Fury and Frenzy.
Friday, 29 June 2012 21:39![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
flint_garouUnbalanced. Fearful. Jumping at shadows.
29 June, 2012
The moon is in the waxing Gibbous (Galliard) Moon phase (72% full).
Moros doesn't even attempt to move out of the way, and Devon's fist connects solidly with the big man's broad chest. He does, at least, take a step back… and then he murmurs, "My turn," cocks a fist back, and sends it at Devon's face. Incoming.
Rina hammers out a text, giving the two a wide berth as she circles them. "Moros!" she calls out.
Devon is just lining up for a second strike he registers the monster's fist coming at him. He turns, slightly, a bit too late to get out of the way completely, and loses his feet this time. He smacks wetly into the ground, upon his back, sprawling. And yelling, the sound far more imbued with rage than fear. He's faster to his feet, despite the obvious injury, throwing himself rather bodily at the metis.
Moros, distracted, snaps his head around to look at Rina, and thus is off-balance when Devon collides into him. The big metis staggers, his eyes going wide with surprise for a second. Then, in a sudden storm of rage, he grabs Devon and shoves him violently away—practically throws the skinny youth, in fact.
"Shit!" Sticking her phone back in its spot, Rina breaks into a run toward them. "Cool it down!"
Devon, in his own madness and rage, doesn't hear Rina's calling. He doesn't hear much of anything when he's more or less thrown off Moros. Feet, knees, and hands scrape along pavement as he slides back. His own fury is hot, however, chased and haunted by monsters to now come face to face with one and be pushed aside, as if taunted. He snaps. Frenzy grips him completely and he hits Crinos in a blink, lunging near simultaneously at Moros with tooth and claw.
Bad Moon Rising explodes into Crinos a blink after Devon does, and at ten and a half feet tall (at least), he's as much of a monster in his birth form as in homid. Snarling, he snaps a long arm forward to catch the smaller Crinos by the throat.
Rina's almost on them when the two suddenly shift—and she skids to a halt again, wide-eyed, her head tipping up as she reverses her course to scramble back from them.
While the people who are out are rather avoiding the fight, Flint comes down the street, turning a corner at a run that doesn't slow when he sees two crinos—and Rina. Instead, the kid puts on a burst of speed that eventually puts himself very firmly between the two crinos and the kinswoman. "What-the—" is all he manages, though, watching and recognising the signs of frenzy in his tribesmate.
Red-Hands might be caught by the throat, but his claws make it a questionable catch. He flails, tearing at the limb that holds him, the head it belongs to, teeth snapping and gnashing at anything that looks like it may be within range.
Bad Moon Rising bares his fangs and digs his claws in, tightening his grip on Red's throat, shutting off his air. He keeps the other at arm's length, his head pulled back, muzzle lifted, avoiding attacks there. It's the arm itself that gets the brunt of violence, the Walker's talons raking through the oily, matted pelt to the flesh below, red blood mingling freely with the black. It's enough to drive the big Fury to the very edge of frenzy; he visibly chokes it back, and then with a roar actually lifts Red off his feet and slams him to the filthy, rain-slick pavement with as much force as he can muster.
"Devon and Moros!" Rina yells. "I think Dev's lost it!" She tugs out one of the .45's.
Red-Hands stills for an instant, stunned after being slammed into the pavement. A second or two passes, before he's renewed in his fight. hands grasp for the arm still holding him, to break it free or rip it off. More likely the latter.
Flint nods once to Rina, but he watches the situation, and holds up a hand. "No," he says, to the gun. "No." He takes a single step towards the conflict, flinches, and shifts up to glabro, then just waits.
Bad Moon Rising answers Red's attack by letting go of his throat—and then slamming down on the smaller crinos's chest with a knee. All thirteen-hundred or so pounds of him.
Rina slides back the semi-auto, and checks the street before stepping backward, putting more distance between herself and the fight.
The darkness and damp weather fortunately drove most people indoors before the altercation, and there's not a lot of traffic this way, either. If anyone's watching, they're staying out of sight.
That's quite the pleasant crunching sound. Red-Hands shudders, mouth snapping a final threat before going deathly still.
When Red-Hands goes still, Flint takes a deep breath in, and strides forward until he's just at the edge of the space. "Shift. Down." There's a moment, and Flint glances towards Moros, waits a moment, and repeats. "Shift. Please." The second time, the words take on the pleasant, persuasive quality, the young galliard crossing his arms and looking down at his tribesmate, rather than at the larger crinos.
Bad Moon Rising lingers for a second or three, maybe too long; the way he's baring his fangs looks almost like a grin, savage and ugly. His ears tilt toward Flint's voice, and after a beat he stands up, slowly, keeping his eyes on Red-Hands as he steps back and shifts, slowly, oh so slowly, down into human form. The big Ahroun's breathing hard, nostrils flaring, his gaze intent.
Rina's running to them, by then, landing on her knees and starting to check Devon over with skilled hands. "Thanks, Fury," she says quietly.
Red-Hands's own return return to homid happens within seconds of the crushing blow. He stays down, on his back, breathing if not moving.
Flint returns to his birth form once the metis has returned to homid, then looks at him, a moment. "Aight. So. Thanks, yeah," he repeats, purses his lips. "Flint, called Requiem." Flint's introduction is offered haltingly, quietly. "Cliath, and. And galliard. Glass Walker. Beta of Unfettered, child of Merlin." There's a jut of his chin upwards, expecting some sort of introduction in return.
Blood streams down Moros's right arm, flowing from a dozen or so deep gashes, courtesy of Devon's claws. The big metis shifts his weight, grimaces, then turns baleful red eyes onto Rina and Flint. "Moros. Bad Moon Rising. Metis, Ahroun, Black Fury." He breathes, in through the nose, out through his teeth.
The Kin is focused on Flint for a moment longer, before looking up to Moros. She rises to her feet, looking to Moros. "Thanks," she says quietly.
"Can…" Flint furrows his brows, looks down at Devon, then over to Moros. "Besides the obvious, what happened? Wh— When…" The galliard heaves a sigh, shoves his hands into his pockets, and takes a very deep breath. "When you first ran into D— my tribemate?" The stammer seems habitual, rather than nervous.
Moros looks down at his torn arm, frowning in a distant sort of way. With the other, and with some awkwardness, he pulls off his tank top and starts wrapping the dark material around his forearm, around the worst of the damage. A thick scar runs diagonally across his chest. "He was acting…" His eyes narrow, thinking. "Unbalanced. Fearful. Jumping at shadows."
Rina's hands reach to forestall the Fury's efforts. "Let me," she says quietly, her jaw tight as she takes the shirt from him.
Moros scowls, but he doesn't try to stop her.
Flint nods, moving to crouch near Devon, and looking up at the Fury. "That. It's unlike. Unlike him, even…" Flint muses. "He. He wasn't like that. Before."
Devon's foot scrapes a short distance against the pavement, sounds of him stirring though he isn't fully aware yet.
Rina works with efficient skill, her small hands seeming even more so next to the Fury's mass.
Moros holds himself still, watching Rina work, his head cocked and his brow furrowed. Frowning, he says, "Before what?" He answers Flint, though his eyes don't move from Rina.
Flint glances down at Devon, and takes a good few steps backwards, when Devon starts to stir, then leans on his knees, crouching. "When. Before." He glances at Rina, a long moment. "'fore Devon left, last. Last time."
Devon tenses, full body, as if he might sit up. Something about that changes his mind, and regardless of the wet ground and the drizzle coming from the sky, he stays on his back. It's still another moment before he opens his eyes, staring upward.
Rina ties off the knit with a little tug, and takes a breath, turning to kneel by Devon.
Moros flexes his fingers, then nods to himself and turns his attention toward the others. The bandaged arm's held close to his side.
Flint moves off to let Rina take position closer to Devon, though there's an attentiveness paid. Brow's furrowed. "We should…" Flint pauses. "Rina, we. Should get him. Home. Somewhere. Not. Not out here."
Devon's gaze snaps to the movement, afraid as described earlier. He focuses on Rina, until Flint moves next, and his gaze goes to the Galliard. When looking back to the kinswoman, he finds Moros and immediately starts trying to put distance between himself, yelling, "Go away!" Frantic enough to temporarily ignore the pain of moving.
"Don't—" Rina reaches out to forestall him. "Devon!"
Moros's lip curls into a sneer, scornful and darkly amused. He flicks hair away from his face with a jerk of his head, then wordlessly turns and moves a few feet away from the Walker trio.
Flint swells back into glabro, casts a look at Moros, then back to Devon, though Flint does move in between the two. "Devon," he says, crouching down but ready to move after the Walker ahroun if need be. "Calm down, breathe. It's okay, Dev. It's okay."
Devon looks at Rina and then Flint, breaths coming in sharp, short gulps. He moves to edge further backward, gaze flicking past Flint to Moros.
"What's going on, Dev?" Rina asks softly.
Moros remains silent, watching. Lurking.
Flint moves forward, to take up more of Devon's field of vision, leaving less room for Devon to look past, to Moros. The words, still halting, remain calm, gentle. "Breath, Devon. It's okay, it's going to be. To be okay. Rina's here. I'm here. We're gonna get you home."
"It found me," Devon answers, fear lingering. He slides himself backward a bit more, shaking with effort and malaise. When Flint steps forward he focuses on the younger boy, strung somewhere between panic and relief.
Rina takes one of Devon's hands. "It's okay," she says softly.
"I should… probably go," says Moros, watching this all with a squint and a scowl.
Flint looks over at Moros, and nods once, approval of the Ahroun leaving. "We'll be. Okay," the galliard says. "Thanks." Then, he refocuses on Devon, "C'mon Devon. I. Focus, okay? It's okay, it. It's okay. No one found you, you're. You're going to be fine."
Devon starts to look past Flint, but when his hand is taken by Rina, he looks at her instead, clearly shaken. For a moment. Then he looks at Flint, an uncertain nod following the Galliard's assurances.
Moros smirks, his lips thin and tight over his teeth. Then he heads off, still holding his wounded arm close to his torso.
Looking up to Moros, Rina rises swiftly, taking a step to close the distance between them. Her chin tips up a fraction—since she has to look up. And up. "I appreciate whatcha did," she says quietly.
Moros pauses, looking back, fixing his eyes on Rina. The smirk widens slightly into a crooked, ugly smile, showing a hint of teeth. He jerks his head in a nod, then departs.
Flint moves to take up as much of Devon's focus, as he possibly can. "Come on, Devon. We're going to. To go home, now, okay? It's safe there. No one. No one will, get you." The galliard moves to carefully pick up the ahroun, regardless perhaps for the moment of whether or not Devon can move under his own power.
Relief floods when Moros is well out of sight, though Devon remains uneasy. He cringes when he's picked up, pained, but no protest is uttered.
Rina takes a slow breath, and looks quickly over the street, scanning it as well as the windows. "Fucking hell," she mutters, and starts back toward the tenement.
Flint moves after Rina, pace steady, and he looks to Rina as he follows. "I. I'll. I'll stay with him, for," Flint offers. "His— my apartment, will do." And then, Flint falls silent, the rest of the walk home.
"I'll stay, too," Rina says quietly. "We need to figure out what it was."
29 June, 2012
The moon is in the waxing Gibbous (Galliard) Moon phase (72% full).
Moros doesn't even attempt to move out of the way, and Devon's fist connects solidly with the big man's broad chest. He does, at least, take a step back… and then he murmurs, "My turn," cocks a fist back, and sends it at Devon's face. Incoming.
Rina hammers out a text, giving the two a wide berth as she circles them. "Moros!" she calls out.
Devon is just lining up for a second strike he registers the monster's fist coming at him. He turns, slightly, a bit too late to get out of the way completely, and loses his feet this time. He smacks wetly into the ground, upon his back, sprawling. And yelling, the sound far more imbued with rage than fear. He's faster to his feet, despite the obvious injury, throwing himself rather bodily at the metis.
Moros, distracted, snaps his head around to look at Rina, and thus is off-balance when Devon collides into him. The big metis staggers, his eyes going wide with surprise for a second. Then, in a sudden storm of rage, he grabs Devon and shoves him violently away—practically throws the skinny youth, in fact.
"Shit!" Sticking her phone back in its spot, Rina breaks into a run toward them. "Cool it down!"
Devon, in his own madness and rage, doesn't hear Rina's calling. He doesn't hear much of anything when he's more or less thrown off Moros. Feet, knees, and hands scrape along pavement as he slides back. His own fury is hot, however, chased and haunted by monsters to now come face to face with one and be pushed aside, as if taunted. He snaps. Frenzy grips him completely and he hits Crinos in a blink, lunging near simultaneously at Moros with tooth and claw.
Bad Moon Rising explodes into Crinos a blink after Devon does, and at ten and a half feet tall (at least), he's as much of a monster in his birth form as in homid. Snarling, he snaps a long arm forward to catch the smaller Crinos by the throat.
Rina's almost on them when the two suddenly shift—and she skids to a halt again, wide-eyed, her head tipping up as she reverses her course to scramble back from them.
While the people who are out are rather avoiding the fight, Flint comes down the street, turning a corner at a run that doesn't slow when he sees two crinos—and Rina. Instead, the kid puts on a burst of speed that eventually puts himself very firmly between the two crinos and the kinswoman. "What-the—" is all he manages, though, watching and recognising the signs of frenzy in his tribesmate.
Red-Hands might be caught by the throat, but his claws make it a questionable catch. He flails, tearing at the limb that holds him, the head it belongs to, teeth snapping and gnashing at anything that looks like it may be within range.
Bad Moon Rising bares his fangs and digs his claws in, tightening his grip on Red's throat, shutting off his air. He keeps the other at arm's length, his head pulled back, muzzle lifted, avoiding attacks there. It's the arm itself that gets the brunt of violence, the Walker's talons raking through the oily, matted pelt to the flesh below, red blood mingling freely with the black. It's enough to drive the big Fury to the very edge of frenzy; he visibly chokes it back, and then with a roar actually lifts Red off his feet and slams him to the filthy, rain-slick pavement with as much force as he can muster.
"Devon and Moros!" Rina yells. "I think Dev's lost it!" She tugs out one of the .45's.
Red-Hands stills for an instant, stunned after being slammed into the pavement. A second or two passes, before he's renewed in his fight. hands grasp for the arm still holding him, to break it free or rip it off. More likely the latter.
Flint nods once to Rina, but he watches the situation, and holds up a hand. "No," he says, to the gun. "No." He takes a single step towards the conflict, flinches, and shifts up to glabro, then just waits.
Bad Moon Rising answers Red's attack by letting go of his throat—and then slamming down on the smaller crinos's chest with a knee. All thirteen-hundred or so pounds of him.
Rina slides back the semi-auto, and checks the street before stepping backward, putting more distance between herself and the fight.
The darkness and damp weather fortunately drove most people indoors before the altercation, and there's not a lot of traffic this way, either. If anyone's watching, they're staying out of sight.
That's quite the pleasant crunching sound. Red-Hands shudders, mouth snapping a final threat before going deathly still.
When Red-Hands goes still, Flint takes a deep breath in, and strides forward until he's just at the edge of the space. "Shift. Down." There's a moment, and Flint glances towards Moros, waits a moment, and repeats. "Shift. Please." The second time, the words take on the pleasant, persuasive quality, the young galliard crossing his arms and looking down at his tribesmate, rather than at the larger crinos.
Bad Moon Rising lingers for a second or three, maybe too long; the way he's baring his fangs looks almost like a grin, savage and ugly. His ears tilt toward Flint's voice, and after a beat he stands up, slowly, keeping his eyes on Red-Hands as he steps back and shifts, slowly, oh so slowly, down into human form. The big Ahroun's breathing hard, nostrils flaring, his gaze intent.
Rina's running to them, by then, landing on her knees and starting to check Devon over with skilled hands. "Thanks, Fury," she says quietly.
Red-Hands's own return return to homid happens within seconds of the crushing blow. He stays down, on his back, breathing if not moving.
Flint returns to his birth form once the metis has returned to homid, then looks at him, a moment. "Aight. So. Thanks, yeah," he repeats, purses his lips. "Flint, called Requiem." Flint's introduction is offered haltingly, quietly. "Cliath, and. And galliard. Glass Walker. Beta of Unfettered, child of Merlin." There's a jut of his chin upwards, expecting some sort of introduction in return.
Blood streams down Moros's right arm, flowing from a dozen or so deep gashes, courtesy of Devon's claws. The big metis shifts his weight, grimaces, then turns baleful red eyes onto Rina and Flint. "Moros. Bad Moon Rising. Metis, Ahroun, Black Fury." He breathes, in through the nose, out through his teeth.
The Kin is focused on Flint for a moment longer, before looking up to Moros. She rises to her feet, looking to Moros. "Thanks," she says quietly.
"Can…" Flint furrows his brows, looks down at Devon, then over to Moros. "Besides the obvious, what happened? Wh— When…" The galliard heaves a sigh, shoves his hands into his pockets, and takes a very deep breath. "When you first ran into D— my tribemate?" The stammer seems habitual, rather than nervous.
Moros looks down at his torn arm, frowning in a distant sort of way. With the other, and with some awkwardness, he pulls off his tank top and starts wrapping the dark material around his forearm, around the worst of the damage. A thick scar runs diagonally across his chest. "He was acting…" His eyes narrow, thinking. "Unbalanced. Fearful. Jumping at shadows."
Rina's hands reach to forestall the Fury's efforts. "Let me," she says quietly, her jaw tight as she takes the shirt from him.
Moros scowls, but he doesn't try to stop her.
Flint nods, moving to crouch near Devon, and looking up at the Fury. "That. It's unlike. Unlike him, even…" Flint muses. "He. He wasn't like that. Before."
Devon's foot scrapes a short distance against the pavement, sounds of him stirring though he isn't fully aware yet.
Rina works with efficient skill, her small hands seeming even more so next to the Fury's mass.
Moros holds himself still, watching Rina work, his head cocked and his brow furrowed. Frowning, he says, "Before what?" He answers Flint, though his eyes don't move from Rina.
Flint glances down at Devon, and takes a good few steps backwards, when Devon starts to stir, then leans on his knees, crouching. "When. Before." He glances at Rina, a long moment. "'fore Devon left, last. Last time."
Devon tenses, full body, as if he might sit up. Something about that changes his mind, and regardless of the wet ground and the drizzle coming from the sky, he stays on his back. It's still another moment before he opens his eyes, staring upward.
Rina ties off the knit with a little tug, and takes a breath, turning to kneel by Devon.
Moros flexes his fingers, then nods to himself and turns his attention toward the others. The bandaged arm's held close to his side.
Flint moves off to let Rina take position closer to Devon, though there's an attentiveness paid. Brow's furrowed. "We should…" Flint pauses. "Rina, we. Should get him. Home. Somewhere. Not. Not out here."
Devon's gaze snaps to the movement, afraid as described earlier. He focuses on Rina, until Flint moves next, and his gaze goes to the Galliard. When looking back to the kinswoman, he finds Moros and immediately starts trying to put distance between himself, yelling, "Go away!" Frantic enough to temporarily ignore the pain of moving.
"Don't—" Rina reaches out to forestall him. "Devon!"
Moros's lip curls into a sneer, scornful and darkly amused. He flicks hair away from his face with a jerk of his head, then wordlessly turns and moves a few feet away from the Walker trio.
Flint swells back into glabro, casts a look at Moros, then back to Devon, though Flint does move in between the two. "Devon," he says, crouching down but ready to move after the Walker ahroun if need be. "Calm down, breathe. It's okay, Dev. It's okay."
Devon looks at Rina and then Flint, breaths coming in sharp, short gulps. He moves to edge further backward, gaze flicking past Flint to Moros.
"What's going on, Dev?" Rina asks softly.
Moros remains silent, watching. Lurking.
Flint moves forward, to take up more of Devon's field of vision, leaving less room for Devon to look past, to Moros. The words, still halting, remain calm, gentle. "Breath, Devon. It's okay, it's going to be. To be okay. Rina's here. I'm here. We're gonna get you home."
"It found me," Devon answers, fear lingering. He slides himself backward a bit more, shaking with effort and malaise. When Flint steps forward he focuses on the younger boy, strung somewhere between panic and relief.
Rina takes one of Devon's hands. "It's okay," she says softly.
"I should… probably go," says Moros, watching this all with a squint and a scowl.
Flint looks over at Moros, and nods once, approval of the Ahroun leaving. "We'll be. Okay," the galliard says. "Thanks." Then, he refocuses on Devon, "C'mon Devon. I. Focus, okay? It's okay, it. It's okay. No one found you, you're. You're going to be fine."
Devon starts to look past Flint, but when his hand is taken by Rina, he looks at her instead, clearly shaken. For a moment. Then he looks at Flint, an uncertain nod following the Galliard's assurances.
Moros smirks, his lips thin and tight over his teeth. Then he heads off, still holding his wounded arm close to his torso.
Looking up to Moros, Rina rises swiftly, taking a step to close the distance between them. Her chin tips up a fraction—since she has to look up. And up. "I appreciate whatcha did," she says quietly.
Moros pauses, looking back, fixing his eyes on Rina. The smirk widens slightly into a crooked, ugly smile, showing a hint of teeth. He jerks his head in a nod, then departs.
Flint moves to take up as much of Devon's focus, as he possibly can. "Come on, Devon. We're going to. To go home, now, okay? It's safe there. No one. No one will, get you." The galliard moves to carefully pick up the ahroun, regardless perhaps for the moment of whether or not Devon can move under his own power.
Relief floods when Moros is well out of sight, though Devon remains uneasy. He cringes when he's picked up, pained, but no protest is uttered.
Rina takes a slow breath, and looks quickly over the street, scanning it as well as the windows. "Fucking hell," she mutters, and starts back toward the tenement.
Flint moves after Rina, pace steady, and he looks to Rina as he follows. "I. I'll. I'll stay with him, for," Flint offers. "His— my apartment, will do." And then, Flint falls silent, the rest of the walk home.
"I'll stay, too," Rina says quietly. "We need to figure out what it was."