blurring with tears, her stomach rolling, and the hazy memory of her father's death popping up in her mind's forefront.

Not trusting her voice, the somali turned and left.

[devland]

[align=center][div style=" background-color: transparent; border: 0px solid black; width: 60%; min-height: 8px; font-family: arial; line-height: 110%; text-align: justify; padding: 25px"]Devland's attention was momentarily cast to Michael. Half-lidded eyes observed the older male, confusion nestled in his hazel eyes. Disgust rolled off the elder in waves, but what drowned the feline was Michael's fury. It was palpable. There was a heat to it; it was like the area around them had suddenly ignited. The younger of the two had half a mind to step back before he got caught in the explosion, but he lingered. He grimaced.

And then Michael was speaking, cursing. Devland watched as Michael shook with white-hot anger. Grand displays of emotions always left the boy feeling chilled. His own emotions were smaller; where most burst into flames, Devland smoldered. Some small part of himself wished he could be as angry as Michael. He wished he could care so much about something that his emotions threaten to violently spill, but that wasn't the case. Even as he looked down at the ravaged corpse, the only emotion that bubbled upward was disgust and even that was somehow muted. "I don't understand," he heard himself asking, "why would they do this? The Pitt - that's what you said - why would they do this?"

Ears filled with his own words and thoughts, Devland didn't hear Paola arrive until she was gasping. He shifted to look at her, and something like pity seized in his chest. From where he stood, he could just make out the tears that gathered in her eyes. His grimace morphed suddenly into a small frown. Why was she on the verge of tears? Had she known the now-deceased individual? He watched, speechless, as tremor after tremor shook Paola's form. Where Michael trembled in anger, it seemed Paola did so in fear.

"It was the Pitt," Devland finally answered after hesitating for what felt like an eternity. He moved closer to her, making sure to stand firmly in front of the mutilated body. "Or that's what Michael said anyway." He gently nudged Paola forward, offering her his best smile, but it was cracked and obviously forced. "Come on. We should probably go. I heard something about not messing up crime scenes." His tone of voice was breezy at least. "I think Michael's got this covered anyway."

His eyes landed on Georgia just before she turned to leave. She seemed as equally disturbed as Michael or Paola, and from the way she turned and briskly left, Devland wondered if something darker lurked beneath her waters. He made a mental note of it but knew he would never question it. Giving his head a little shake, he turned back to Paola. "Hey, come on. Georgia's, uh, she's waiting on us I think." He motioned with his head to where the other girl had disappeared. "I bet she needs help with something. Come on." Again, Devland nudged Paola forward, away from the bloodied scene.

"Oh, hey, Paola," Devland added, "I think it's supposed to rain tomorrow. I was looking through my notes, and it seems like it might happen." Was this his attempt at helping? Comfort wasn't his strong suit, but he was pretty good at running his mouth to distract others. He crinkled his nose at the thought, but continued on, "I think it'll be a light rain though. Something nice, you know?"