Fighting Lesson

[hazlogs]

It is currently 22:39 Pacific Time on Thu Sep 10 1998.
Currently the moon is in the waning Gibbous Moon phase (70% full).
Currently on this gusty and cool summer  in the general St. Claire area, it is 
  55 degrees Fahrenheit (12.8 degrees Celsius). The wind is coming from the 
  northwest at 17.5 mph. The ground is dry. Skies are hazy with a small chance 
  of precipitation.

Holland Place, Apt. 1A(#3489RJ)
This tiny, rathole little apartment, though adequate as shelter, leaves a lot 
  to be desired. The wooden floorboards are unevenly dark underfoot, and 
  there's a suspicious-looking stain along the floorboards near the narrow, 
  cramped kitchen. The front room is gapingly bare, with nothing to hide the 
  ugly yellow-and-white wallpaper, and the small bedroom is empty but for a 
  military-style cot and a squat wooden dresser that looks as though a dozen 
  bored juvenile delinquints hacked at it with knives. The less said about the 
  bathroom, the better. The bedroom walls show damage in two places, as though 
  someone or something had been wrecking havoc with really large knives or 
  claws. The marks just above the cot are bad enough, but the damage is worse 
  in one corner, where both lower wall and floor are scraped and wounded.
Muffled noises from neighboring apartments can be heard through the walls, and 
  the grimy windows give a limited view of disreputable street outside. 
  There's a phone in the kitchen, but no sign of television, radio, or other 
  such staple of modern entertainment. Nearly all of the electrical outlets go 
  unused, and the ancient-looking refigerator is usually near-empty.
Obvious exits:
Out  

Brandon knocks on the door quietly three times.
After a rattling of locks being undone, Salem pulls open the door and gestures 
  Brandon inside with a jerk of his head. The Ahroun's expression is 
  unfriendly, even grim.
Brandon stands a lanky six feet tall. His shoulders are thin and drooping, 
  which only accents his sharply cut, one might say fine, countenance. His 
  body is trim to the point of seeming frail. The nose that protrudes from 
  beneath his eyes ends in a rounded nub, hints of Germanic blood peeking 
  through to cast shadows on his face wherever he is hit by the light. His 
  shallow blue eyes are deeply set and are rimmed with black sleep marks, and 
  his hair matches the their color, a tawny dyed, some would say ugly, black. 
  It's apparent he is young and at an awkward time in his life and could be 
  anywhere from sixteen to eighteen years of age. He currently wears a dark 
  gray longsleaved shirt and a pair of white khaki pants.
Brandon stands at the doorway for a mere moment. "Ey'," he says, stepping past 
  the doorway as is motioned. He looks, at first, out of place.
Salem grunts. "Good evening." He shoves the door closed and starts setting the 
  locks. "You're Brandon, then."
Brandon stands to the side of the doorway and gives a clipped not, his posture 
  becoming more relaxed. "Yeh'," he says. "Brandon Connor, Philodox Cub and 
  Walker."
"Jack Salem. Ahroun, Cliath, Glass Walker." He eyes the cub. "And apparantly 
  your teacher. Have you ever fought before, Mr. Connor?"
Brandon remains near the doorway. "Not a once," he admits cordially, adding, 
  "Rhya."
Salem jerks his head, gesturing the cub toward the center of the front room. 
  "Then we'll start with human-style fighting. In the city, you're going to 
  use that most, anyway."
Brandon blinks a single time and, obediantly, steps to the center of the front 
  room. He seems surprised, mildly, by something, but he recovers quickly and 
  gets ready.
Salem prowls after the cub, footsteps heavy against the wooden floor. "You can 
  use human fighting techniques in Crinos and Glabro forms, so it won't be 
  wasted." He stands in front of the other Garou. "Strike me."
Brandon squints for a few moment, and he takes a poor position that someone 
  who has seen to many bad action movies. He doesn't hesitate when he strikes, 
  however... something of a plus. His fist balled together and his lips 
  pursed, he tries to strike the Ahroun in the midsection.
Salem twists easily away from the cub's attack, hand snapping out for his 
  wrist. A moment later, Brandon finds himself face-down on the floor with a 
  knee planted between his shoulderblands and an arm wrenched painfully up 
  behind his back. The Ahroun isn't even breathing hard.
Brandon blinks and winces. "Shit!" he mutters, his lip slammed up against the 
  ground. His eyes water intensly, and he scowls. "Shit," he repeats.
"Do you yield?" Salem's voice is cold, unemotional over the rage.
Brandon squints, his voice cracking as his says: "Yeah, yeah, of course I 
  concede."
Salem nods and gets up, his weight lifting off the teenager's back. "Good. 
  Remember how to surrender. It could save your life one day when a fucking 
  Red Talon decides to eat your ass."
Brandon takes a few quick breaths and stands up fully. He brushes his shirt 
  off idly. "Rangers," he mutters, glancing over toward Salem. "You're good," 
  he states the obvious.
Salem snorts. "I've been doing this for over ten years. If I wasn't good, I 
  wouldn't be worth shit."
Brandon leans back on one leg and nods quietly. "So what I am worth?" he 
  questions.
"You're a cub." Salem shrugs. "You're supposed to have potential. That's your 
  worth."
Brandon smiles quietly toward the answer, his body still tense. "At least I've 
  got that," she says.
Salem's mouth twitches into a thin smile. "Back to work." The Ahroun 
  straightens up. "Strike me."
Brandon comes back into much the same position as he did before, and again he 
  lunges forward to strike at Salem's chest.
Salem again twists aside, his hand snapping out to lock around Brandon's 
  wrist. "Stop." The dark eyes bore into the cub's face. "I'm going to do this 
  slowly, so pay attention."
Salem demonstrates his earlier move, step by step. "Here, then here, and 
  around like *this*." Again the cub finds himself face down on the floor, 
  though less painfully. "Got it?"
Brandon swallows once and steps back from Salem with a clipped nod. "I think I 
  see," he says. "So how should I strike you then?" This isn't his area of 
  excellence.
Salem shakes his head. "Right now? Don't strike first. Let the enemy come to 
  you." He cocks his head. "Do you think you can repeat that move I just 
  showed you, or shall I demonstrate it again?"
Brandon shakes his head and steps back, watching Salem closely. "I'll do my 
  best," he states coolly. "I should manage."
Salem doesn't answer. His fists pistons out toward the cub's chest, hard and 
  fast and relentless.
Brandon gets knocked back by the first and raises his hand up, faltering in an 
  attempt to grab onto Salem's arm and pull him back.
Salem snarls and smacks the hesitating hand aside, and then cuffs the cub 
  sharply across the face. "No! *No* hesitation, *no* mercy, *no* fear!" The 
  ex-Lord's voice is harsh and relentless. "Now, again!" His fist again snaps 
  out toward Brandon, this time aiming for the cub's face.
Brandon scowls at first, but his countenance turns into one of confidence. He 
  ducks his head down and pushes his hand up, trying to dodge and pull at once.
Salem's other fist slams into the cub's gut, but the Ahroun's voice takes on a 
  approving tone. "Better," he snarls, and steps back. The rage coils around 
  him, sharp and fanged.
Brandon's breath rips from his mouth, and he chokes with a frown... stepping 
  back. He looks up, regaining his breath. "Well thanks," he retorts, a wry 
  but forced smile on his lips.
Salem smiles thinly. "How much do you exercise, Brandon?"
Brandon forces himself to breathe at a normal pace, choking at first. "Never," 
  he admits openly.
Salem smooths down his shirt. "From now on, you will present yourself at five 
  A.M. at my door. Wear something you can jog in."
Salem adds, "Every morning, until I say otherwise."
The cub raises his hands up at first... attempting defense. He stops midway, 
  knowing he'll get nowhere. "Yes, Rhya," he states quietly. "I'll work on it."
Salem nods curtly. "You can go now." His voice drops half an octave, sternly. 
  "Do *not* be late tomorrow morning. You will regret it."
Brandon mingles where he stands, and he starts to move toward the doorway. 
  "I'm punctual," he states confidently.
"See that you are," replies Salem.