Home. They say there's no place like it. And tonight, Bull Rush would most likely agree. After a long, long day out in the world, the small cocoon of routine one sets up is always such a relief.

Tonight, however, something is off. Even as he's walking towards the entrance, something just looks plain wrong to his eyes. It isn't the neighbor's dog marking his territory, it isn't the tree in front losing its branches again. No, it's something else. As he gets closer, he sees it.

The front door is ajar.

Bull Rush, upon sensing the wrongness moves faster towards his home, his family's home. It should never be wrong. When he sees the door ajar, his mind is flooding with possibilities. What is going on? Did someone break in? Is someone visiting? But who? And why wouldn't his Francie tell him in advance? Unless he wasn't supposed to know? Was she in there with some other man? Had that bastard followed her from the bahamas to propose his love to her and steal her away from him? Would he turn violent if she refused?

His brisk walking pace speeds up slowly as the thoughts in his mind degenerate from pleasant to terrifying, and by the end he is sprinting up the steps, abandoning his bag in the grass as he opens the door and listens, trying to hear what could be going on, his senses on razor's edge, his anger on a hair-trigger.

Opening the door even a tad, Bull Rush sees that his house is in a state best described as complete and utter disarray. The sofa in that entrance/living room has it cushions scattered around the room. One of them is outright gutted, its fluffy contents spread around. The conclusion is obvious : There was a ruckus here, a big one. Whether the entire house is in that sorry state is yet to be determined.

From further in the house, the kitchen to be exact, he can hear a vague rumbling noise, almost impossible to hear. It's accompanied by a burning smell, unpleasant and pervasive.

Bull Rush immediately shifts into Dalu, the change is unnoticed and subconscious to him, as he growls in response, and charges in. Where is his Francie?

The entrance / living room, despite its state of disarray, is empty. The bang of the door against the wall as Bull Rush charges in is apparently not enough to disturb whatever is in the house. The room, its disorder, goes by in a flash as Bull Rush heads, unneringly, for the low rumbling. And it's there that he finds the source of the noise.

Tonight's supper, its various ingredients on the way to being ready. Most prominently, potatoes set to boil, and left too long. The water has all evaporated, and in a few minutes the potatoes themselves will start to stick to the pot and burn. The table is already set for two, with a lit candle between the two plates.

Wherever Francie has gone, it seems she was working on supper when the time came to leave. One thing, however, seems to draw Bull Rush's attention, like the entire scene was meant to draw attention to that part. On the plate that would have been Caleb's, a piece of fabric, crumpled and forming a nice little mound.

He can't help it, but the first thought in his mind is "I really love this woman." Even with her disappearance, and the house in shambles, he sees how much she loves him, and warmth suffuses him. And then reality kicks back into gear, and suddenly he finds himself examining the piece of fabric. What the FUCK is going on! SOMEONE IS GOING TO BE HURT!

The cloth is a small towel, the kind that usually hangs close to the kitchen sink. A pale yellow color, large enough to wipe a face with. But its size isn't the important part right now. The contents are. Blood. Not a lot of blood, mind you. A splotch. Or, more to the point, a lick, a taste. A fresh taste.

Bull Rush's already semi-lupine mouth crashes down on the rag. His tongue searching for the blood as his nose hunts for the source. Who did this. Whose blood is it. WHERE IS FRANCIE?

The taste in Caleb's mouth is familiar, intimate. Francie's. With that taste of her in his mouth, he can smell her, can 'feel' her all around, the places she walked, the places she stayed for a few moments. He could probably retrace her daily routine if he had to. More to the point, he could trace what wasn't part of that routine, what was more recent. Like her trek from this very spot, towards the front door.

((Gimme WITs+EMP+1, por favore))

2 successes


Bull Rush stalks after the scent of his wife. The red rage seeps into the corners of his vision, his mate bleeds, and someone will pay very very badly.

The scent permeates the house, Francie's daily movements, her comings and goings. This trail is different, however. There's another scent hidden in it. The acrid stench of fear. And something else. Another smell, hidden, camouflaged. It follows hers exactly. It's one that is entirely unknown to Bull Rush.

The trail leads Caleb outside the house, towards the street. Away from home, but towards Francie.

Other. Unkown. Enemy. Chase. Hunt. Bull Rush's world condenses down to the instincts. Tunnel-vision sets in, Francie being the light, obscured by the enemy's scent.

Outside the house, the odor becomes more diffuse, but at once more focused. Out there, there is only one Francie. The latest. The last? Only one thing stays in Caleb's vision as he goes forward. The scent, the trail. Her trail. A small part of him registers a change, where it seems she got into a car, the smells of somewhat recent poisonous tang of exhaust mixing with the fear to make a very tangibly toxic scent.

A small, a very small part, of Caleb's mind, the part that is arguable still rational, registers that the trail is headed north.

North, towards those who.. Hunt. Find. Kill. Destroy everything in your way.
Bull Rush takes off running, shifting down into Urhan form as he pounds past the streets in search of his wife.

Through the city, and after the smell Bull Rush bounds. North, and north still. The contents of the city don't register. Humans, if any are on his path, barely specks on his radar. Only one of them really matters. The trail of car fumes and Francie-fear leads, through the straightest way possible all the way to the route 160 bridge.

The limit to Bull Rush's territory. On the other side, he is no longer master of all he sees. But the scent definitely leads that way.

Bull Rush feels the smells of his packmates fade as he crosses the bridge. He charges off alone to save his wife. Let the claws of kings and the bites of the burned come. His wife would be found, she would be saved, and he would destroy all who stood in his way.

And off into the unknown Bull Rush goes, towards his future. Francie's presence in it, an uncertainty. Sacramento's just a uncertain. Caleb had sacrificed one, for the other. Whether he would ever get back what he had sacrificed would remain to be see.