Summary:Hank goes out exploring the woods beyond the Mansion's grounds, and discovers the scent trail of a tiger. In Westchester. And then he actually finds the tiger. Gosh, she's huge! Log Info:Storyteller: {$storyteller} |
Related LogsTheme Song{$themesong} |
  |
++Storm King Mountain Park — Westchester++
Nature has outdone herself in a display of floral glory. Hardwood forests burnished in green cover the rugged slopes of Storm King Mountain. Come autumn, the color-changes of the trees are legendary. An impressive sight as it is, a harsh granite rise overlooks the placid, broad waters of the Hudson River.
Rare for this rural area, few signs of human development encroach upon the park. Pullouts from state highway 9W lead into a stretch of boulders and tumbling streams. Bright maple and oak trees hide the Hudson Valley from view while the hiking trails can be difficult.
- Obvious Exits
** Out <O>
Every week or so Diya has to take the effort to 'feed the beast'; it's impossible to stay sane and in control unless her tiger has been satiated at least a bit. Being able to keep her hunts down to only once a week shows incredible will and fortitude on her part, but it's not as if she has much to compare herself to; like her natural counterpart, she is a loner, even if surrounded by others. Her human self may crave connection and seek to protect a community, but her animal self is alone, and generally prefers it that way.
Diya tries to rotate her hunting grounds, not wanting to draw too much attention. There's a limit to what she can accomplish, given the ginormous size of her animal self. Still, stealth is part of the tiger's talents, and vitally necessary. It has likely been about six weeks since the last time the tiger stalked these woods; her scent has largely faded away with time and rain. But she knows this place. Despite her enormous size, she slinks about in the darkness with silent aplomb, snuffling, seeking out one trails of this animal and that. Mere rabbits and the like won't cut it, so she concentrates her attention on the rusine scent of a stag when she picks it up near the lake. Only rarely is there a glimpse of an enormous, twelve-foot long pale-coated Siberian tigress stalking along in the night, a dampled flash of moonlight and the green-tinted amber of eyes with far too much intelligence.
Sometimes it just feels good to be out and about and cut loose. Hank's a very cerebral fellow most of the time, he prides himself on being cultured, he is rightly proud of his academia and scientific prowess, but that's not all he is. His secondary mutation into a furry form, an atavistic throwback to some strange combination of ancestor animals means he has an animal side to him, that 'the Beast' is more than just his super moniker, it is a part of who he is.
So…Hank occasionally take time to let the more feral bits of himself out. He's not a hunter, really, but he is quite skilled at woodcraft and survival and has been since his youth where he was a Cub, then a Boy, and finally an Eagle scout.
For Hank it is enough for now to just strip down to shorts, and to RUN. To jump freely, to bound, to let his eyes go beast-yellow and to let the scents and breezes pick his course. Not naturally a predator, he IS a powerful animal, and knows bone deep if he WERE a predator he'd be apex. Though he doesn't see the hunting Tigress, he happens accross her scent trail, and it piques curiosity, not even aware of making the decision he grins and tries to stalk closer. Having been to zoos and jungles and grasslands among others he's actually familiar with the scent of Tiger, and that's definitely noteworthy!
Stalking a tiger can be done, but it can also be a very dangerous place to be; threaten a beast like that, give it reason to concern itself with its own safety, and it will tend to react with vicious intensity and lethal power. Stalking after this tigress in this particular area does give even the likes of Hank - perhaps less a natural woodsman and more one born of experience and intellect - the chance at evidence she would rarely leave behind willingly: a pawprint in the soft mud near the lake's shoreline. And it is an enormous paw indeed; intellect and instinct combined tell Hank exactly how enormous.
Stalking behind the tigress, Hank can catch hints of the deer trail she is following. Quick and close the tree-hopping Beast continues, to be sure, and then up ahead shrouded by trees and shrubby undergrowth, there is a rustle and a basso snarl that chills the blood and calls back to atavistic core, followed by a deep thudding snap, like a tree branch but somehow wetter, and then a ripping sound.
There, two-hundred yards away, comes the hot scent of freshly spilt blood. And then, as midnight-blue paw-feet pause, huge green-tinted amber eyes peer out from foliage to meet the Beast's golden gaze.
Oh, yes…Hank knows that tigers are not safe at all, not even a little bit. And though he's very strong and very fast and can take a beating his flesh can be rent by tooth and talon just fine. It is with the utmost care he stalks, the danger only adding to the thrill, his inner beast fed more fully by that than mere physical exertion. A small part of him thinks 'I should do this more often.', let the beast free, indulge it in situations that are risky, for the first time in a long while both beast and Beast have found an honest accord. Possibly the first time ever.
Knowing that fast movements are exactly the sort of things that hunters such as a tiger are most likely to notice, Beast slows as the signs are more clear, the scents more fresh, as he gains. He does keep to the trees in large part when he's able since tigers aren't known for their legendary tree scaling - mind, they CAN, it is just not something they tend towards, and that tendancy is what he's aiming at. There's also the fact that from a tree he has a better chance to leap to safety should the tiger…actually…he can scent it's a female, so…tigress attack.
Eyes of gold and green-amber meet across hundreds of feet, and the impact is nearly palpable. Hank is crouched on a thick branch off a massive oak, one hand on the branch, the other on the bole with claws sunk into the bark to give greater purchase. What is really striking is the -intellect- lurking behind those far away eyes. He makes no move to indicate he wants to steal her kill, or fight, but he does meet her gaze, which might be seen as a challenge, but he's hoping the intelligence he can see will override that.
A deep, almost impossibly powerful growl sounds almost subsonically from the location of those huge green-amber eyes. Another ripping sound, more wet-dry twig snapping, and crunching. It's not hard to understand the tigress is tearing into her meal, consuming its flesh. She continues to watch the Beast carefully, but does not move; she visibly refuses to abandon her kill, even to hunt another threat. A leap closer would virtually guarantee - if this were any natural tigress - that she would respond in kind, leaping away, circling to hunt this new threat.
But for now, there is a sort of stasis. A moment of respect, perhaps, between two keen-minded apex predators?
Much of the Beast's atavism is drawn from the simian — that rumbling growl spikes his adrenaline, seeks to trigger a flight response, but Hank is smar enough to know that would almost certainly trigger an attack. The 'almost' being the fact that the tigress he can't quite make out due to her concealment as she eats IS more than just an animal, she's either a animal mutate with greater intellect, or humanoid who can take on the seeming or permanently stuck in the form of Panthera Tigris. Either way - the tigress below's size would tend for her to be Amur, or more commonly referred to as Siberian (Manchurian, Ussurian, Northeast China). They are the largest breed of the species, sometimes approaching three hundred kilos and more than ten feet in length not including their tails, those are REALLY big creatures! A meta-tigris would be potentially considerably more physically powerful than even his own bestial form, so he will definitely be pleased as punch to avoid fighting.
For now that stasis - that peace accord of the moment - fine with Hank!
When her rumbling basso growl seems to earn her the respect - and stillness - of the potential threat, the tigress ends it, resuming her methodical consumption of the stag she has brought down. The stench of hot blood will eventually mix with other scents as viscera are pierced and flanks savaged. The tigress breaks eye contact and goes back to eating, apparently contented that Beast has no intention of interrupting her meal.
As ravenous as she was - indeed, still is, at least to some extent - it still takes time for even a creature as large as this tigress to completely consume a stag. She does not hurry, but neither does she get lazy enough to slow down by much. Just methodical, hungry, and thorough, even to taking time to crunch up some of those larger bones. Not many, mind; a tiger is by no means idealized for grinding down bone. But some amount of marrow is ideal for some of what a growing healthy tigress needs.
No seeming, Hank DOES indeed feel a healthy respect and a desire to remain healthy! Possessed of great stamina, he settles in to wait with patience, nostrils flaring occasionally as he takes in the scents and does a fair job identifying which parts are being eaten at which point thanks his considerable biology expertise and experience with autopsy and disesction as a part of that. It is one way to pass the time, he does try to get a better look at the tigress, his visual acuity far greater than human, but the distance and cover rendering things more than a tad difficult and probably impossible.
That she's willing to eat while he waits is a positive sign, unless of course she's hungry enough to want to add Fillet of Beast to the menu! That would very definitely be problematic. Ah well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. And if he does end up getting mauled — well — okay, that's the price for doing business, not like he doesn't have plenty of scars already!
When the tigress finally moves to reposition herself around the increasingly devoured corpse of the stag, Hank can indeed get a better view of her, and what a view it is. Only the rarest mere rumors speak of even an Amur this huge, and she is mighty indeed. The stag is definitely no miniature, and yet in less than half an hour it is almost stripped bare. She does not chince on the sweetmeats, either, given all the rich nutrients available in those vital organs.
Finally, after all of that time, the tigress lays herself down, chewing through some of the last bits stripped from the carcass. She remains aware of Hank's presence; his own instincts are more than enough to tell him that. But she has decided he is 'smart' enough not to bother her right now. And with her belly pleasantly full, she is relaxing a bit with the remains of her kill.
Eyes of gold framed in blue-black fur study the massive Meta-Amur below, and he shakes his head at the sheer size of the creature. 'So pretty' he murmurs, after all, Diya's a splendid example of the species and then some. His voice is soft, but who knows if she can hear his bemused rumbling from two hundred yards away.
Adrenaline has long since returned to more normal levels whilst the feline sups on much needed nutrition to fuel such a large creature - his own caloric intake is prodigous and she probably masses three to four times what he does!
After a bit he moves slowly to stand and then drops to the ground at the foot of the tree, landing softer than one might expect, and settling down to sit 'Indian-style', hands laid to rest on his knees. Risky to wait on the ground, no question - the beast inside the Beast approving. He's counting on intelligent restraint and the fact that he's not being threatening to minimize the risks. Minimize, is not the same as eliminate, however.
Five minutes. Ten. After about fifteen minutes, the tigress begins to visibly - and audibly - stretch herself. She rolls onto her back, exposing her belly in what has to be an instinctual sort of taunt or tease. Then she rolls over to her paws and rises, strolling languidly over to poke her massive head through the shroud of shrubbery, watching the blue-black furred Beast with keen eyes. She watches him intently for a bit, head turning slightly this way, then later slightly that, before padding softly, slowly forward, breaking through the shroud of leaves and coming closer. Her tail hangs low, swishing slowly, this way, then sinuously that. She stalks towards Hank not unlike the demeanor of a housecat who has spotted a mouse frozen in terror and wants to get up close before she pounces. She brushes her nose against the earth, a move he can be sure - his instincts tell him so - is clearing her nostrils of the scent of her kill so she can better read the interesting ape-like creature before her.
A TINY part of beast urges Hank to leap and rend at the exposed belly…which part is quashed, then beaten unconscious, and stuffed in box. Apparentl detente is done for now. Hank grins slightly, at the tease - after all, it was probably a trap. He knows how swiftly his friend Catseye can react, he literally could not close the distance fast enough even were he inclined to try before she could respond, and the very (apparent) vulnerablity of that position lets her bring all four sets of her claws to bear! That would be painful - at best - and probably brief. Nope, he'll just wait, thanks. He's developed a considerable patience over the years - compiling code, waiting on test results, cooking things — all take their own sweet time, well, so do cats.
A smile that doesn't bare fangs, well, other than one that is currently visible over his lower lip, no, he doesn't even know. Hank waits and though her stalk is the kind a cat might use prior to pouncing terrorized prey, his scent is actually fairly calm. To Diya's cleared sense of smell he smells of man, yes, but also has a blending of simian and perhaps some feline in him. He must be always furry though, she can smell the almost unscented shampoo he uses on his fur, and a rich oil - probably a conditioner, but nothing commercially available. He's been exerting himself, so there's a bit of musk overlaying it all. But calm, definitely, no terror scent.
The tiger slows her approach once she reaches a distance of about six to seven feet, far enough away that even if she leaned forward and swiped she would miss Hank - if only by a few inches. She loops around him curiously, sniffing slightly, then stops once she is again in front of him, slightly off to his left as she reads his digital dominance. She turns her head then and yawns, jaws stretching widely, exhaling carcass-scented breath away from Hank, then her jaws snap shut and she licks her chops, turning back to face him, watching curiously. It's definitely a playful game; measuring, waiting to see what he might do, what he might consider doing, now that she really is in range.
In truth Hank's not right or left dominant, in fact he can use his feet with nearly the same facility as he can his hands, he does have a VERY slight tendency towards the right hand, but it is a trivial difference. Diya is good to spot even that much favor. Or she could just be playing the odds! How many people can type and write with either hand while using either foot simultaneously, or both hands or both feet at different tasks? Hank grins and produces…a flower, offering it to the pretty kitty. It is a very fragrant thing, and definitely edible. That might be unexpected!
Now it might become clear why the big blue-black simian man chose this particular tree, there's a cluster of the flowers at the base near where he's sitting. The flower offered is one of the best and most perfect in the cluster, and picked without giving a hint as to how he acquired the target!
The giant cat leans close, experimentally, and wuffles at the flower, heating it with her breath and then inhaling its strengthened scent. She almost sneezes, then, but yawns to clear the urge, huffing instead. Convinced that the big blue simian-like creature means no harm - not incapable of it, but simply having no intent - she inches closer, curiously, those wide green-tinted amber eyes sweeping each and every detail avidly. She is definitely close enough to touch at this point.
"Oh, you are a beauty, Amur Khatun." His voice is a deep bass, what an opera singer he'd have made! As to the moniker — that's actuallly rather nice! Amur for the breed, Khatun, the feminine form of Khan…Queen or Lady Tigress. He grins, still without showing teeth, and chuckles, deep in his cavernous expanse of chest when she nearly sneezes. It IS a strong fragrance, no question. Glad that his gambit seems to have won at least a modicum of trust, Hank will very slowly raise a massive hand, easily it can span ten or more inches, and very carefully strokes at the soft fur along the great cat's flank, he is careful not to threaten, it is a gentle exploration and a respectful one.
The cat wuffles at the raised hand, exploring it before she turns her side, allowing him to reach over and touch her there, letting his clawed fingers within reach of her vitals. It's a profound show of trust for such a predator. She does seem to appreciate the appellation, even if she cannot return it. Instead, she leans in a bit closer and butts the top of her head against that broad, expansive barrel chest. It is not so forceful as to be dangerous, but more than enough to once again make abundantly clear the sheer power contained in so massive a form.
The claws on his hands are definitely a potential threat, though they're not weapons of terror by any means, and they're VERY neatly manicured, he actually takes pains to care for his nails, and his fur is well groomed. Not a vain creature, but one that does value taking proper care of himself. "Thank you." He rumbles as she permits his touch, and then with the headbutt to his chest he laughs and leans back into the tree a moment, before bringing both hands up to scritch luxuriously at the fur behind the ears and the back of the head, spots that are hard to reach, and this is where those well manicured claws prove to be worth many times their weight in gold and platinum! He's careful, he does not injure, and he does not overstimulate any one area in his efforts. Man has some mad-scritchin' skeelz!
It's a test; it's all a test. That's how it works with felines. Little eighteen-inch ones and giant twelve-foot ones all alike. The tigress leans closer and arches her back and neck, a deep rumbling building in her massive chest in response as Hank proves exactly what those big brains and beautifully manicured claws are for! It's not quite a purr, but it's very similar in feeling. After some of this, she leans in again and noses at the midnight blue fur, then touches her mose to his cheek. Then she actually starts to groom the rough around his shoulder and neck.
Two can play this game.
Fortunately she's testING and not testY, that would have been a very different dynamic indeed!
Hank grins at the arching, and seems to have no trouble with more than three-hundred kilos of feline, he doesn't even budge other than a little to compensate for her mass the greater leverage she can exert with four feet and a least a two to one weight advantage, assuming she chooses to exert it of course. Happy to get that demi-purr, he is frozen momentarily when she starts grooming his neck and shoulder fur. And then he sighs very faintly when he realizes it feels awfully nice, actually. He leans his head against her side a bit as he gets back to the scritching, carefully undoing any tangles if he finds them, and generally just lavishing attention on what feels like a couple acres of cat! And yes, his sigh was warm with content, incapable of purring as a cat does, he does signal his pleasure with the occasional sound of content.
The mind inside that gigantic feline is curious where this particular predator came from; she has not smelled him in these woodlands before in her coming. But she is content that he means no threat, and in fact wants to be friendly. He's a smart biped, unlike many, and this is worthy of respect. Even if he cannot manage a proper purr - even her kind of demi-purr - he has still shown appreciation, and welcomed the affection returned to him.
After perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes of this, the tigress finally stops, content with the work she has done on that midnight blue fur. Fastidious as he is, Hank might prefer a bath later; there's still some minor residue of her dinner present, even if it is rather minimal and mostly just her saliva. Finished, though, she leans that big head of hers into the crook of one elbow, interrupting the scritching movements of that arm. Then she does to the other, ending this furry love fest. She yawls a big yawn, and then butts her head into his chest once more, pushing him against the tree's bole but not forcefully.
Turning, then, the tigress pads away a distance of a dozen yards or so, then turns and considers Hank again. Then she turns her head back around and starts loping away into the woods, the last sign of her the swish of her tail behind her. She's not trying to hide, but in this dark, with that hide and her natural feline nature, it happens anyway. But it's a path he could follow. If he chose.
There's no question that he is built along predator lines, the claws alone would signal that, and yes, his actions are definitely of the 'want to be friends' sort, instead of the usual more aggressive meetings that predators tend to have. Perhaps these woods are not his territory? He does not smell of having hunted, and yet is clearly well fed, perhaps she just ran into him after he'd fed.
He will want a proper bath, definitely. Fastidious - yes, well, it does actually fit just fine, very apt. He stops when she interrupts and then leans back with a thump so she can back up. He watches as she pads away, and had she kept going he'd have simply left it at that, but she didn't.
When she turns to look at him appraisingly, he flows to his feet and will lope after her. If she pushes the pace he can sustain about forty miles per hour, slower than she can move, but still quite fast for a biped. In truth when moving at those speeds he does use his arms as well as feet, and tends to make short bounds to cover distance in spurts, often brachiating for the sheer fun of it, and making truly spectacular leaps in a pure expression of his love of being alive. He doesn't seem to have any trouble seeing in the dark, and he clearly has a well developed sense of smell and of hearing - he avoids many obstacles, or annoyances that most hominids would have blundered right into.
The tigress does not seem to object to his following, though she maintains speed enough he never overtakes her, and stealth enough he still loses sight, sometimes even smell as they continue. They keep this up for not quite an hour, until they come upon a small hollow nestled beneath thick bushes. There, the tigress disappears, and does not re-emerge. It may take Hank a bit to realize she did not simply lose him - as she has, for a bit, here and there - but has truly not re-emerged.
And then come sounds. Sounds not entirely unlike those of the tigress feeding, rending and tearing flesh. Bones pop. Tendons stretch and snap. Flesh tears. Wet, gurgling sounds of discomfort and pain. It's all really quite disturbing, and it goes on for quite a while. It begins to become outright torture.
And then, finally, it is over. And Hank may be able to hear the soft huffing breath of … something … someone … smaller than the tigress. Much smaller.
In fact, smaller even than the bouncing blue-eyed Beast himself.
And there is, after a bit, the rustling not of bush, but of cloth.
And then the bitter scent of gun oil.
Hank actually rather enjoyes the challenge of the chase, it is plain she's faster than he is, and yet she does not lose him as she easily could, not entirely. She must therefore be setting a pace to test HIS limits, and adjusting course and speed to keep it fun for everyone. Fortunately he's not just strong, he's smart and adept in the wilds, he manages to keep up even if he doesn't manage to overtake her.
He'll watch the hollow for a bit, and then before the popping noises, the rending sounds, he'll circle it looking for sight or sent of her having left. And then the audio only horrorshow starts. Hank is many things, but lacking empathy is not a trait he's ever suffered from, so those sounds? Yes, they are torture, and he suffers with.
Moving closer at the sounds of cloth and the smell of the gun oil, Hank will stop near the hollow, but does not invade it. That's not HIS space, and a predator - even an honorary one like himself would know well to respect boundaries. "Hello?" His voice is concerned, but not paniced.
A softly voiced, mushily enunciated response follows, as whomever or whatever is moving in that hollow stops stock still; there is, behind the word, the soft ring only the keenest of senses would pick out: metal against leather. "H'lo?" There is a tension in that voice, uncertainty; but the scent of that lethal predator has not left. Changed, subtly, but not left.
It just figures, doesn't it? Almost six years Diya has survived in this foreign land, and never once has someone she did not know come upon her change. Now, finally, her luck runs out. Some part of her says this voice is not a threat; but her paranoia is one born of painful life experience. SHe will listen to her instincts, and not fire, but she will not allow herself to be taken unawares.
Predator she may be, but still she is hunted, and knows it. And so she waits. Sometimes it would be really helpful if she could better remember what her tiger does on these jaunts. Something better than flashes and hints, damnit. Why would she leave a threat still breathing?
Hank's hearing is roughly twice as keen as a normal humans, twice the range in both distance, and able to extend above and below into infr and ultra ranges. So yes, he can make out the slurred sounding speech, and honestly, after what he's heard he's not sure he'd be speaking any more clearly. "Is that you, Amur Khatun?" Queen Tigress? Okay, that's a -very- specific thing to ask, and it definitely suggests he was able to follow Diya's tiger form. The voice is deep, the words as richly and precisely enunciated as her own speech is mushy.
"My name is Hank McCoy, are you in distress?" He settles into a crouch, long arms wrapping about his knees, making himself smaller in profile, essentially he's a fur covered boulder at the moment. Still, definitely not a threatening posture.
Oh, great. So, her tiger decided to pick up a pet? Someone who apparently likes ginormous flesh-rending tigers and dares to give chase on them. This is nuts. But if this 'Hank McCoy', whomever or whatever that is, were the threat she fears most, he'd have already attacked, likely while she was changing.
There is, frankly, no more vulnerable time for her than that.
Still soft-voiced and mushily-mouthed, the female within does respond after a bit. "Not … much. Now." She's not terribly verbal at the best of times. Active-minded, definitely, but rarely if ever does she give voice to all of those thoughts. Most of them would come out in razor-edged Russian, after all. Not good for the hiding expat.
"You?" the voice asks, then, before eyes now more green than amber, but still with a shine behind them, peer out from the hollow's depths, the hints of star- and moon-light hitting the backs of them to illuminate. "Hurt?" she inquires. Diya can't smell any blood on the oddly simian- and furred-smelling figure above her. Her instincts still say this McCoy is no threat. But her paranoia still demands caution.
Yup! Hank McCoy - pet to the cool weres! Or something.
He certainly doesn't seem to be very threatening, his eyes blue now, instead of golden, but still perceptive enough to meet her green eyes with their tapetum provided backlighting. "Me? No, not in the least, we did not fight." Hank stays right the heck where he is, not going to risk alarming this woman, she seems a bit disoriented, that suggests she doesn't remember everything, possibly not ANYthing from when she was in the feline form - that theory supported by the similarity of her eyes, and the similarity to her scent. Okay, Hank IS imposing for his sheer bulk and formidable musculature, but he's /trying/ here.
OK. No blood. Guy says he's not hurt. And clearly he made friends with her tiger. And isn't that just great! Rassinfrassingrassinmuffin stupid feline b*tch!
"Back." Diya murmurs in that mushy-mouthed way that does everything she can to rid herself of her Russian accent by sounding more like an old-school Fat Albert character. Once Hank backs up a bit, as requested, there's another sound of metal against leather, and then a woman's form literally erupts up out of the hollow and the bushes to land light-footed right at the edge, facing Hank.
What the blue-eyed bouncing Beast can see now is what can only be described as a homeless woman, likely a military vet given her threadbare, dirty, well-worn and oversized military surplus attire. The olive drab coat hides a multitude of sins, including the source of that gun-oil scent and likely the source of that leather-on-steel sound. Her dirty hands are covered now in half-gloves, her ash-blonde hair almost darkest brown with dirt and grease. Where her feline form was pretty well-kempt, her human form is not so much. She is not exceptionally tall, but she is taller than average, and despite being bundled up in oversized clothes it would not be hard to notice she is very muscular. And at this range Hank's hindbrain is virtually screaming 'deadly predator at point blank range!' as she stares at him coldly, without a hint of recognition.
"Look. Better streets. M-Town." Oh yeah. Heights of verbal communication here.
Hank moves back obligingly, and hunkers again to minimize his Carbon FURprint. Hey! He's a big guy, he knows his sheer size is intimidating.
And then Diya emerges, and sends out those predator vibes that make him feel like a complete amatuer at the whole initimidating thing. He concentrates, raising shields, and they help a little.
"I take it you do not remember meeting me." Statement, not a question. "Mutant Town?" Hank nods. "Very well, it will take a while to get there, if you'd like I have a car we can use not too far away." And he can put on more clothes, people tend to react better when he's not almost starkers save for the shorts and the fur.
The woman tilts her head, regarding Hank carefully, curiously. Then she shakes her head slightly, pursing her lips. Sometimes, others don't get her words. She uses so few of them that the better-spoken get confused. It happens, but it's never fun.
She chooses her words carefully. There are long, even pregnant pauses between them, as if willing the man to understand her in spite of himself. "You. Look. Suit. Better. M-Town. Here." When Diya finishes it is with a sense as if she has worked hard on an entire courtroom opening statement.
Diya watches Hank, waiting for his reactions. She is remaining relatively calm, but still there is a very real and lethal tension wound tight within her.
"OH!" Hank laughs, rubbing the back of his neck and smelling of embarassment. "Apologies, miss. Yes, I'm a mutant. At the moment I was out here indulging my 'bestial' side, Ran into your alter-ego, I suppose." He looks to her and offers his hand in greeting. "Hank McCoy, miss…how man I call you? I'm assuming Amur Khatun is not -actually- your name." Boy, wouldn't that have been a strange coincidence? "I actually do have a car nearby, and more clothing." Despite being furry he is a little awkward feeling at the moment to be only wearing shorts. It isn't TOO bad, but it is there.
Diya watches Hank curiously, peering down at the offered hand almost as if she expects to find a mouse or something in it. Then, finally, she reaches out, taking it only very briefly, then withdrawing again. Unlike her feline alter, it seems this woman is not terribly comfortable with touch.
Asked, the woman considers. She rather likes the name, but no, she cannot wear 'Amur Khatun', much as she would like to. She lifts the same hand that just touched Hank, touching it to her chest briefly. "Hunter. They call." So, not really her name. But it is what she answers to, what others call her.
Diya inches back, giving Hank what room she can without dropping herself back down into the hollow. Then she points - eerily and unerringly - towards the car. "Go." she offers, nodding once.
Sensing the hesitation, Hank's handshake is gossamer light, for such big mitts he sure has a delicate touch. He smiles as she identifies with a use name. "Hank, or Beast." He says to himself, tapping his chest. "Usually Hank, though." He ponders a moment, where have I heard that name - other than Robbie Hunter, but…ah!. "Of course, you're with The Pride, correct?" He nods once when she points, freakishly accurately, to where the car is. "Did you want a lift to town, then? Save you a half day of walking, Hunter." At least he KNOWS she's eaten.
Once she answers, he sets off at a ground devouring lope to the car, and opens the trunk to dig out some clothing to wear. Simple stuff really, blue jeans, size twenty shoes, a white t-shirt, and a tan jacket. Definitely not formal attire!
"Pride." Hunter offers, nodding once. Again, she is almsot as minimally demonstrative as she is minimal in speaking. Then she nods, letting Hank run off. He will soon realize she is not following him. Or at least, he will soon realize she didn't do so immediately. Yet by the time he has finished changing clothes and readied the car, she is there, standing just to the side at the furthest reach of the headlights, leaning against a tree. Watching him.
Watching him, and memorizing his license plate.
Definitely much more comfortable in clothing, Hank pulls the car up to stop so Hunter can get inside. The plate reads "Bio Doc 32", New York plates and Westchester village sticker, it is an older model Ford Grenada four door, blue of course, and the frame - already steel, has been reinforced as have the shocks, so it it clearly meant to carry heavy things and folks. The engine, however, purrrrrrrrrrrrs, old it may be, but the car is in excellent condition for all that. "Hop in, Hunter."
In the back seat is a small cooler, should Diya check, there's snacks inside - mostly fruit, and drinks, iced teas and couple bottled ginger ales.
Hunter pauses, a mite uncertain. "Usually run." she admits, with a shrug. Still, she waits a bit, then climbs inside the back seat.
Being enclosed with Diya does make her predatory aura much, much stronger. Hank is certainly strong enough, of will and of sense of self, to resist its effects, but it is insistent, present, pervasive and unrelenting. And now the lethal predator is at Hank's back while he's helpless driving.
And so quiet. She barely breathes, she is so quiet.
Yeah, nothing unnerving about a silent, menacing aura possessing armed person with PTSD (not that he knows that part yet) in the back seat to make a several hours drive a rare treat! For his own part, to keep from freaking the heck out, Hank will describe in exacting detail his meeting with Amur Khatun. What she might find interesting is how much raw information this man is capable of retaining, and clearly his senses are far superior to a normal person's, not as keen as hers perhaps…but still respectable. He's a very good speaker too, his descriptions and wording eloquent, his use of tone and gesture evocative. Really…not the worst drive ever, not even close.
"Tiger liked you." Diya comments, after the end of that story is offered. And yes, she speaks of the tigress as if she were an entirely separate entity. Sure, she knows it's not true. But they are definitely not fully integrated. She has heard of those that are, but she is not one of them. Not yet. There's good in that, and bad, and that's just how it is.
Hank will quickly realize that this woman - Hunter, she said to call her - gives laconic a whole new meaning. Very, very few words, parceled out like previous treasure. If silence or a gesture will do, that's all she gives. Why use twenty words if one will do if positioned right?
"I liked her too. Granted…I'd rather open my own veins than annoy her, but she was really very good company. I think the key is that I respected her boundaries." Hank observes with a calm tone and a bright smile over a shoulder that promises he'll do the same. "Feel free to have some of the snacks, Hunter, that's what they're there for."
He is amply blessed with the gift of gab, so her laconic is actually not too much of a problem. Big Blue is more than capable of keeping up non-stop gabbing the whole drive, flitting from topic to topic like a bumblebee in a field of begonias! He's so good natured about it too, he clearly loves to talk, and he equally as clearly loves people. Pretty strange guy!
Hunter does not grumble. Growl. Or grind her teeth. But she is most definitely not a talker, and not at all used to the gift of gab at such close proximity. It's a mild bit unnerving, really. She does open the cooler, then, and extract one of the bottles of water, cracking it open and drinking, slowly but steadily, until she has consumed the entire thing. She holds up the empty into the field of view of the rear-view mirror. "You?" she asks.
Yep. That's the extent of her conversationalism. Ain't life grand?
Yes, Hank can be a bit of a challenge when he's hyper - and that predatory aura, that has him in chatterbox mode, it helps him focus, helps him past it. Shields don't hurt either, but a lot of it still gets through, the aura is more than some mere psionic effect after all. "Ginger ale, please." He accepts the drink when she hands it up, and then he smiles after a bit realizing how his incessant talk might be annoying. "Do you like music? I could put something on, I have a server setup I can stream audio from…"
Diya does get Hank a can of ginger ale out of the cooler when asked, and cracks the seal for him to make it easy before she hands it over. All that without saying a word. When he asks about music, her eyes almsot literally light up; she doesn't get much of a chance for music amongst the Pride. She considers, very carefully, what to say. It weighs on her. Then, at last, she murmurs just one word. A name. "Verdi?" she finally asks, very softly. She would rather asks for Tchaikovsky, but she is sure that would give away too much. Verdi, not so much. And oh, how she loves his operas.
"Thank you." Hank says with the opened soda, and smiles. When he sees how happy she is with the offer of music he positively beams. "Verdi it is, in fact how about a whole suite of arias and conciertos to make the drive fun?" He taps the power button to what looks like an ordinary stereo, but clearly isn't, the sound system in the car is full surround and echo free. And yes, there's more than enough music from Verdi and other artists to pass the drive in glorious music!
There are several long moments of sheer ecstatic glee shining from Diya's features. Then she closes her eyes, lays her head back, and just … goes limp, soaking into the music surrounding them as if it were a refreshing pool of water.
Odd thing? That predatory aura just dropped to an almost negligible degree. And so did Diya's heartrate.
Hank actually feels quite good about the effects the music has on Hunter, she was so tense it is good to see how relaxed she is. What's truly fascinating to the scientist in him is that the music has such a profound effect on that predatory aura. Now he's curious, he wonders if the aura is a product of her living conditions and mental state, he doesn't think she's a mutant - but even so, her mind must control at least some of the Change, if nothing else she has to will it to start, unless she's a classical creature affected by the moon phase, but that seems unlikely. Ah well, he does not know enough to make even as reasonable guess.
The drive is a fairly long one but it does let her soak up a lot of music.
Uninterrupted, with no conversation and plenty of music, Hunter remains quiet and relaxed the entire multiple hours, all the way back into the City and down to Mutant Town. And the predatory aura, though not absent, is very, very toned down so long as she stays calm, relaxed, eyes closed and virtually blissed out on music.
Of course, it ramps back up just as quickly when the car stops. "Blessings." she murmurs, softly, and pops the door open, hopping out and then leaping up onto a rooftop, disappearing in short order.
Guess Hank will have to find Hunter some other time, if he wants to ask those questions about her 'condition'.
Hank spends much of the trip compiling a list of questions, he discards even the thought of a lab visit - that's CLEARLY not going to happen. Just as he parks the car, he turns to lean on the seat with his arm just in time to see Hunter bounce out, and bound for the rooftops. "Well, nimble little minx, isn't she." More gruntled than dis, he laughs good naturedly and makes a supply run to one of the soup kitchens in Mutant Town; he does that whenever he can and has the time. He definitely does at the moment.