You. You dogs. What you hunt?

[hazlogs]

It is currently 09:36 Pacific Time on Mon Mar 6 2017.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is a cloudy day. The temperature is 34 degrees Fahrenheit (1 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the variable at 5 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.81 and rising, and the relative humidity is 96 percent. The dewpoint is 33 degrees Fahrenheit (0 degrees Celsius.) For more detail, see: http://www.wunderground.com/cgi-bin/findweather/getForecast?query=98501

Currently the moon is in the waxing Half (Philodox) Moon phase (57% full).

Bawn: Western Forest(#3018RA)

Tall Sitka and Engelmann spruce crowd with Douglas firs and western hemlocks to form a fairy-tale forest. Many of the trees are ancient, their branches twisted into seemingly impossible shapes. Broad trunks are draped with lichen and creepers, cloaked with climbing ivy and bright green vines, and decorated with drapes of cat-tail moss. Pacific yews and shrubs tangle with pine saplings in the understory of the woods, making it difficult at best to traverse. Bracken fills the forest floor, while even more vines strangle the remnants of already dead and fallen giants. Thorns catch and snare at anything foolish enough to get too close, while just out of sight, animals scurry and sound off in the otherwise muted forest. There is a sense that, all around, something watches.

The forest spreads out in all directions except west, where the sounds of Kent's Crossing, Sunrise Road, and Highway 22 betray the encroachment of civilization.

From the woods, maybe a half mile south of Edgewood and not too far out from Sunrise Road itself, a series of howls and barks go up, as if from a pack of dogs. The content of these calls? Kill! Hunt! Kill! Hunt!

The calls indicate the callers are headed eastwards, further into the woods.

Ruin is skulking along at the outskirts of the bawn, nosing at scent markings, when she hears the noise. For a moment she listens, ears pricked, and then she heads toward the source at a determined lope.

This large, long-limbed black she-wolf appears to be a dangerous-looking creature. Her eyes are dark gold, intent and predatory. Her thick pelt looks healthy and is broken only by a pair of irregular rounded areas of ugly, hairless scar tissue on her temples, just in front of her pointed ears.

Six-Shooter lifts his head for a moment and his ears flatten. That's not normal. And then the Glass Walker takes off in the direction of the calls, with a growl that verges on a grumble.

The 'nice' thing about living in Edgewood is that those calls quickly gain attention. Winter's-Bite appears rather suddenly, not far from where Ruin is skulking, the big grey breaking through the under brush and loping in the direction of the sounds with a very clear purpose, her trajectory taking her not at all far from Six-Shooter.

Standing at a massive 3'5" at the shoulder is a large grey wolf. Her features are a balance of stocky and streamline, from a heavy muzzle to long, sturdy limbs. Though subdued, anyone capable of reading lupine cues will no doubt be able to see the attentiveness in her pricked ears, and bright amber eyes, everything around her granted some form of scrutiny.

Her coat is predominantly grey, a trait that speaks to her breeding, a shock of white trailing from the underside of her muzzle, down along her throat, and spreading out over her shoulders and the insides of her biceps, tapering back to grey at the midpoint of her ribcage. There are darker greys in her fur, as well, from a strip of near-black along the bridge of her nose and down over the back of her neck, to the lighter tones that comprise a 'back saddle' stretching from her shoulder blades to the base of her tail.

It doesn't take long, as the garou draw nearer, to intercept the scents of the intruders. Dogs. Urban dogs, by the scent of them. They're definitely headed towards the deeper forest/bawn. The dogs are stirred up, out for blood, and hunting; not making a straight line at maximum speed for the caern that's still many miles further into the woods. It should be easy to catch up with them at this pace. Even a fast human could probably catch them at this pace. Although the wisdom of a lone human doing so might be questionable if they had any inkling as to what the dogs were saying.

Ruin puts on enough speed to circle around to the front of the dog-pack, making her presence known to them. You. You dogs. What you hunt?

Six-Shooter shifts up to hispo before he catches up to the dogs and his attention flicks very momentarily towards the unfamiliar Garou. The growl that the Glass Walker lets out is a distinctive warning from the to those trespassing on the territory of another.

Winter's-Bite isn't quite so pals-ie with the pack. She slows as she gets nearer, yes, her attention shifting to Ruin for all of a couple heartbeats as she keeps herself at a good ten feet from the dogs, off to their left, maintaining the same pace and keeping a close eye on the lot of 'em. For now.

As Ruin presents herself to the pack, the pack--all six dogs that appear to have some pitbull background (and not sick or starving either)--responds by charging the garou in question! Kill her! Two of the dogs in the rear respond to the other two garou, as they appear to be threats to the pack as well. But for now, they stick with their pack rather than breaking off to attack on three fronts. Meanwhile, the remaining four dogs in the front of the pack charge, snapping savagely, at Ruin. They clearly are out for blood.

Ruin reacts without any sign of thought or deliberation, exploding up into her birth form and snatching at two of the incoming dogs with an intent to grab and throw them into the nearest tree.

All black fur and fury, this werewolf stands around nine feet tall and is built for violence. She's all muscle mass, with long limbs, sharp teeth, and wicked claws. Her eyes are dark gold, intent and predatory. Her thick pelt looks healthy and is broken only by a pair of irregular rounded areas of ugly, hairless scar tissue on her temples, just in front of her pointed ears.

Six-Shooter's growl turns into a distinct grumble, and he moves-- not quite charges, the distance is too close for that and it's more like two quick, large steps-- forward to knock the nearest dog out of the way and hopefully senseless with one massive hispo forepaw, and then the next if he can reach as well.

Six-Shooter is broad-chested and broad-shouldered, a dire wolf out of legend bigger than many small cars. Green-hazel lupine eyes peer out from behind a slightly darker mask on his muzzle, and his fur fades from dark grey on his back and head to lighter grey on his chest and limbs. The hispo is well-muscled, with sharp teeth and claws that glint with deadly intensity, and on the larger side. There is no mistaking the strength, nor the tightly controlled single-purposed anger buried behind his composure. There are scars on his right foreleg and shoulder where fur no longer grows.

Brings-Winter's-Bite takes the opportunity Ruin provides through shifting to, herself, shift into hispo, the distraction of both a crinos-form Garou and a charging Glass Walker used as an opening. While they're most likely to be in disarray from being attacked on both sides, she routes herself towards the remaining three, looking to seize whichever one counts as a straggler in her teeth.

Ruin lands a solid blow on one dog, launching it hard into a nearby tree where there's a wet *crack* upon impact. The dog doesn't get up, and judging by its spine partly sticking out its back, it never will. Ruin's swipe at the second dog doesn't have nearly as much success. Claws graze the dog's side, but the dog latches its jaws hard onto Ruin's forearm, thrashing its body back and forth to rend the flesh it's just gained a purchase upon. The other two dogs, ignoring the fact that the wolf they were going after just turned into a monster, go for Ruin's legs. One bites hard into a shin, latching on, while the other's bite misses--teeth clacking on nothing but air. It will likely be coming back for a second attempt in short order. The Glass Walker nails one of the two rear dogs hard, knocking it bloody and to the ground, but it starts getting back up--all lethal business. The swipe at the second rear-guard dog misses, but Brings-Winter's-Bite is there to pick up the proverbial spare. She nails it straight in the throat with her teeth, it's fate left entirely in her hands--or jaws, rather.

Ruin snarls and pain and anger -- more than a little bit of 'how DARE they' -- and bites savagely at the dog locked onto her arm while grabbing for the one latched onto her leg.

Six-Shooter growls, louder, and this time he doesn't hold back, simply charges the dog and moves to rend it quickly and efficiently with claws and teeth into at least a few pieces so that he can proceed to deal with the straggler that is going after Ruin, to pick it up with his teeth and toss it forcefully against a tree.

Though there is a deeply felt desire to bite down harder, evidenced in the low warning growl against the dog's throat, Winter's-Bite keeps her jaws tightly around its neck rather than bite deeper, one massive paw pinning the animal in place. One false move, and it's over. Seems she's of the impression that the other two have the conflagration handled; they do, however, need at least one alive to answer 'questions.'

Ruin raises the arm with the dog latched onto it, then bites savagely into the canine. While latching on to another dog might be a great tactic for a dog-on-dog fight, it doesn't work very well against a crinos. Guts spill and blood sprays, though the dog stays--admirably--clamped onto that arm for a whole two seconds longer than it ought to have any right doing. That might have been the pack's leader. Similarly, Ruin connects easily with the second dog that's latched on to her leg, slicing it open with significant wounds, though the dog doesn't go down quite yet. It does, however, let out an exquisitely pained whine. The third dog that'd missed Ruin earlier comes at the other leg. It lands a nasty bite and darts back, preparing for a second lunge when opportunity strikes while keeping tabs on the other two werewolves. Six-Shooter descends on his targeted hound and rends it quickly and efficiently with teeth and claws, the dog seemingly ill-qualified to deal with the Walker's supernatural weapons. Brings-Winter's-Bite's quarry struggles to break free of the jaws wrapped around its throat, unwilling to submit but not quite strong enough to break free either. She then moves to pin the dog, her mass and tactical advantage making this an easy task; her foe is effectively immobilized but continues to wriggle in an attempt to break free.

Ruin's black fur is slick with blood -- hers and that of her attackers -- and dog guts. She has enough discipline to give the rest of the battlefield a quick glance, then lashes out at the dog still attached to her leg, intent on finishing it off.

Six-Shooter lunges, speed fueled by his rage, for the third dog before it can return to get a second lunge, the Glass Walker ahroun slicing at it with somewhat more force than necessary. That continual growl that Six-Shooter has been emitting carries a note of distaste at the moment, even as he tears the last dog to pieces.

Brings-Winter's-Bite can keep this up all day, folks-- and in spite of the wriggling, that's precisely what she does, keeping her eyes on the rest of the struggle and waiting to see if she's needed. It's a testament to sheer force of will that she doesn't throat the thing and join in the fray, the frisson brought on by her birth moon putting her energy level at a high simmer, but-- she manages, that low growl constant throughout, deepening whenever the dog gets it in its head that the teeth-at-its-throat deal isn't meant to be taken seriously.

The Glass Walker positively shreds the dog that was harrying Ruin; it's on the ground, alive, but it won't be alive for much longer unless supernatural healing abilities are called upon. Ruin lashes out against the remaining dog, slaying it; no lingering death there. The dog pinned by Sandra keeps struggling against her, despite clearly being defeated. Kill! Kill! Kill! it snaps when it's able to draw breath.

The battle done, Ruin shifts slowly back down into wolf form and lies down, panting. It doesn't take long before her dog-inflicted wounds start healing, though she remains liberally painted with blood and gore.

Six-Shooter sits down on his haunches and looks about at what remains. The ahroun's teeth are still bared, and there's a distinct tension in the moments after a battle, such as it was, before he finally offers a softer, inquisitive whuff towards the philodox. ~How'd you think city dogs got this far out? And what the fuck was wrong with them?~

Brings-Winter's-Bite's mouth is a bit full at the moment, but looks and growls function just fine. Rather than answer Six-Shooter, however (for now, anyway), she aims those snarls at the dog she has in her teeth, weight bearing down on it just enough to add a greater threat to its predicament. Outnumbered. Invading territory. Name prey, or die.

The fight should be gone from the dog, but it isn't. It responds to the Shadow Lord that has it pinned and by the throat with gasps of Kill! Kill! Kill!

Ruin doesn't offer an opinion of her own; she merely observes as she rests, letting her body heal up.

The Glass Walker's attention goes back to Ruin for a long moment, and then he just swings his head somewhat from one side, to the other, ears flattening before he eventually resumes his birth form. Trace rolls his shoulders and adjusts his jacket, and then mutters, more to himself than anything else, "No answers there."

Trace stands six feet in height, with a confidence and certainty to his bearing that makes him seem a little taller, but still the last vestiges of the awkward gangliness of teenagerhood as well. A significant hint of five o'clock shadow frames a tanned face, hazel-green eyes under perpetually messy hair that reaches just past his ears. The man is dressed neatly, but the clothing is designed to give him ease of movement-- jeans, black combat boots, and a worn leather bomber jacket that's never far from his person over a plain slate-grey button-down shirt worn with enough buttons open to see the white a-shirt underneath and the hint of a tattoo on one shoulder, occasionally visible to be a compass star made out of circuitboard.

It's with *infinite* care that the Shadow Lord's weight lays into the dog just a little more, looking to cut off its air supply rather than do damage. It's-- not the easiest thing, as is proven by the escalation in her growling, the desire to Kill! Kill! indeed a shared one. Still, the intention is clear: she's going for knocking it out, not slaying it like the others. If successful, she'll withdraw once its wriggling stops.

The dog struggles to the end, but the end is all but written in stone at this point. Eventually, it slumps and relaxes completely as the crushing weight of the werewolf knocks it out.

By the time the dog is unconscious, Ruin's wounds have healed and she's working at licking off the blood.

Trace glances for a moment at Sandra, but then he's all purpose and business as he looks at Ruin. "I've never seen you around before," he states, gaze fixed slightly in front of the other ahroun, but direct enough that the expectation of an introduction now that the fight is over should carry.

For what seems like absolutely no reason, Winter's-Bite doesn't revert to a friendlier form when she withdraws. Instead, that energy hits a brief fever pitch, and the Shadow Lord raises up to the two legs of her massive war form, rather than breed. This goes unexplained, save a low, annoyed grunt, and a drop back to all fours, two clawed fingers placed lightly on the dogs neck to check for a pulse. Given the size difference, this could end up looking rather silly. ~Neither have I,~ she agrees with Trace, that rough voice just a touch more aggressive than it needs to be. ~But maybe she can make herself useful.~ She looks to Ruin. ~Can you get a sense of this animal? Check it for taint?~

Ruin stops licking herself and sits up. She tells them that she is called Brings-Ruin-to-the-Wyrm and that she is a Metis Ahroun of the Shadow Lords and also Cliath. She adds, matter-of-factly, that she does not have the sensing Gifts.

"Well, that makes none of us," Trace says. For just a moment as the philodox takes crinos, Trace tenses to the ready, but nothing more than that happens, and the Glass Walker simply furrows his brows for a moment. "Trace, called Six-Shooter, fostern and ahroun of the Glass Walkers. Packed under Coyote. Have you made yourself known to the alpha? And if not, I suggest you do so as soon as you can." His attention averts from the metis to the unconscious dog, and there's what amounts to a sigh.

The Philodox's ears prick forward, her focus going solely onto the Ahroun Lord as the introduction is given, nostrils flaring as if to try and catch a scent past all the blood. ~Brings-Winter's-Bite,~ she offers in return, remaining crouched. ~Fostern Philodox. Shadow Lords.~ No 'welcome sister,' or any other niceties, but that's probably not a big surprise. ~Should take her to Thane, if you can,~ she says to Trace. ~Have to take this mongrel to someone who can get a sense for it. Calm it down. Try to see what happened.~ Given the direction she looks after the fact, she may mean to make the Mage earn his keep. But rather than strike out on her own: ~Who should it go to?~ is asked of Trace.

Ruin doesn't seem to have much of a reaction to her tribesmate's lack of warmth; her manner suggests that this is all very much Business As Usual (tm). She looks between the two of them, waiting for orders. Or at least directions.

Trace furrows his brows. "There's a theurge among the Get, Jamethon," he says, though this doesn't seem to be a distinct absolute. "The mage cat might know-- frankly /yo no se/ precisely what he can and can't do, but it's worth a shot." Ruin gets another glance. "She can help me clean this crap up," a pause, "and then I'll take her over to Edgewood, and call and leave a message for Thane if he's not there." The Glass Walker continues, "I should get back to the city and touch base with my packmates and such. I want to know where these dogs came from."

Winter's Bite nods at the assessment, gathering the dog up in her arms in a careful, practiced restraining hold that keeps its airways open. ~Get first,~ she says, though doesn't sound particularly happy about it. ~Warper second.~ A glance at Ruin. ~Will greet you properly later,~ she offers to the metis, as her one nod to being polite. ~Your assistance, appreciated.~ And without wasting time, she makes her way back into the forest, in the direction of the sept compound.

(Handwaved: Trace and Ruin clean up the mess, and he shows her to Edgewood.)