Safehouse: Basement

The basement runs about half the width of the house above, with a concrete block wall separating the two. Most of the the area is open and unfinished and sports the usual basement decor of cobwebs, exposed rafters, and cockroaches scuttling along the walls. The furnace and hot water heater stand in glory in the northeast corner along with the fuse box; the northwest corner has been set up as an open workshop with a pair of fluorescent lights bolted to the ceiling. In the southwest corner stands a vault: more concrete blocks enclose a room perhaps ten by ten and a sturdy steel door denies passage either into or out of the place.

Steps lead up from the southeast corner.

Natalie 'escorts' Kevin down the stairs, making the cub go first and tromping down after the boy. "Relax," she tells him, despite her own slightly-nervous aura. "This isn't going to hurt. Just... over to the rumpus room. I put a couple of folding chairs in there earlier so we don't have to sit on concrete."

Kevin looks about as relaxed as a pigeon at a cat convention. He's shut up complaining about his forthcoming introduction to the wonderful world of illegal substances, but he still looks as though he'd rather be stabbed or shot again than partake in the dubious pleasures awaiting him. With a quiet nod he walks over to the concrete-lined corner.

Grey comes trailing after the two, looking as dour as usual. By now, the halfmoon's grim, humorless manner is probably quite familiar to the cub. He's already prepared the joint, and both Kevin and Natalie are free to wonder about how he got that skill.

Natalie waits for the Philodox to join them in the bunker before shutting the door, letting Kevin take a seat under his own speed. "So. This shouldn't be anything big. We're just going to get you to relax, since it only seems to want to come out and play when you're sleeping. Few hits and you ought to be... And then once it's talking," she skims blithely over the intervening time, "Up to Crinos, we have our chat, and I tell it to shove off. The end." So confident.

"Well," Kevin confides, "I've been so stressed out about this I hardly slept last night, so I'm pretty dead beat, so... let's hope you're right..." He gives the joint in Grey's hand a foreboding stare.

"Sleep deprivation could work to our advantage," Grey says flatly. His mismatched eyes narrow on the boy. "If you've ever had any strange dreams that you remember, this would be a good time to focus on them."

"I'll go get the lights," Nat adds, slipping out of the door - it doesn't even creak - and back to the stairs. She flicks off the one for the bunker - a single bulb protected by a wire cage - then the one between bunker and stairs, leaving only a single bulb glowing at the far end near the washer and dryer. Once the basement's cast into chilly gloom, she returns to stand in the doorway.

Kevin gets a gleam in his eyes at Grey's words. One might deduce that they have struck a chord within the cub's mind. As the lights click out, the basement seems to grow a little colder, and the bare concrete blocks of the rumpus room a little rougher. The cub's arms clasp round his torso. He says no more at present.

Grey, assuming probably that the straight-arrow cub has probably never smoked even a legal cigarette in his life, gets the joint started for him. He, at least, shows the mannerisms of a long-time smoker, though the perceptive may note that he doesn't inhale too deeply. Taking the joint from his mouth, he addresses Kevin. "Sit down, relax. Try to clear your mind." In regards to the drug, which he now offers to the young Ragabash, his advice is, "Inhale deeply and hold it for a few seconds before you exhale."

Kevin inhales deeply. Then exhales. Then inhales deeply again. Textbook way to smoke a naughty cigarette, except that as yet he hasn't got it to his lips; it's still in his hand. "Here's to crime," he says, with forced humour, as though making a toast, and tries the inhaling trick with the joint in his mouth. Grey's assumption may not be far off the mark; within two seconds Kevin is coughing his young head off as the first lungful of smoke comes back out. "Holy crap!" he curses. "It's /hot/." Perhaps the cub has omitted to notice that cigarettes are usually on fire while being smoked.

Natalie remains in the doorway, silent and watching.

Grey slips his hands into his pockets. "It is." He shrugs faintly. "Take it slowly. There's no rush. Your body'll take some time to get used to it, especially if you've never smoked before."

Kevin recovers from his coughing fit and cautiously tries again. This time he manages to keep the smoke in his lungs for a while longer, though the grimace on his features shows clearly what he thinks of the experience. After several seconds he gratefully exhales a long stream of smoke and gulps some fresh air -- well, as fresh as the air gets down here.

Grey gives the cub an encouraging nod, then wanders over to stand closer to Natalie. As yesterday in the computer room, he makes a pretense of not watching the cub at all -- all the better to relax you, my dear -- but the underlying tension within the man somewhat spoils the effect.

Upstairs footsteps and the occasional squeak of a floorboard indicates someone is walking around the Glasswalker area. The steps move room to room, before they head in the direction of the stairs. A few moments later, Tu descends.

Kevin resolutely returns the joint to his mouth and takes another long draw on it. After another minute or two, he's worked out a basic rhythm for toking, and the joint soon begins to look a good deal shorter than it started off. As Tu comes downstairs to join the other cliaths Kev gives him a smile that could mean 'Hi, I'm stoned out of my tree' or could equally signify 'Would you just look at what these strange people are making me do now?'

Nat quietly, without looking to see who's coming down the stairs, slips into the room to place her back against the concrete wall. She, like Grey, pointedly isn't looking at the cub.

Grey glances over at Tu and gives the Ragabash a brief nod.

By the time the joint is worn down to what some people, appropriately enough, call a roach, the youngster does seem to be displaying definite signs of the cannabis getting to his hitherto pure system. At least, Kevin's smiling a lot more than he usually does, and talking a lot less. Finally, he extracts the last drags from the joint, and flicks away the stub-end. Then, without a by-your-leave or a word to the other garou, as though he's forgotten their existence, he suddenly shifts all the way through the forms into lupus, and wriggles his four legs out of the chair to lie on the floor curled into a light brown wolven ball. His eyes close drowsily.

"Here you are," the ragabash says to no one and everyone. "I must have missed the meeting notice." His nostrils flair as he takes in the pungent odor of the smoke, eyes darting to the cub. He remains close to Natalie and Grey, though. "What's up?"

Grey eyes the dozing cub with a grimace. "Trying to tempt out Kevin's ghost. Past life." He glances over at Tu. "The one who's been leaving those notes in Danish."

Natalie lets out a little 'hah' of triumph once the cub's shifted; she flicks a quick look and a nod toward Tu but other than that acknowledgment, ignores him. Instead she shifts up to Crinos, sinking down onto her haunches lest her ears brush the unfinished ceiling. ~Come out,~ she invites, staring at Kevin's slumped form.

Long-Climb remains inert, eyes closed, nose tucked under his tail, for several minutes. Only the rise and fall of his flank, and now and then a tiny lupine whuffling snore, betrays that he is a living being rather than a statue. But at about the ten minute mark, he suddenly twitches and his hind legs kick. After another motionless moment, just long enough for the watchers to start to wonder whether the kick was just a wolf-dream, he opens his eyes and looks straight at the trio, then rises to his four feet, tail moving high as he gazes unblinkingly towards Tu, Grey and Nat.

A flash of understanding lights Tu's eyes as he looks from Grey back over to the cub and Natalie. "So, he's been leaving them. I thought it was the Get who's been camping here." He watches the now-lupine cub roll around on the floor. "You know what the notes have been saying?"

~Come out,~ Holds-the-Line repeats, her hackles bristling under the cub's assumption of dominance. Her ears are swiveled forward, straight toward Long-Climb, letting the two homid chatter between themselves without so much as a flick toward the conversation.

Grey notes the change and becomes alert, even tense. He answers Tu in a low voice, letting Natalie do the actual talking to their new visitor. "The Get don't come over to our side, which is where the notes were left." He folds his arms across his chest. "The first note said we'd stolen him and that nothing good would come of it. The second one said we should shoot him more often, because it would make him stronger."

After a second or three of gazes exchanged in silence, the cub shifts again. Without any of his usual preliminaries and false start he grows and looms until he gains the war-form too, and speaks. ~You wished me to come out. Well, I am out.~ he says in matter of fact tones, looking not at the other crinos but at Grey. His words are spoken in the Mother Tongue; the accent overlaying them is a little unusual.

Tu says "Fuck", the no-moon says with a frown, watching the cub and alpha closely. "He was a Get."

Long-Climb-Ahead:

Those who have seen other examples of this form (and lived) will note that this beast is perhaps not the hugest example ever; but he still looms upwards, a good eight and a half feet from his huge feet to his thickly dark-furred head. His bushy tail sweeps out from his rump, his legs and arms bulge with muscle, and all four paws are tipped with savage claws. His features are equally as feral; his eyes gleam with a wild light, and his mouth seems filled to overflowing with viciously sharp teeth. Yet for all this his posture and demeanour are oddly restrained for such a terrifying creature, and he holds himself almost as though he feels out of place in such an enormous, menacing shape.

Holds-the-Line

Just over eight feet tall, this monstrous werewolf is enough to send little lizard brains scuttling for the nearest small cave. She's covered in shaggy beige fur from broad toothy muzzle to the tip of her functional tail, darker hairs scattered here and there. Muscles Mr. Universe would envy ripple under her hide whenever she moves. She would seem to be equally at home on four legs as two. Pocked across her entire form are places where the hair doesn't grow - none of them prominent, but there are plenty of them.

Holds-the-Line slaps the floor, her claws grinding against the concrete. ~I am over here,~ she warns in a growl. ~It is to me you speak. Who are you? What do you want with my cub?~ Confidence is writ all over the pale-furred crinos, despite her smaller size.

Long-Climb speaks to Grey still, paying no more heed to Nat or to Tu than the cub did earlier. ~The boy does not know of me. When he slumbers, I may wake. When he is wakeful, I cannot be so.~ His style of speaking is definitely archaic, non-local, or probably both. ~Having no body, I was sent by the Mother to watch over him. I was once Hjalmar Larsen, by rite named Claws-of-the-North, called also Filthcleanser and Slaughters-Six, Fostern and Rotagar of the Sept of the Seething Well, Beta of Pack Stormcloud.~ With which introduction he finally deigns to acknowledge the existence of the other crinos. ~I might as well ask, what your tribe, woman, does with him.~ he says icily.

~My tribe, Holds-the-Line replies shortly, ~claims him for Cockroach. I am Holds-the-Line, Cliath Galliard, and Elder of the Glass Walkers of the Hidden Walk. If you wish to complain about how your...~ She hesitates, muzzle wrinkling as though attempting to shake flies. ~descendant is trained, you speak with me.~ Tu slips away from Grey while the Get's attention is off the pair of them, and out into the basement proper.

Grey stands with hands clasped behind his back, holding himself still and quiet. Despite his gender and obvious breeding, the former Shadow Lord is clearly showing deference toward the irritable female Crinos. It's obvious which of them is more dominant.

Long-Climb casts a cold, cold stare in the direction of the elder. Wordlessly he scratches his claws down the rough surface of the concrete blocks that form the wall of the rumpus room; first left hand, then right. ~Your tribe claimed him ere his heritage was known,~ he points out in his archaic dialect. ~Such is the way of this sept. Now it is unknown no more and he should be returned to where he belongs. Do the Fenrir of this sept yet know that he is rightfully theirs?~

Holds-the-Line drops into a three-point stance, orange eyes cool as she stares at the self-declared Fostern. ~He is not a son of Fenris. He is unmarked. Unclaimed. Lost. By the rules of his Sept, he chooses his tribe. He has chosen Cockroach.~

Long-Climb's eyes narrow, but he does not alter his stance. ~That he was unmarked was an accident. He belongs with his own people.~ He pauses for a moment. ~I do not speak from any desire to belittle the Riders of Iron,~ he adds, ~but solely with the good of the boy at heart -- as I believe you do also, in your own way. He chose your tribe in a moment of weakness when he confided in you, though in his heart if not in his knowledge he felt the call of Fenris strongly. He cannot be happy, cannot be in his true place, save with the Get. So again I ask, have they been informed?~

~You,~ the Galliard replies, left paw curled up nearly to her chest, ~are in no place to make demands, dead man. You say you are here to watch over him. Then... watch. That is all you can do.~

~If I watch and do no more,~ Hjalmar retorts through Kevin's lips, ~I will watch a boy with seven generations or more of the blood of my tribe denied his heritage and confined in a place where through no fault of his own he does not belong. I would not serve the boy, or Gaia Herself, if I took no action in such circumstances. If you will not see the force of my argument, you should consult a Forseti -- a half-moon -- to adjudge the truth.~ Scratch, scratch, go his claws on the concrete blocks once more. ~Of neither your tribe, nor mine,~ he adds with a glance -- not a favourable one -- to Grey.

Grey's upper lip curls, and the look he returns to Filthcleanser is no more favorable.

Holds-the-Line lowers her foot to the ground -- but only to push herself up to her feet. ~I will speak with my pack alpha, the Jarl. I will tell her of your words, but the boy is mine. Mistake or not, heritage or none, the boy was unmarked. He was free for the taking. No Forseti would disagree with my claim.~

Long-Climb gives a ferocious tooth-baring snarl, which suddenly turns, unexpectedly, into an equally enthusiastic laugh. ~You plainly think him a prize worth fighting over, at least,~ he chuckles. ~He is not yet Rited. Cockroach knows him not, nor has marked him as yours. And I -- like him, a new-moon -- do not presume to make the Forseti's decisions for him. Unlike you, a Skald. Your confidence is... admirable.~ He laughs again. ~For your sake, woman, I hope it is not misplaced.~ He subsides, chuckling again as though at some joke that only he can see.

~I'm just all full of confidence,~ Holds-the-Line snarls, her lips shivering away from her teeth at the laughter. ~My mother raised me right. Now: do I have your word that you will leave him alone? No more late night messages. I will bring you out when I have spoken with the Jarl.~

Long-Climb keeps sniggering for several moments more. A Garou sniggering in crinos form is not an entirely wholesome sight. ~Were I but in my own body...~ he smiles menacingly, but leaves that sentence unfinished. ~How am I to communicate with you, or with him, save by the means I have used so far? How am I to protest when you let his training lapse? He has not sparred in war-form once since you took him away. This I will concede,~ he says, ~that I will no more use his body to drink. It was long years since I tasted beer.~ He gives a nostalgic sigh. ~But I was thoughtless of the boy in that deed alone, and so much only I give my word to.~

Holds-the-Line raps out, ~If you were in your own body, you'd still be dead. And if by some miracle you weren't, I'd kick your ass for the disrespect you show me." No, she is in no wise intimidated by the long-dead Ragabash. "You heard me: after I've talked to the Jarl, I will get in contact with you. Until then, you behave yourself. No late night wandering, no beer, no leaving us cryptic notes. I've got more important things to do than waste time trying to figure out your handwriting.~

Long-Climb snorts. ~I cannot and will not accede to your demands.~ He gives another little Crinos-laugh. ~Well it is for you that this half-moon's hashish is of the best quality, for it makes me amused at your words, which perchance would otherwise have angered me.~ His eyes fix on the elder's once more, and the two stare at one another for a long moment. ~For the cub's sake if not for yours, no beer. And if I must communicate with you I shall do so as briefly as may be. But I can write only in mine own tongue, and that you must live with. Meantime...~ He raises one clawed finger. ~Remember my advice to you. Shoot the boy more often. Let him fight, let him spar. He has a warrior's spirit, Rotagar though he be, and you would do well to allow it to flourish.~ He turns from Holds-the-Line to the silent Grey. ~I speak those words to you also -- you who have fought many years for Gaia, you who should know even if she does not the worth of a warrior.~

Holds-the-Line snarls, a low guttural threat that is the ancestor's only warning, then leaps at him, Rage-fueled. In an eye-blink she's caught the dark-furred Crinos across the shoulders and brought him down to the hard concrete floor, kneeling over his prone body with her muzzle bare inches from his. Her breath hot and humid, right paw pulled back menacingly, she growls, ~He is MINE. You have NO say in how I train him. NONE. You will submit to my demands now. If you do not, if you break your word I will have you removed from him, and you will be as lost as he, never to return to Gaia's embrace. Do. You. Understand Me.~

Grey goes rigid with anger, his form bulking up into Glabro as though only sheer strength of will keeps him from taking Crinos. Overlong teeth bared, he clenches his hands into fists, his snarl echoing Natalie's sentiments.

Long-Climb, having turned mostly away from the elder in order to address Grey, is caught fair and square and bowled over, loosing a savage snarl as he hits the deck. His eyes are incendiary as he looks back up at her. ~For the sake of he whom I am sent to protect, and for THAT REASON ALONE,~ he snaps in guttural fury, ~I yield. You will see me no more until you have consulted your Jarl. Do so without delay.~ His jaws snap shut with those words.

Holds-the-Line takes great care in enunciating, ~I take no orders from you, dead man. You are Get; I will rely on your Honor." Another baring of her teeth, her eyes never leaving his. "Now get out. I'm tired of listening to you.~

Grey's meaty, long-nailed hands open and close, open and close, as though restless to strike. Or choke.

Long-Climb says no more. Instead, his body shifts, returning to the lupus form that it was in prior to the ancestor's presence in it. The wolf's eyes are closed momentarily, but spring open with a startled yip. Help, I am trapped, howls the small wolf in fear, the noise echoing round the basement area.

Holds-the-Line pushes herself off the wolfcub, returning to her birthform with unthinking ease. "Damn," she says, brushing invisible crumbs from her clothing, "That was... yech. Makes me glad we don't have to worry about that sort of crap."

Long-Climb scrambles away from Nat as she releases him from the pinned-down position and scoots, whining and trembling, into a corner, ears flat.

Grey slowly shrinks back down into homid, his face still tight. He glowers down at the cub as though it were all his fault. "And I thought Arrows was bad. Fuck."

Natalie watches Long-Climb with an unhappy scowl. "It's all right, kiddo. The idiot's gone. We're not mad at you. Just your lippy visitor." Though in homid, her lip twitches again, a move nowhere near as impressive as it was a few seconds ago.

Long-Climb peers out from his corner nervously, submissively, as though still expecting the two cliath to descend on him and rip him to little wolfy pieces.

Grey looks away from the cub with an expression of disgust and turns toward Natalie. "Are you serious about getting a Judge over this?"

"If Signe gets possessive," she says, turning away from the cub to head out the door. "She won't. --Deal with him. I need to take a few. Wash my hands."

Long-Climb's ears still lie flat as he slinks out of his corner towards Grey, head on one side and throat well exposed. I will be good, he whines. What happened? Holds-the-Line is still angry.

Grey nods to the departing Elder, then turns back to Long-Climb. He scowls, arms folded across his chest. "You have a Get in your head, boy, and he doesn't think we're worthy of you. He's the one who's been writing the notes. That day you woke up sick? Hangover from him using your body so he could get shitfaced."

Long-Climb growls a little, expressing a mix of surprise, disgust and dismay. Then that is where the old full moon's beer went, he comments. I feel sick to think of it.

Grey's glare is positively hateful, full of the promise of violence. "Yes. And Natalie's going to talk to Signe, and if Signe wants you, we'll have to get someone neutral to Judge which tribe you belong to." Again, his tone suggests that this is all Kevin's fault, every little bit of it.

Long-Climb gives another submissive whine to the cliath, and flopping down onto the concrete floor, rolls over, throat up. I did not want it, I did not ask for it, he protests nervously.

Grey glowers for a few moments more before pacing away. The cub's self-abasement deflects potential hurt, but he's still angry. "You'll find out soon enough that the universe doesn't give much of a shit what you want."

Natalie returns to the cell in at a stalk, though less tightly wound than when she left. The stairs never creaked, so she must have just taken a few turns around the basement. She pulls up in the doorway on spying the pair, suspicion and anger still sparking in her eyes, but stays quiet.

Long-Climb watches Grey stalk away from him, sad-eyed. If he was thinking about regaining his feet again, Nat's return puts any such thoughts from him; he remains in the submissive rolled-over posture, throat up, the very picture of a wolf in despair before a power greater than it.

Grey gives the Elder a sharp look. His jaw tightens, and he cocks his head in a brief show of throat before turning his dour gaze back down to the cub.

Natalie's nostrils flare at Grey, but she quickly enough turns her attention back to the cub. "Get up, kiddo. We aren't mad at you." It's not a suggestion: it's an order. "Do you remember anything? And shift back to homid for the love of Pete."

Long-Climb, ears still flat, rolls back over. His posture suggests that he's not entirely convinced that Grey, at least, isn't hopping mad at he, himself, personally. After several false starts, contortions, and attempts to stand on two legs that would be comic if the situation weren't so humourless, the cub finally manages to catch hold of enough rage to regain his birthform. He stands on two legs only for a moment before sliding down the concrete wall to sit on the floor, looking low on both emotional and physical energy. "All I remember," he says sadly, "is feeling dead tired... and going to sleep... and waking with you about to rip my throat out." He shivers.

Grey pushes his hands into his pockets, deep, and glowers silently.

Natalie forces out a sigh. "Not your throat. Claws-of-the-North. Your..." Her fingers flick dismissively even as her lip curls again, the little motion as reflexive and unthinking as breathing. "As arrogant and likable as any Shadow Lord. But. He claims you come from seven generations of Get breeding. I told him I'd talk to Signe, but I'm not giving you up. You're ours." Mine, says her emphasis. "And Mr. Icicle-Toes will just have to lump it."

"So you were right," Kevin says in quiet, resigned tones. He looks down at the floor between his legs, but finding no evident inspiration there, looks back up. "This may be a silly question, but do I have any say in this little custody battle? I mean, this is my body. Not his. Or, as well as his, perhaps."

Natalie's eyes narrow at the boy. "You already had your say. You chose us." She's not a complete bitch, though; after a second she relents with a little snort, paces farther into the small room. "What did you have in mind? And it's your body. He's just hanging on 'cause he's got no where else to go. Spiritual roundworm."

Kevin nods. "That was going to be my point. You know what I said. With all respect to Fenris and every last Get on Gaia's green earth," he says with complete sincerity, "I couldn't be one. It'd break me. And a broken garou's no good to anyone, right?" A watery flash of humour, but a valiant attempt in the circumstances from the cub.

Grey grunts, showing no sign of humor at all. "No, not really."

Natalie crouches where she stands, a three-point stance like the one she was in as Crinos. "Right. And that's just it, kiddo: you -weren't- marked. You aren't. I'll show you my markings next time we're in the Umbra. According to the rules of this Sept, rules set down by a Philodox, you're free to choose. You could look exactly like Icy Toes and you'd still be able to choose us and no one could say boo."

Kevin looks happier as Nat lays down the law to him. "So what did happen? Did he go for you when you told him I was staying put?"

You say "He tried to throw his weight around, tried to browbeat me into following his little dictator orders." An easy shrug. "So I took him down. Got in his face. He listened to violence. I told him to shove off. That's when you came back to us."

Grey snorts at something Natalie says. "Of course he listened to violence. He's a fucking Get."

Kevin gives a sardonic snort. "You should've got him some beer. Apparently he's got a taste for it. Might've made him so drunk he'd have agreed to anything we wanted." There's a faint, but very distinct, stress on that 'we'.

Natalie slides half a grin over to the older man. "Duh. I don't pack with Signe and not learn anything." The smirk remains as she turns back to Kevin. "Nah. I'm not going to suck up to some dead chauvinist. He deals with me on my terms." Up she stands, brushing her hands off on her jeans. "I don't know about you two, but I need to work off a little steam. Kev, I'm using the heavy bag in your room."

Grey gives Natalie a sidelong look, hard and calculating. "Want something a little more challenging than a bag?"

Kevin grunts as he regains his feet, saying nothing as he waits for Nat to reply to Thomas.

Natalie straightens, her thumbs drifting forward to hook into her pockets as she considers the Philodox. "Like you? You think there's... you think we can handle it? Vex has his claws in the back of my skull, remember. And I'm itchy enough after..." Her head tilts toward Kevin. "That."

Grey bares his teeth in a way that doesn't look much like a smile, not even at first glance. He answers her with one curt question. "Which form?" And his hands are out of his pockets.

Kevin keeps watching, silently. His body language, in the unlikely event that either of the other two is observing it, is alert and poised for action.

"Dealer's choice," Nat answers, falsely casual. "Anything bigger than this, though, and we better take it to the rest of the basement. Kevin," see? She didn't forget him! "you stick around and watch. If one of us comes for you, lie down and show throat immediately."

Kevin, skewered by Nat's gaze just as he's about to edge towards the stairs, gives a mute thumbs-up and leans back on the wall.

Grey, in answer, stalks out of the little bunker in the corner of the basement, moving into the wider area. His steps are light, sure, dangerous. Turning around, he waits for Natalie to emerge.

The single bulb over the washer tries valiantly, but is able to do little more than limn the edges of the three Garou. Nat stalks out of the bunker and pauses to close the door behind her, giving the others no mind.

Grey waits until Natalie's closed the door, and waits more until she's turned to face him. Then he shifts his weight and lunges forward, exploding with rage. Doubled fists rise up, his body explodes into Crinos, long mane flying, teeth bared in a silent snarl of hate and anger, and two massive clenched paws go slamming into the Galliard.

Natalie may have seen the black-furred Crinos' charge out of the corner of her eye, but she's caught essentially flat-footed by the attack. His paws drive straight into her chest, knocking her back and into the wall of the bunker, her head slamming back against the unforgiving surface. Her eyes glaze momentarily, and then with a scream she surges forward, into Crinos in an eyeblink, lunging at Grey with jaws gaped wide and claws ready to tear and kill.

Grey pivots on one foot, catching hold of the Galliard by one arm and using her momentum to throw her past him and into the nearest wall. He follows through with the move, still turning, and before she's regained her balance, he's charging her, seeking to bear her down to the ground. Unlike Holds-the-Line, Grey has yet to utter even a single growl.

Kevin sidles a little further clear of the action, watching keenly and taking mental notes as bidden.

Kevin won't have much time to watch - fights between two Garou are over with quickly.

Holds-the-Line thuds into the wall again, this time face-first, her muzzle snapping against the concrete when her neck snaps back. Somehow, impossibly fast, she's able to turn and meet Grey's attack head-on, managing to tear his muzzle with her fangs before his jaws are locked around her throat and carrying her inexorably to unconsciousness. She continues to fight, to struggle, though his greater weight presses her against the wall, trapping her arms and legs. It's only a few seconds before her eyes glaze again and she goes limp, flicking back to a battered homid held off the floor by the mostly-undamaged Crinos.

At least, fights between unevenly-skilled Garou are over quickly. Now Grey snarls, releasing his hold on the Galliard and letting her slump to the floor. He crouches over her, snuffling, checking her health, then straightens up and backs away. He's still bristling with rage, and his claws twitch unfulfilled. He turns toward Kevin and growls commandingly. ~Wake her up.~

Kevin looks disconcerted as Grey snarls at him. He puts both hands in front of him, and jerks his head back to show throat.

Grey snaps the air with his jaws impatiently. ~Wake. Her. Up.~ He points a claw at the cub, then at the unconscious Elder. ~Are you deaf or just stupid?~

Natalie's skin isn't broken, so she's not bleeding - externally, anyway.

Kevin swallows hard and starts to back away, eyes on Grey, quite plainly waiting for the crinos to spring at him and gauging his chances of making it to anywhere near the stairs before he does.

Grey roars -- the sound filling the enclosed space -- and slams one clawed fist into the wall hard enough to smash his own knuckles, if not crack the wall itself.

Kevin's eyes dart from Grey's savage features to Nat's apparently lifeless body and back, and he evidently comes to a conclusion. Aided, doubtless, by the adrenalin pounding round his bloodstream, he shifts up to Crinos himself. Rather than roaring back, though, he rolls his neck exaggeratedly, offering throat once more.

Natalie manages to force a thready groan through her abused throat. Her face screws up in pain, but her eyes remain stubbornly (or mercifully) closed.

Grey all but vibrates with Rage, bloody-faced and bloody-fisted; poised to leap, he looks for a moment like he's about to attack the cub, bared throat or no. The groan from the downed Galliard twitches his ears back, and he snaps a look over toward her, jaws gaping. The Philodox breathes heavily.

Long-Climb looks as though he'd love to screw his eyes shut and curl into a ball once more, but manages not to, head angled to Grey still, ears flat, posture subordinate in every way.

Natalie achieves another groan, attempts to raise one arm to touch her throat. The upper arm has been snapped, however, somewhere in all that flinging about, and the motion's halted almost as soon as she starts it. Memory manages to elbow through all the pain; her eyes snap open, swivel over to the still-furious Crinos. Two labored breaths and she lifts her chin, looking as though the movement's occurring by sheer force of will.

Grey swings his head back around toward Long-Climb-Ahead. He snarls again, the sound ugly and rough, and then abruptly twists himself back down into Homid and stalks toward the cub -- or, possibly, toward the stairs the cub's nearby. Not aware that Natalie's struggled back into consciousness, pushes past the young Crinos, voice snapping out at him. "I said to go wake her up, you little shithead."

Long-Climb soft-foots it around Grey in as wide a circle as the basement's confines allow, making no protest regarding what the Philodox might or might not have said, and heading for the groggy elder.

Natalie keeps her chin tilted until Grey's stalked out of her line of sight. As the nervous-looking cub approaches she coughs out a thready, "Grey," sympathetic eyes on Kevin.

The Philodox takes one step onto the stairs before the name registers in his boiling brain. He stops and turns back, blood dripping ignored from his mouth and more of it glistening on the knuckles of his right hand.

Long-Climb squats down beside Nat, though even on his knees he looms over her when in the war-form. He makes a little, hopeful, wordless growl.

"Shift," Nat tells the cub in a wheezy voice, then pushes herself up to a sitting position, wincing at the pain in her arm. She finds Grey with her eyes and repeats the chin-tilt before offering him a tight little smile. "I lost it?"

"Yes." Grey's voice is flat, though everything else about him screams for the desire to cause violence.

Long-Climb seems to realise he's still in Crinos and with a supreme effort makes the change yet one more time, down to homid once more. "You okay?" he says in a voice that grates on a dry throat to Nat.

Natalie says, "Damn." Where the Philodox is still bubbling over with repressed rage, the Galliard is drained, empty. She looks back to Kevin to offer him a tired smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "I'll be fine. Gimme a hand up?" Though she glances at Grey, the request doesn't seem to be aimed at him.

Grey stands there on the bottom step, bloody hand curled tightly around the banister, simmering.

Kevin grasps Nat round the wrist with one of his own hands, and waits for her to clasp his own wrist in return before helping hoist her back to her feet. He gives his elder a tight, wordless smile.

It's a slow and painful thing to haul Nat to her feet - she winces at nearly every touch - but eventually she makes it back to upright. "Got me good," she rasps at Grey, fingers of her good hand drifting over the bite marks on her throat. "We need to..." She coughs, wincing, and takes a second to regroup, "--Ow. Talk later. Tell Kevin I'm fine." Not that she looks fine as she hobbles toward the stairs.

Grey nods curtly and moves off the steps and aside, letting the Elder through. He looks over at Kevin, frowning. "Our people recover from worse. Regularly." His voice is still flat, nearly monotone.

Kevin steeples his fingers and flexes them, clicking a joint or two. "Oh, I know, I know," he says, thoughtfully, not disrespectfully.

[End of log]