OoC: And after a year and a day, she posts. Sorry for the delay, :<

BiC: The speed at which those first few moments passed - the moments that saw the throng of drunkards spilling from the alleyway, later found Amaranth and Monroe clinging to the rooftop of the carriage - left Amaranth gasping. The carriage ride was unlike anything she had ever endured: she could feel the jouncing wrench of wooden wheels over uneven stone like a hammer striking her heart; her heart felt as though it were jerking loose from whatever held it between her ribs. It would come flying out of her mouth at any moment.

The imagery was fascinating and might have given some amusement on another day. But Amaranth was not of a humour, at that moment, to be amused, not when a sudden swell of howling overarched the hubbub, broke into a series of bays, and filled her mind with the image of hounds at the hunt--

The carriage shuddered through a section of battered cobblestone; Amaranth clutched for purchase at the luggage rails. The right wheel of the carriage dipped into a ragged pothole, lurched out again, and Amaranth's teeth clamped down with the force of the movement. Another howl rent the air, and her heart dropped into her stomach.

"Dear gods," she gasped, as the carriage heaved again and made jelly of her innards. "Gods, gods, gods, gods..."

It would be a while before she remembered she believed in no gods. But gods were always useful for the occasional, exclamatory convenience.

Monroe was speaking, saying something like, “I'll keep a lookout for the dogs.” He was saying a great other many things as well—she thought she heard "your story" and “wrong foot” and “more bearable” and now he was chuckling and now all she could hear was the carriage driver barking nonsense at the horses and clipping the whip over their shoulders. And then there was the baying again, that damn, damn baying, getting closer—

She snatched at Monroe’s arm and gripped it like a lifeline, trying to swallow the fear building in her stomach and swelling into her throat, cutting off her air.

"You all right?"

She felt a dry urge to vomit.

"Sure!" she gasped. Her voice felt remarkably dry, and it scraped the tissue of her throat like sandpaper; it left her throat raw. "Sure, I'm fine... fine." She grinned weakly at him and ordered herself to be fine, and when she felt the nausea begin to wane, she detatched herself and took hold of a luggage rail. "What's my story?" She attempted a shrug. The carriage jounced her so badly that her shoulders felt, for a moment, dislocated from their sockets. "Nothin' spectacular, really, just... I don't think I can--"

A howl, a bark, a snap, all too loud, too close, and followed by a wet heat on the fingers she curled outside the protection of the luggage wrack.

Amaranth had always imagined herself a strong woman. But there was always room to be proved wrong.

She screamed.

She snatched her hand from the rail, clutched it with her other hand, and at that moment, the carriage lurched. Amaranth pitched sideways, nearly into Monroe, and only just managed to catch herself.

She could hear the women and little girl screaming in the carriage beneath her, and in the moment that she could see the road behind them, she saw, around Niccoli Jaget and the smartly dressed young man on their horses, a single flash of black, sleek and streaming over the cobblestones, stretching its long legs in chase.

A dog.

"Oh gods," she said.