Get it together.

[flint_garou]

"You will not go down that road."

2 October, 2012
The moon is in the waning Full (Ahroun) Moon phase (87% full).

Despite having spent most of the day so far in the workshop, Flint's up in the breakroom again, half-sitting on the kitchen counter and staring at the area that the dining table currently occupies. He stares at it for a little, humming quietly to himself. A slightly longer area around the dining table (although still rectangular) is outlined in string laid out on the floor, and then Flint's attention veers from the project at hand back to his phone, and the half-empty bottle of beer on the counter next to him.

There's a muffled thump from inside the bathroom, and then Salem emerges despite the fact that he definitely wasn't in there earlier. The grizzled halfmoon limps toward the kitchen, barely giving Flint and his doings a glance.

Flint's grip on the bottle tightens a little at the sight of the Adren, telltale along with the rest of the stress that shows in the teen's posture. "Hi Salem-rhya," Flint offers, still minorly distracted by his phone, by the subconscious tugging down of sweatshirt sleeves to bunch at his knuckles.

Salem abruptly stops and turns on his heel to face the youth, the movement quick and efficient. He squints, his dead eye squeezing almost shut. Abruptly, he asks, "What rites do you know?"

Flint blinks, finishing the sip from his beer a little more slowly, then sets it down, and answers. "Dedication. Artwork. Feed the Earth. Prayer for the Prey. Breath of Gaia, Bone Rhythms, Dance of Lights. Rite of Remembrance," and Flint tips his head towards the memorial. "The ritual thing that I suddenly knew after the dream."

Salem's mouth thins; it's hard to tell what the Adren is thinking. "You've been busy."

Flint paces over to the table, walking around the edge of it, then bending to pick up the string and loop it around his hand. The galliard nods. "I like the rites, and. Learning them," he responds, glancing at Salem. Then Flint's attention drifts, and he focuses, steadying himself against the table though it does nothing for the tension in his shoulders. "I'm partially learning anything that anyone will teach me." Flint speaks slowly, and carefully, but without the stutter and without much hesitation. "Norman-rhya is going to be teaching me the Moot Rite. It gives me something— better— to do. That, and building a new table."

Salem shifts his weight slightly, his good eye shifting toward the current table and back again. "Still not able to go out without an escort?"

Flint tucks the string into his pocket, and moves back over to the kitchen, another nod as he leans against the counter, grips the bottle more tightly again. "Except to Edgewood. And I still need an escort there and back," he confirms. Really, it doesn't look like the dining room table desperately needs to replaced, it's sturdy enough to have stood up to the abuse it gets put through on a daily basis, but there are dents and slightly warped areas.

Salem hooks his thumbs into the front pockets of his jeans (jeans which could really use a wash, like the rest of his clothing) and considers this for half a second. "This being until the leech is eliminated?"

Again the cliath nods. Flint considers the beer he's holding, the last sip of it, and then drinks it, then tosses the bottle into the recycling. "Until it's dead or gone, yes," Flint answers. The topic of the vampire doesn't seem to bring up additional stress, at least. "I'll be happy when it's dead, even… if I don't get to be part of killing it. This… causes too much stress, leaves me with too much time to fill and that I can't be out there doing things for my pack unless either Alexandra or Ky can be with me."

"You're not still cutting yourself, are you?" Salem asks, rather bluntly.

Flint doesn't look at the philodox, doesn't move from his spot against the counter, shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders. "Trying not to," he answers, attempting to dodge the question. "Haven't since I talked to Fallout-rhya."

Salem idly tucks a lock of white hair behind his ear (the good one). "Good," he says brusquely. "Keep up with that." Turning away, he limps toward the kitchen.

The teen sighs. "That's kinda the problem," Flint admits, leaning against the counter and glancing at the fridge. "I still want to. It still works better as a coping method. And the fact of that Mouse-rhya told me not to doesn't help."

Salem stops dead, then does another one of those neat, efficient turns, and a moment later he's standing right in front of the young Galliard. His stare is very intense and very cold. He says one word. "No."

Flint shakes his head, and he can't seem to actually meet Salem's gaze, but his hands grip the sleeves of his shirt. "Then… what?" Flint asks, staying still a moment longer and then moving over for the fridge, to pull out another bottle of beer, bottle opener from the counter grabbed to open it with. "I… cutting makes the other things go away and less for a time. Or really… pain, does."

"So does heroin," says the Adren coldly. His gaze tracks the Galliard, catlike. "You think it's helping you, and you rely on it, but all it does is make you weak. Addiction opens you up to the Wyrm." The last statement is delivered with utter conviction, as is the next ones: "And I'll tell you what my elder told me, years ago. You will not go down that road. Because if you do, if you lapse, I will kill you like the dog you are." There is no doubt that he means it.

Flint pauses, doesn't actually open the beer in his hand. Instead, frustration at the thought and train of thought ends up with the cliath throwing the bottle and bottle opener into the wall, too much force behind it. Which makes a mess, since the bottle breaks. "Yes, Salem-rhya," Flint says, voice tense, quiet.

Salem doesn't tell Flint to clean up the mess; he doesn't say anything at all, actually. He just heads for the door to the hallway.

Flint's breathing is audible and ragged and frustrated, as he stares at the mess, glances back at the philodox. "So what do I do, just keep busy until things are magically okay?" he asks, though from his tone he doesn't seem to actually expect an answer, but it's said loud enough that Salem can hear it nonetheless. Flint's not particularly careful as he picks up the pieces of broken glass, letting one dig into his palm after he's picked it up.

Salem angrily turns back. "Grow up!" he barks, exasperated. "Gaia is screaming, the cities are ill, the humans we're supposed to be protecting are dying, spiritually, by inches. The Wyrm is fat and growing more powerful by the day, and up there," he says, stabbing a pointing finger upward, "is a big fucking earth-cracking hunk of the Wyrm's own hammer, hiding in the Umbra, waiting for the day we falter and fail." He speaks with the ferocity and conviction of an Old Testament prophet. "And I am sick to death of whiny little shits like you going woe is me. I have fucking had it."

The galliard winces, but listens, as he picks up the pieces of glass, into the trashcan. A few more dig into his palm from grip being too tight, but Flint is cleaning up the mess that he made, barely noticing what pain might be. He takes a deep breath in, a deep breath out, opens his mouth as though to say something… and then shuts his mouth again as he gets a rag from one of the drawers, kicking the drawer shut afterwards hard enough that it bounces back open.

"It's not 'woe is me' at all," Flint mutters barely audibly, grip tightening on the rag, and then he actually seems to notice his hand, and shifts up into glabro to let it heal, mops up the rest of the mess, shifts back down to his birth form right after. "I'm tired of k-keeping busy doing t-things that don't feel like they help the big picture because I can't g-go anywhere or be a galliard right or do anything useful!" By the end, volume has risen, from barely audible to speaking with the clear frustration of the weight of the moon and the restrictions, not quite yelling and not wholly directed at the Adren, nor is there challenge in tone or posture, just anger. Then Flint's fists clench, and then he goes stone still, pushing back the near-explosion of anger that's come with the words.

Salem's nostrils flare and his jaw clenches. The beast within him is tightly leashed, unlike that of the young Galliard, but it's very obviously there, close under his skin. "Boo. Fucking. Hoo." His voice is a rasp, with a hint of predator's growl underneath. "The shit you have pulled, the shit you keep pulling? That shit would have gotten you throated weeks ago. Instead you get to continue to breathe. You get the luxury of whining about feeling ineffectual while you're surrounded by all of this." He waves his maimed hand.

Flint pulls his lips into a tight line, keeping himself from baring them, and doesn't look quite at Salem. The drawer gets kicked shut again, and again hard enough that it just rolls back open. The control of his rage is barely, barely there, but it's there nonetheless, and eventually, he nods. Clearly the cliath's actually listening, even if he doesn't like what he hears, and his breathing doesn't steady.

Salem watches this keenly, mouth set into the most disapproving of scowls. "And stop beating on the furniture. You're not a toddler."

Instead, Flint kicks the floor, and then moves over to the cabinet. With some effort, the boy gets down a cup (plastic) and goes to the sink to fill it with water. "I'd rather go out and be useful and kill something needs killing," he mutters, setting the cup down too hard on the counter when it's emptied. Cold water seems to have helped more in calming himself, but nostrils still flare again, and his hands clench into fists again.

Salem's grimace has a disgusted sort of 'are you fucking kidding me' quality. "Then get. Your fucking. Pack. Together. And go. Do. That."

Flint's control wavers for a moment, teetering on the edge of frenzy and then managing to still. However, his chin juts out a little, and he stares at Salem, the gaze hard, angry.

Salem stares right back, grim and unwavering. It's the stare of a man who has seen death, and more death, and still more death, and that monster in him, that slavering ravening beast, is just behind his eyes (and has the good one lightened a little, edging toward amber?). His weight shifts subtly, a cobra readying itself to strike.

The cliath doesn't manage to stare at the adren very long, but he doesn't submit. Instead, the sudden lurch forward and then bursting into crinos is nothing more than expected. Requiem snarls loudly, wordlessly, and the attack that follows—teeth and claws—is fueled with the speed and fire of Rage.

There are footsteps in the hallway before the violence erupts; quick, business-like footsteps, that suddenly speed into a run at the sound from the breakroom.

Salem snaps into Crinos with the ease of a Garou with plenty of rage and decades of experience. His speed belies his age and his scars as he deftly dodges and knocks aside the cliath's attack, sending the much younger Garou tumbling into the dining room table. He, at least, is perfectly in control. For now.

Requiem's feet dig into the floor and he rights himself to charge at the philodox again. Another attack and swipe of claws comes, every bit as ragefueled as the first.

A door opens, not far from the fire escape. A tall figure exits, not quite closing the door before he hurries toward the breakroom as well.

A second crinos is suddenly in the room, lunging full speed at Requiem, shoulder first. First-Strike's shoulder-check isn't exactly powerful by crinos terms even at the best of times, but at the very least, she's trying to knock him off balance.

And it's a good thing, too, because right at that moment, Salem's iron control just snaps and with an incoherent snarl of pure primal fury he launches himself toward the cliath, landing right where Requiem used to be and colliding into the dining room table. He's back on his feet in a moment and starts turning toward the pair of Crinos now, his good eye round with unthinking rage.

Bridge Builder is only a second or two behind Mouse, shifting to crinos as he lunges across the threshold into the breakroom.

Requiem regains his balance relatively quickly, launching himself back towards Scar. Teeth and claws lash out the moment that there's a chance to actually land anything of a hit.

First-Strike doesn't hesitate. She plants her feet and snaps toward Scar in an attempt to land on him before he's fully turned and balanced. She stands no chance against his claws and those teeth, and she doesn't try. Instead, she's playing for her usual tactic—try to get on his back and get a grip around his neck. Given their relative positions, the chance of this actually succeeding is… slim.

With a roar, Scar grabs First-Strike out of the air, digging his claws into her a moment before Requiem collides with them both. He immediately shoves the Theurge aside, none too gently, in order to focus his attacks on the Galliard. Claws and teeth go at the other's flesh with brutally quick efficiency, no quarter given.

Bridge Builder is right there, grabbing up a chair in one clawed hand as he sees the nasty, clawed shove of his elder. With rage-fueled speed, he uses it as a club aimed for the back of Salem's head. A low growl is stifled in his throat.

Requiem gives claws in return, raking his claws rage-fueled through the philodox's arms and anything that the cliath can reach, lunging forward to snap teeth onto whatever he can get, followed by more claws as he tries to kick Scar.

First-Strike's voice is ragged, but audible enough. ~Keep them apart!~ She shoves back into the melee, ducking under one wild clawing hand, and puts a stone, as large as she can manage, at belly height between the two frenzying Walkers. Her body joins it, lending meager strength to the attempt.

Scar manages to deliver a ferocious amount of damage to both Galliards—and to a lesser degree, receive some back from the younger one—before Mouse and Kavi succeed in separating the two and rendering both unconscious. Scar in particular has a hard skull, but eventually goes down, shrinking back to his breed form.

The younger galliard goes down fast enough when finally separated, shrinking down to his birth form. Blood quickly seeps through all of his clothing.

First-Strike remains where she is for a moment—which at this point is on the bloody, claw scored floor—heaving and gasping through a much-split muzzle, her ears slicked flat, her pupils rather too small. She spits blood, and possibly a curse, before dragging herself over to the prone, homid-shaped Flint. Her touch is not remotely gentle.

Bridge Builder steps aside as the last of the frenzied garou falls, sinking to the floor a few feet away. He doesn't shift, yet, but keeps his eyes on Mouse, panting against the pain in his own blood-drenched form.

Salem lies where he's fallen, sprawled over the wreckage that used to be a dining room table.

Much of the bleeding ceases, and Flint remains unconscious where he's crumpled.

First-Strike spits blood again, and she doesn't bother to aim away from the unconscious boy. Her head swivels stiffly toward Kavi, and then the prone Salem, ears lifting in silent query.

Bridge Builder's jaws close, silencing the panting, and he gestures with a slight nod toward the philodox.

First-Strike sinks onto an elbow, and then her chest. She jerks her head toward Kavi, rough, but clear. Come here.

The bloodied Philodox—most of it not his own—is already beginning to stir.

Bridge Builder's eyes close and open again in a slow blink, but after a moment he moves to follow the given direction. He casts a glance to the cliath as he moves, and his gaze lingers on Salem for a little longer, still, but he turns to Mouse when he nears and his ears turn backward.

Running footsteps in the hall precede Rina's arrival by mere seconds. She swings around the edge of the doorway, breathing hard.

First-Strike, for her part, doesn't move from her belly-down position on the floor, though she does lift one clawed hand as Kavi nears. She's a little gentler about the touch this time, but not by much. She doesn't seem to have the energy for being careful.

Flint does not stir, does not move. Even healed from the worse of his injuries, the cliath's out cold.

Salem mutters a thick Serbian curse as he rolls over to his stomach and, wincing, pushes up into a kneeling position.

Bridge Builder's ears remain backward as Mouse's gift works, and the worst of his injuries close. It does nothing for the blood already matting his fur, but at least no more seems to be added. He settles back into homid once the elder's done what she can for him, and he watches her with a furrowed brow.

OOC: At this point I had to go drive home. Flint gets taken back to his room at some point during this.

From down the hall, a door swings open and shut, and quiet, slow footsteps come towards the breakroom.

Rina rises, looking toward the doorway, her face still taut and shadowed.

Mouse doesn't move. As the breakroom is still an unholy mesh of blood and broken furniture, she's right in the middle of all of it.

Flint hasn't bothered to change out of the clothing that's covered in blood, himself, and the young galliard looks… a little bit confused and very much sobered, one hand raised to his forehead as he glances at the destruction. "Shit," he says, barely audible.

Rina's jaw tightens a little. "Yeah. As in you're about neck-deep in it."

Mouse makes a noise that sounds like growly, muffled agreement.

Flint winces, glancing between Rina and Mouse, and his hands loop about his wrists. He's silent a long moment, then says, slowly and carefully. "Yes," he acknowledges, coming into the breakroom and going for the kitchen, shifting up to glabro as he does so. "I'll start cleaning up."

Rina nods. "Good plan," she says quietly. "Maybe Mouse can clear us up on what exactly happened, yeah?" She goes to sit down … somewhere.

Mouse speaks right into her arm. "You challenged Salem. You frenzied on him. He frenzied in return. We all nearly died. The end."

Flint leans against the countertop, and winces, then brings both hand sup to rub at his forehead again. There's an eventual nod, and time taken to compose what he says, which is clearly not without effort. "I remember I was talking to Salem-rhya and then I remember frenzying and then I woke up in my room," he says, frustration evident still in his voice. "Shit," he repeats.

Rina rubs at the bridge of her nose. "Yeah," Rina says quietly. "You know where stuff is."

Without lifting her face from her arm, Mouse makes the thumbs-up gesture.

Flint huffs, a sigh and frustrated, and nods, though the first thing that he gets out is a large plastic trash bag. "I was… I was already going to make a table. For the breakroom," he says, moving over to start picking up pieces of table- and chair-debris. "Mr. Dalton bought the lumber for it. I thought it would be nice to have something more sturdy. I guess… now we really need it."

Rina lets out a breath, and rises. "You guys need to talk," she says quietly, and heads for the door.

This time, Mouse makes another noise into her arm. "Not really," she says, flat and breathless. But she doesn't get up. She stays right where she is.

Flint glances between Rina and Mouse, and just shakes his head, going about methodically picking up the smaller pieces of the ruined table and moving the rest of them into a pile to be cleared, all the while careful not to disturb Mouse where she lays.

Mouse lets him go about his business for a few minutes, but it doesn't last. Rather abruptly, she shoves up onto one elbow and fairly snarls, "Just get the fuck out of here already. Go to bed."

Flint pauses, one hand on the floor for balance as he's crouched, but Flint's clearly too tired to disobey. The plastic bag is shoved aside, and Flint does say, quietly, "But the mess is my fault. I should clean up."

"I'm sorry," Mouse says, entirely growly, "did I phrase that as a fucking request? Get."

The cliath straightens, shaking his head at the first question, and then Flint pushes the bag of debris further out of the way, walking over to the kitchen in order to get a bottle of water and soda from the fridge, and moves towards the door. "Yes Mouse-rhya," he acknowledges. "I'll clean it up in the morning."

Mouse's only response is a slight hunching of her shoulders.

Flint doesn't linger, and footsteps can be heard down the hallway back to his room, followed by the door opening, and shutting.