Not with me.
Monday, 17 September 2012 11:30![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
flint_garouIn which Flint asks Moros to spar, and then subsequently manages to creep Moros out.
17 September, 2012
The moon is in the waxing New (Ragabash) Moon phase (11% full).
Flint's gotten up from the couch on his security shift this morning to pace about the lobby a little. His hands are tucked into his pockets, and the pacing is more deliberate, moving from one stance to another and simply focusing on practising footwork for the moment. He hums quietly to himself.
Moros comes into the cameras' field of view, and he can be seen standing there for a few long seconds, staring up at the five-story apartment building with his red eyes hidden behind sunglasses. Eventually he climbs the steps and jabs a thick thumb on the buzzer.
Attention is jerked to the monitors and then to the door, and Flint walks over to open the door, tilting his head up, and then up some more, and then up, canting his head to look. There's a pause, before Flint opens the door more fully and steps aside to let Moros in. "Moros, right?" he asks.
Moros ducks his head as he enters, taking off his sunglasses as he does so. He stares down at Flint as he hangs the shades off the neck of his tanktop, unsmiling. "Yes," he growls, and then, bluntly, "I don't remember you, though."
Flint meets Moros's gaze for a long moment, and then the skinny teen looks away, hooking his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans. "Flint, named Carves the Requiem for Cockroach's Children. Cliath and galliard of the—" There's a pause, in which Flint starts to say something else and then just scowls at the floor and grumbles, under his breath, barely audible. 'Shut up would you', and then he looks back to Moros. "Glass Walker. Beta of Unfettered, child of Merlin." Another pause and Flint walks over towards the couch. "Devon frenzied in the city, and you were there," he says, reminder of the time they'd previously met.
"Moros," says the monster, unhurried and deliberate. "Metis Ahroun of the Black Furies, called Bad Moon Rising. Cliath, and unpacked." He sniffs, nostrils flaring, and scrutinizes Flint. "And I remember the… incident. Ripped up my arm before I put him down." It doesn't sound like he holds a grudge, though; there's even a hint of a brief smirk, though it vanishes quickly. "I'm not familiar with Merlin."
Flint moves and leans against the arm of the couch, then waves his arm in a gesture to indicate that Moros can sit somewhere if he so wishes. "She's a hawk, a small hawk, but. But fierce." There's bit of a grin, the boy clearly doesn't mind talking about his pack's totem. "Respect. She chooses Garou who may not, m-may not be, the largest, or the strongest, and teaches us. To fight things that, are bigger than ourselves, to hold strength of will."
Moros takes a seat on the couch when invited, settling himself with the habitual care of someone who is used to being scaled slightly too large for normal furniture. He nods at Flint's explanation. "Who's your alpha?"
Flint jumps up slightly so that he ends up sitting on the arm of the couch, legs bent to brace the sitting position. "Alexandra. Ahroun of the Shadow Lords, a-also cliath," he responds, tone dropping one level in volume to its usual quiet now that they're simply talking. "We were, cubs together, some."
Moros cocks his head to one side. "All of you? Or just you and your alpha?"
Flint chews his lower lip. "Ky was, at the same time, but. With Lex, not. So much with me." Flint sounds regretful, almost. "There were, things, hunting him and his uncle, from the Sept they fled from, that had, fallen. It took, some time. For him to be able, to be a cub, to Rite. So I didn't, meet him really, until after I was cliath."
Moros listens closely, showing no sign of impatience with Flint's halting speech, though intent, under-the-skin stare is far from comforting. "Things," he echoes, a questioning line appearing between heavy, almost hairless brows. "What things?"
"Hounds, and, a bane, sent by. The Dancers their Caern had, fallen to," Flint responds, quite serious now. "It. There was, a bane that. It was so cold, here, unseasonal, more than. It should have been. The Sept killed them, all. Killed the Dancers behind it, too. Alexandra was, there when they, hunted them. Ky was, allowed to stay, but. His uncle, was told to leave. Anruth."
Moros's stare is unwavering. "Why?"
Flint occasionally meets Moros's gaze, and doesn't seem too unnerved by it. "Ky's uncle, didn't. Tell the Sept about, the danger. When he first arrived." There's a tone of disgust in Flint's voice, almost. "So, he. Little Silvertip-rhya did not allow him to, stay. After. But it, wasn't Ky's fault. So Ky, got to stay."
Moros is silent for a time after this, seeming to be mulling the information over. He doesn't exactly look away from Flint, though he doesn't seem to be looking at the young Galliard either.
Flint falls silent as well for a period of time, and then purses his lips once more, chewing slightly on his lower lip. Finally, he asks Moros, awkwardly. "Did you, were you, looking for anyone, particularly? Or is there, a message, I can. Take to one of, one of my tribemates, for you?" It doesn't seem to be in a hurry to be rid of the monster's company, simply a hurry to no longer have awkward silence.
Moros blinks once, then focusses again on Flint. "I was," he says, and then gives a crooked, sneering grin. "In the neighborhood, and thought I'd drop by."
The Walker nods, and for a brief moment, grins back. It even bares teeth, a little towards feral, or perhaps devil-may-care, before Flint returns to observation of the Fury. "Fair," Flint acknowledges. "Good to, get to. Meet you, outside of. Situations." Which also sounds genuine, overall.
"Situations," Moros repeats, and then nods. "Hard to do. There are always 'situations'."
Flint huffs, a bit. "Yeah," he agrees, glancing past Moros for a long, long moment, to the front door of the tenement building, past the front door as if he could easily see the world beyond. "Even now. The— some people had a dream, the other night, and. They, woke up in the Caern? With all the wasps. And barely got out, but now, more, to do to, get the Caern back." This, however, the galliard doesn't sound like he actually has too much more info on that, and his brows furrow. "But, still."
Moros's crooked, ugly little smile fades as Flint talks, to be replaced by a scrunched frown. "Wasps. I've dreamt about wasps."
"What dreams?" Flint asks, attention jumping back to Moros. "The dreams are, they. Mean something. They. They're, shared. People have the same dreams. The. Other day, I. The, most recent one. I dreamed, of a dream. First ants, then bees, then wasps, being. Being the, hive-mind."
Moros's head does a slow tilt in true movie-slasher fashion. "Same," he says, flatly. "I had the same dream. Did you also wake up with… ritual knowledge?"
Flint raises his hand to his forehead, and nods. "I'd, yeah. I, haven't had a chance to see, any of, the Theurges, or, ask them about it, but. Yes." Flint watches Moros for a long moment. "It. The, dream was weird. More a part of, even than, than pack. And -different- than, too."
Moros grimaces. "I've never been in a pack," he growls. "And some would not consider me a full member of my tribe. So." He shrugs, flicks greasy tendrils of hair out of his face. "It was an odd dream."
Flint looks at Moros for a long moment, confused, and then nods. "Oh," he says, apologetically. "Like the bitch?" is a further asked question, perhaps referring to someone in particular, perhaps not.
"Not just her," says the monster, but then shrugs again, dismissively. "Packs are not hives, and Garou are not insects." A beat. "Who else has had this dream?"
"Everyone that, I've. Talked to. All, Garou that I have, at least. I, I think Fallout-rhya and Mouse-rhya both, had it— the dream. I. They, mentioned, though was, were. Other things to deal with, when, I. Saw them," Flint says, going silent for a long moment, fingernails digging into one palm idly. "I know, my packmates both did."
Moros is silent again after this, his head lowering, stringy hair sliding greasily back across his face. After a few seconds of this, he gets up—the couch creaking in relief—and starts toward the door.
Flint tilts his head to watch the Ahroun for a moment, holds up a finger, then, slightly makes a wordless sound. "Wait a sec," Flint asks, offers. "I'd. You're. In the area here, today and." The tone carries almost the tone of a request, as Flint slides to his feet, glancing down, then at the Fury metis. "Do, you, have some time? Or, do you have, something, else to do? I'd." Another pause, followed by that teeth-slightly-shown grin, should Moros turn back to look. "I was wondering if, you'd be up for, sparring— maybe? We've, got some space, some empty rooms, we use for that."
Moros turns back as though mildly surprised at Flint's temerity, and all through the Galliard's halting speech he just kind of… stares. Then his head tilts, considering. Finally, he nods.
Teeth are only bared for a moment more, and then Flint just grins up at Moros. "Good," he responds, and then he peers, thoughtfully, first towards the stairs to the basement, then the stairwell, then disappears into the office for a moment, coming out with a laptop and headed for the stairs. "Second floor room," he explains. "First floor has, a. Lupus cub, and her pups, in the empty apartment, and, my shift's over in, 10, anyway." The young Glass Walker seems, if anything, eager, as he leads the way up.
Moros rolls his shoulders as though loosening up as he follows the much smaller Garou upstairs. "Lupus Glass Walker?" he asks, as if surprised that such a beast exists.
Flint takes the steps two steps at a time every few steps, one arm cradling the laptop, sketchbook, and stuff that he'd grabbed, the other trailing the rail. "Lupus Glass Walker, yes. We, Kevin-rhya and Nicodemus found her, the other week, thought. And then, she, had a kinfetch, and." There's a spike of anger that laces the boys words. "Someone had, she was living with her puppies, on the street where, anything could happen, untracked, uncared for…" He furrows his brows. "But." He opens the stairwell door from the second floor, holding it open for Moros to follow. "There. One of, our Philodox is, lupus-born, too. Cheese Doodle-rhya. I. Haven't seen her recently, but. It. Sometimes."
"Cheese Doodle?" Moros echoes the name as he ducks into the second-floor hallway, brow furrowed. "That is… that's a snack food, isn't it?"
The Glass Walker just grins. "Cheese Doodle Burns Chrome, longer form, I. I think?" Then Flint shrugs, passing several doors until he takes keys from his pocket and opens the fourth one. The large room of the apartment revealed is clearly one that hasn't been renovated yet, and is used for storing some old furniture off to one side, but the main space of the room is more than large enough for sparring. At least, in homid. Flint props the door open, then sets his stuff at the far corner of the room, where it's unlikely to be damaged, and stretches his arms out in front of him.
Moros unhooks the sunglasses from the neck of his tank and tosses them casually into a corner, then steps into the middle of the open space. He tips his head, studying the skinny Walker thoughtfully, then shifts his weight into a balanced stance and brings meaty hands up in brawler's pose, ready to strike or defend. Or grab—his hands aren't fully closed into fists.
Flint balances on his heels and moves forward, though not quite forward enough. He, too, is studying the other. The kid's got decent stance, shoulders loose and ready, hands tucked into fists that look almost like a natural position for them. The movement leads to a roundhouse kick, though, mid-level for Flint and a following attempt to get up close and personal with punches.
Moros takes the punches with grunting semi-stoicism, mouth twisted into an intent frown. Flint definitely gets in some meaty hits, especially since the monster's doing little to avoid them. Soon enough, though, he gets tired of playing punching bag and lunges forward, one massive arm coming out in a brutal clothesline, attempting to simply knock Flint off his feet.
The galliard grins throughout this, cheerful if serious, right until Moros lunges forward, at which point Flint moves out of the way a second too late and too slowly. He's still knocked off balance, regaining his footing and starting to study Moros for the next opportunity to throw a punch.
Moros meanwhile follows through with the attempted clothesline and delivers his own punch, aiming for the other's head.
Flint gets knocked further off balance by this, and grunts, shaking his head and squinting to clear it. The off-balance movement turns to a jump kick, though, higher, using the height of the jump to land another punch against Moros. If anything, the teen seems to welcome the pain when Moros's attacks hit home, determination showing in the set of his jaw.
Moros staggers slightly with the hit, not quite off-balance but certainly not an immovable object. And for these first rounds of traded blows, the massive Ahroun seems to be testing the waters more than anything—not pulling punches, but taking the other's measure. He does not use his Rage, and his motions are controlled and deliberate.
Flint is starting to push, looking for ways in which he can gain a bit more advantage against the big Ahroun. He breaks a sweat in keeping up, as well, natural speed and decent luck at ducking the worst hits, but no attempt to defend, he's simply on the offensive and pushing through the blows. For the moment, the Walker doesn't use his Rage, either. Most of his own punches are aimed straight at level, meant to slow Moros down, and from a distance slightly too far for grappling, until he closes that gap and the distance. There's an uppercut for Moros's jaw, then, arms returning to a defensive stance afterwards.
Moros stumbles backward at the punch, but still doesn't fall. He does, though, take a moment to shake his head as though to clear it. He eyes Flint afterward, then grins an ugly crooked grin as he straightens up and makes a beckoning gesture.
The teen tilts his chin up, teeth bared in a smile, and keeps his arms in that defensive stance. Weight shifts from feet to feet for a moment, before Flint moves forward for another of the high kicks that he favours.
Moros seems to be ready for the kick this time and grabs Flint by the ankle. He holds it for a beat, grin widening, then gives a massive yank to the side to knock the Galliard off his remaining foot.
Flint tries to jerk away, but his ankle is skinny and easily caught in Moros's hand, and Flint succeeds in simply losing his remaining footing quicker than otherwise. The un-caught foot goes to try and kick at Moros, and though there's another grunt, there's still a wide grin on Flint's face as his head hits the floor. Eyes squint shut for a moment, then reopen, and his hands form into fists.
The Galliard opens his eyes just in time to witness three hundred twenty plus pounds of black and red clad monster come down on him. Moros doesn't let go of Flint's ankle, quite the opposite; he holds on so that he can give the leg a painful wrenching twist as he comes down to pin the Walker.
Flint tucks his chin down, a sharp breath in, and sends a fist upwards towards Moros's shoulder, or face. Aim's a bit difficult for the moment, but that doesn't mean that Flint isn't going to at least try.
It's like hitting a bear. Easy enough to do, and the beast clearly feels it, but it doesn't budge the monster in the slightest. Moros gets his weight into it, pressing the Walker painfully into the floor.
The boy takes another sharp breath in, keeps his chin tucked, and looks upwards. One punch comes, and then the punch that follows, once more towards Moros's jaw, this time is backed by the additional strength lent to the Galliard by his Rage. Flint's expression twists, between pain, and a smile, as there's a futile attempt to worm free.
Maybe it's the force of Flint's punches that make Moros ease up, though judging from the sudden crease that appears between his eyes it may be something else as well. He pushes up and off the Galliard, getting to his feet. His chest heaves as he catches his breath, nostrils flaring. And he's staring at Flint again with his head cocked.
Flint sits up for a moment first, stretching out his leg that'd been twisted, then climbing to his feet, and there's a moment where he favours the right hip and leg. The boy looks up at Moros, then, breathing heavily as well, then raises his brows a bit. It's possible that the Glass Walker could—and likely would—go another round, but he's leaving that up to Moros. Instead, aloud, he offers, rougher than usual, "Thanks."
Moros continues to stare at Flint, even after the thanks. His head tips to the other side. "I was hurting you," he says bluntly. "And you liked it."
Flint stretches out arms and shoulders as he stands there, slight winces as he moves. Gingerly for the beating he's taken so far, but no actual hesitation. There's a slow, thoughtful nod. "Yes," the Galliard acknowledges aloud, pausing a long moment. "I did. Do. When. Sometimes, pain is…" The words trail off, followed by a long pause. "Something I need."
Moros lays on that heavy, intent, red-eyed stare of his for a few more heartbeats before shaking his head and turning away. He pauses at the door to look back at the Walker, long enough to growl, "Don't ask me to spar again," and then leaves. Apparently so disturbed or disgusted or irritated by the affair to forget his sunglasses; they remain on the floor in the corner nearest the door.
Flint frowns at Moros, picking up the sunglasses and heading out into the hallway, though by this point, the boy's shifted up to glabro for the moment, letting bruises and sprains from the sparring match heal. He catches up with Moros, and offers the sunglasses. "It's…" and then Flint doesn't even try to explain, just seems a bit disappointed, honestly, like a puppy that's been kicked. "Sparring's better. Than other things. Like isn't the right word."
Moros's lip curls. He hardly looks at Flint as he clomps down the stairs. "Sparring is for improving ourselves. Testing ourselves. Learning strengths and weaknesses. Our own. Our allies'. Not for… that."
Flint continues to follow after the Ahroun. "Improving, testing, that's… the thing. Sparring is, a positive thing, a good thing. A… being able to, push myself, to. Do better. And if, I. If, that… then." He stops, letting Moros continue down the stairs, unfollowed. "I. Asked you to spar because. I. Really, haven't, against. Opponents, bigger than me. Because, the exercise, because, learn, from the experience. How to do better. That… just. Comes, after, with it."
Moros pauses at the bottom of the current flight of steps to look back and up at the Walker. Scowling, he growls, "Not with me." And then he turns back around and leaves.
17 September, 2012
The moon is in the waxing New (Ragabash) Moon phase (11% full).
Flint's gotten up from the couch on his security shift this morning to pace about the lobby a little. His hands are tucked into his pockets, and the pacing is more deliberate, moving from one stance to another and simply focusing on practising footwork for the moment. He hums quietly to himself.
Moros comes into the cameras' field of view, and he can be seen standing there for a few long seconds, staring up at the five-story apartment building with his red eyes hidden behind sunglasses. Eventually he climbs the steps and jabs a thick thumb on the buzzer.
Attention is jerked to the monitors and then to the door, and Flint walks over to open the door, tilting his head up, and then up some more, and then up, canting his head to look. There's a pause, before Flint opens the door more fully and steps aside to let Moros in. "Moros, right?" he asks.
Moros ducks his head as he enters, taking off his sunglasses as he does so. He stares down at Flint as he hangs the shades off the neck of his tanktop, unsmiling. "Yes," he growls, and then, bluntly, "I don't remember you, though."
Flint meets Moros's gaze for a long moment, and then the skinny teen looks away, hooking his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans. "Flint, named Carves the Requiem for Cockroach's Children. Cliath and galliard of the—" There's a pause, in which Flint starts to say something else and then just scowls at the floor and grumbles, under his breath, barely audible. 'Shut up would you', and then he looks back to Moros. "Glass Walker. Beta of Unfettered, child of Merlin." Another pause and Flint walks over towards the couch. "Devon frenzied in the city, and you were there," he says, reminder of the time they'd previously met.
"Moros," says the monster, unhurried and deliberate. "Metis Ahroun of the Black Furies, called Bad Moon Rising. Cliath, and unpacked." He sniffs, nostrils flaring, and scrutinizes Flint. "And I remember the… incident. Ripped up my arm before I put him down." It doesn't sound like he holds a grudge, though; there's even a hint of a brief smirk, though it vanishes quickly. "I'm not familiar with Merlin."
Flint moves and leans against the arm of the couch, then waves his arm in a gesture to indicate that Moros can sit somewhere if he so wishes. "She's a hawk, a small hawk, but. But fierce." There's bit of a grin, the boy clearly doesn't mind talking about his pack's totem. "Respect. She chooses Garou who may not, m-may not be, the largest, or the strongest, and teaches us. To fight things that, are bigger than ourselves, to hold strength of will."
Moros takes a seat on the couch when invited, settling himself with the habitual care of someone who is used to being scaled slightly too large for normal furniture. He nods at Flint's explanation. "Who's your alpha?"
Flint jumps up slightly so that he ends up sitting on the arm of the couch, legs bent to brace the sitting position. "Alexandra. Ahroun of the Shadow Lords, a-also cliath," he responds, tone dropping one level in volume to its usual quiet now that they're simply talking. "We were, cubs together, some."
Moros cocks his head to one side. "All of you? Or just you and your alpha?"
Flint chews his lower lip. "Ky was, at the same time, but. With Lex, not. So much with me." Flint sounds regretful, almost. "There were, things, hunting him and his uncle, from the Sept they fled from, that had, fallen. It took, some time. For him to be able, to be a cub, to Rite. So I didn't, meet him really, until after I was cliath."
Moros listens closely, showing no sign of impatience with Flint's halting speech, though intent, under-the-skin stare is far from comforting. "Things," he echoes, a questioning line appearing between heavy, almost hairless brows. "What things?"
"Hounds, and, a bane, sent by. The Dancers their Caern had, fallen to," Flint responds, quite serious now. "It. There was, a bane that. It was so cold, here, unseasonal, more than. It should have been. The Sept killed them, all. Killed the Dancers behind it, too. Alexandra was, there when they, hunted them. Ky was, allowed to stay, but. His uncle, was told to leave. Anruth."
Moros's stare is unwavering. "Why?"
Flint occasionally meets Moros's gaze, and doesn't seem too unnerved by it. "Ky's uncle, didn't. Tell the Sept about, the danger. When he first arrived." There's a tone of disgust in Flint's voice, almost. "So, he. Little Silvertip-rhya did not allow him to, stay. After. But it, wasn't Ky's fault. So Ky, got to stay."
Moros is silent for a time after this, seeming to be mulling the information over. He doesn't exactly look away from Flint, though he doesn't seem to be looking at the young Galliard either.
Flint falls silent as well for a period of time, and then purses his lips once more, chewing slightly on his lower lip. Finally, he asks Moros, awkwardly. "Did you, were you, looking for anyone, particularly? Or is there, a message, I can. Take to one of, one of my tribemates, for you?" It doesn't seem to be in a hurry to be rid of the monster's company, simply a hurry to no longer have awkward silence.
Moros blinks once, then focusses again on Flint. "I was," he says, and then gives a crooked, sneering grin. "In the neighborhood, and thought I'd drop by."
The Walker nods, and for a brief moment, grins back. It even bares teeth, a little towards feral, or perhaps devil-may-care, before Flint returns to observation of the Fury. "Fair," Flint acknowledges. "Good to, get to. Meet you, outside of. Situations." Which also sounds genuine, overall.
"Situations," Moros repeats, and then nods. "Hard to do. There are always 'situations'."
Flint huffs, a bit. "Yeah," he agrees, glancing past Moros for a long, long moment, to the front door of the tenement building, past the front door as if he could easily see the world beyond. "Even now. The— some people had a dream, the other night, and. They, woke up in the Caern? With all the wasps. And barely got out, but now, more, to do to, get the Caern back." This, however, the galliard doesn't sound like he actually has too much more info on that, and his brows furrow. "But, still."
Moros's crooked, ugly little smile fades as Flint talks, to be replaced by a scrunched frown. "Wasps. I've dreamt about wasps."
"What dreams?" Flint asks, attention jumping back to Moros. "The dreams are, they. Mean something. They. They're, shared. People have the same dreams. The. Other day, I. The, most recent one. I dreamed, of a dream. First ants, then bees, then wasps, being. Being the, hive-mind."
Moros's head does a slow tilt in true movie-slasher fashion. "Same," he says, flatly. "I had the same dream. Did you also wake up with… ritual knowledge?"
Flint raises his hand to his forehead, and nods. "I'd, yeah. I, haven't had a chance to see, any of, the Theurges, or, ask them about it, but. Yes." Flint watches Moros for a long moment. "It. The, dream was weird. More a part of, even than, than pack. And -different- than, too."
Moros grimaces. "I've never been in a pack," he growls. "And some would not consider me a full member of my tribe. So." He shrugs, flicks greasy tendrils of hair out of his face. "It was an odd dream."
Flint looks at Moros for a long moment, confused, and then nods. "Oh," he says, apologetically. "Like the bitch?" is a further asked question, perhaps referring to someone in particular, perhaps not.
"Not just her," says the monster, but then shrugs again, dismissively. "Packs are not hives, and Garou are not insects." A beat. "Who else has had this dream?"
"Everyone that, I've. Talked to. All, Garou that I have, at least. I, I think Fallout-rhya and Mouse-rhya both, had it— the dream. I. They, mentioned, though was, were. Other things to deal with, when, I. Saw them," Flint says, going silent for a long moment, fingernails digging into one palm idly. "I know, my packmates both did."
Moros is silent again after this, his head lowering, stringy hair sliding greasily back across his face. After a few seconds of this, he gets up—the couch creaking in relief—and starts toward the door.
Flint tilts his head to watch the Ahroun for a moment, holds up a finger, then, slightly makes a wordless sound. "Wait a sec," Flint asks, offers. "I'd. You're. In the area here, today and." The tone carries almost the tone of a request, as Flint slides to his feet, glancing down, then at the Fury metis. "Do, you, have some time? Or, do you have, something, else to do? I'd." Another pause, followed by that teeth-slightly-shown grin, should Moros turn back to look. "I was wondering if, you'd be up for, sparring— maybe? We've, got some space, some empty rooms, we use for that."
Moros turns back as though mildly surprised at Flint's temerity, and all through the Galliard's halting speech he just kind of… stares. Then his head tilts, considering. Finally, he nods.
Teeth are only bared for a moment more, and then Flint just grins up at Moros. "Good," he responds, and then he peers, thoughtfully, first towards the stairs to the basement, then the stairwell, then disappears into the office for a moment, coming out with a laptop and headed for the stairs. "Second floor room," he explains. "First floor has, a. Lupus cub, and her pups, in the empty apartment, and, my shift's over in, 10, anyway." The young Glass Walker seems, if anything, eager, as he leads the way up.
Moros rolls his shoulders as though loosening up as he follows the much smaller Garou upstairs. "Lupus Glass Walker?" he asks, as if surprised that such a beast exists.
Flint takes the steps two steps at a time every few steps, one arm cradling the laptop, sketchbook, and stuff that he'd grabbed, the other trailing the rail. "Lupus Glass Walker, yes. We, Kevin-rhya and Nicodemus found her, the other week, thought. And then, she, had a kinfetch, and." There's a spike of anger that laces the boys words. "Someone had, she was living with her puppies, on the street where, anything could happen, untracked, uncared for…" He furrows his brows. "But." He opens the stairwell door from the second floor, holding it open for Moros to follow. "There. One of, our Philodox is, lupus-born, too. Cheese Doodle-rhya. I. Haven't seen her recently, but. It. Sometimes."
"Cheese Doodle?" Moros echoes the name as he ducks into the second-floor hallway, brow furrowed. "That is… that's a snack food, isn't it?"
The Glass Walker just grins. "Cheese Doodle Burns Chrome, longer form, I. I think?" Then Flint shrugs, passing several doors until he takes keys from his pocket and opens the fourth one. The large room of the apartment revealed is clearly one that hasn't been renovated yet, and is used for storing some old furniture off to one side, but the main space of the room is more than large enough for sparring. At least, in homid. Flint props the door open, then sets his stuff at the far corner of the room, where it's unlikely to be damaged, and stretches his arms out in front of him.
Moros unhooks the sunglasses from the neck of his tank and tosses them casually into a corner, then steps into the middle of the open space. He tips his head, studying the skinny Walker thoughtfully, then shifts his weight into a balanced stance and brings meaty hands up in brawler's pose, ready to strike or defend. Or grab—his hands aren't fully closed into fists.
Flint balances on his heels and moves forward, though not quite forward enough. He, too, is studying the other. The kid's got decent stance, shoulders loose and ready, hands tucked into fists that look almost like a natural position for them. The movement leads to a roundhouse kick, though, mid-level for Flint and a following attempt to get up close and personal with punches.
Moros takes the punches with grunting semi-stoicism, mouth twisted into an intent frown. Flint definitely gets in some meaty hits, especially since the monster's doing little to avoid them. Soon enough, though, he gets tired of playing punching bag and lunges forward, one massive arm coming out in a brutal clothesline, attempting to simply knock Flint off his feet.
The galliard grins throughout this, cheerful if serious, right until Moros lunges forward, at which point Flint moves out of the way a second too late and too slowly. He's still knocked off balance, regaining his footing and starting to study Moros for the next opportunity to throw a punch.
Moros meanwhile follows through with the attempted clothesline and delivers his own punch, aiming for the other's head.
Flint gets knocked further off balance by this, and grunts, shaking his head and squinting to clear it. The off-balance movement turns to a jump kick, though, higher, using the height of the jump to land another punch against Moros. If anything, the teen seems to welcome the pain when Moros's attacks hit home, determination showing in the set of his jaw.
Moros staggers slightly with the hit, not quite off-balance but certainly not an immovable object. And for these first rounds of traded blows, the massive Ahroun seems to be testing the waters more than anything—not pulling punches, but taking the other's measure. He does not use his Rage, and his motions are controlled and deliberate.
Flint is starting to push, looking for ways in which he can gain a bit more advantage against the big Ahroun. He breaks a sweat in keeping up, as well, natural speed and decent luck at ducking the worst hits, but no attempt to defend, he's simply on the offensive and pushing through the blows. For the moment, the Walker doesn't use his Rage, either. Most of his own punches are aimed straight at level, meant to slow Moros down, and from a distance slightly too far for grappling, until he closes that gap and the distance. There's an uppercut for Moros's jaw, then, arms returning to a defensive stance afterwards.
Moros stumbles backward at the punch, but still doesn't fall. He does, though, take a moment to shake his head as though to clear it. He eyes Flint afterward, then grins an ugly crooked grin as he straightens up and makes a beckoning gesture.
The teen tilts his chin up, teeth bared in a smile, and keeps his arms in that defensive stance. Weight shifts from feet to feet for a moment, before Flint moves forward for another of the high kicks that he favours.
Moros seems to be ready for the kick this time and grabs Flint by the ankle. He holds it for a beat, grin widening, then gives a massive yank to the side to knock the Galliard off his remaining foot.
Flint tries to jerk away, but his ankle is skinny and easily caught in Moros's hand, and Flint succeeds in simply losing his remaining footing quicker than otherwise. The un-caught foot goes to try and kick at Moros, and though there's another grunt, there's still a wide grin on Flint's face as his head hits the floor. Eyes squint shut for a moment, then reopen, and his hands form into fists.
The Galliard opens his eyes just in time to witness three hundred twenty plus pounds of black and red clad monster come down on him. Moros doesn't let go of Flint's ankle, quite the opposite; he holds on so that he can give the leg a painful wrenching twist as he comes down to pin the Walker.
Flint tucks his chin down, a sharp breath in, and sends a fist upwards towards Moros's shoulder, or face. Aim's a bit difficult for the moment, but that doesn't mean that Flint isn't going to at least try.
It's like hitting a bear. Easy enough to do, and the beast clearly feels it, but it doesn't budge the monster in the slightest. Moros gets his weight into it, pressing the Walker painfully into the floor.
The boy takes another sharp breath in, keeps his chin tucked, and looks upwards. One punch comes, and then the punch that follows, once more towards Moros's jaw, this time is backed by the additional strength lent to the Galliard by his Rage. Flint's expression twists, between pain, and a smile, as there's a futile attempt to worm free.
Maybe it's the force of Flint's punches that make Moros ease up, though judging from the sudden crease that appears between his eyes it may be something else as well. He pushes up and off the Galliard, getting to his feet. His chest heaves as he catches his breath, nostrils flaring. And he's staring at Flint again with his head cocked.
Flint sits up for a moment first, stretching out his leg that'd been twisted, then climbing to his feet, and there's a moment where he favours the right hip and leg. The boy looks up at Moros, then, breathing heavily as well, then raises his brows a bit. It's possible that the Glass Walker could—and likely would—go another round, but he's leaving that up to Moros. Instead, aloud, he offers, rougher than usual, "Thanks."
Moros continues to stare at Flint, even after the thanks. His head tips to the other side. "I was hurting you," he says bluntly. "And you liked it."
Flint stretches out arms and shoulders as he stands there, slight winces as he moves. Gingerly for the beating he's taken so far, but no actual hesitation. There's a slow, thoughtful nod. "Yes," the Galliard acknowledges aloud, pausing a long moment. "I did. Do. When. Sometimes, pain is…" The words trail off, followed by a long pause. "Something I need."
Moros lays on that heavy, intent, red-eyed stare of his for a few more heartbeats before shaking his head and turning away. He pauses at the door to look back at the Walker, long enough to growl, "Don't ask me to spar again," and then leaves. Apparently so disturbed or disgusted or irritated by the affair to forget his sunglasses; they remain on the floor in the corner nearest the door.
Flint frowns at Moros, picking up the sunglasses and heading out into the hallway, though by this point, the boy's shifted up to glabro for the moment, letting bruises and sprains from the sparring match heal. He catches up with Moros, and offers the sunglasses. "It's…" and then Flint doesn't even try to explain, just seems a bit disappointed, honestly, like a puppy that's been kicked. "Sparring's better. Than other things. Like isn't the right word."
Moros's lip curls. He hardly looks at Flint as he clomps down the stairs. "Sparring is for improving ourselves. Testing ourselves. Learning strengths and weaknesses. Our own. Our allies'. Not for… that."
Flint continues to follow after the Ahroun. "Improving, testing, that's… the thing. Sparring is, a positive thing, a good thing. A… being able to, push myself, to. Do better. And if, I. If, that… then." He stops, letting Moros continue down the stairs, unfollowed. "I. Asked you to spar because. I. Really, haven't, against. Opponents, bigger than me. Because, the exercise, because, learn, from the experience. How to do better. That… just. Comes, after, with it."
Moros pauses at the bottom of the current flight of steps to look back and up at the Walker. Scowling, he growls, "Not with me." And then he turns back around and leaves.