2016.09.24: Split Ends

Split Ends
Monica and Felix go hunting Fomori
IC Date	Saturday, September 24th, 2016 — Evening
Players	Monica/Keres and Felix/Lets-Them-Eat-Cake
Location	Warehouse Office, Warehouse Apartment, The Road, Umbral Forest, Forest Clearing
Spheres	Shifter (Gaian Garou)

"One of the leads I've been tracking has paid off. Not quite as big a lead as the one I've got you on," Monica says, "but it's something. A fomor, actually. Possibly two." Beat. "If what I've read about 'em is true - which, given who's responsible for the reports, isn't all that often - I *could* conceivably take them out on my own, but I have an allergy to that particular brand of unnecessary risk. And, seeing as we're not likely to get anywhere on this fission bomb thing, at the moment, I figured a short bug-hunt might be a better use of our time."

Felix removes his hat, abandoning it on the desk for now, and runs a hand through his hair with a glance at the screen of the closest sleeping monitor as an ersatz mirror while he 'fixes' it. That done, his hand slides absently into his pocket and comes out with, not the Altoids tin, but a loose cigarette, which he blinks at once, then smirks. The tin does come out then, for the lighter, and since he's at it is also tilted toward Monica in silent offer. "Well. I'd hate to see you swell up in hives," he replies, with the first grin in a while.

Monica, in turn, seems to relax a bit, hand going to where her pocket *should* be, until the split-second-later moment of realizing that a) breezy skirts don't come with pockets, and b) whatever she's after is in the stupid purse somewhere. Muttering something under her breath, she digs around in it, procures her cigarettes, and quietly lights one up. "Good," she says. "Makes two of us." She nods towards the door, then, motioning for him to follow her. "And," she continues, opening the door and moving towards what appears to be the entrance to the cellar, "speaking of reports-- you hear anything more from Flamingo? Or is it just the usual check-ins?"

Felix flicks the tin closed and puts it away, when Monica goes for her own, seeming unbothered by it. He follows her, as requested, with an interested look at the apparently-cellar door. "You definitely ain't leadin' me down there to axe murder me, right?" he teases, "'cause =I'm= allergic to axes." More seriously, "....Nah. Just the usual check-ins. Seems like everythin's goin' 'bout as expected, just now."

Monica shoots an amused look over her shoulder. "Give me a little credit," she says. "If I plan on murdering someone for sport in my own home, I'd at least have the decency to kill them first, *then* dismember them in the tub. Just in time for an acid bath, probably. Less messy that way." She nods down the hallway once she gets to the foot of the stairs, and starts moving in that direction. "Wholesome hobbies aside," she continues, "good to hear it's going smoothly. After your last report, I'll admit, I was starting to wonder if I'd missed something in the guy's vetting process." She opens one of the doors in the hall, and steps inside, giving an idle 'stay put' gesture as she winds her way through the-- whatever this room is. Either way, presumably, he should keep talking.

"Well, that's why you'd go with the basement," Felix says, "Could be all easy to wash down, use a lotta plastic sheetin' anyway, maybe install a nice big bath an' drain in the corner just for the dissolvin'. Or individual acid-proof barrels an' a big ol' drain to pour 'em down when they're done. Though admittedly a basement that AIN'T clearly yours'd prolly be smarter. But you're axe-murderin' people, how practical can you be?" Someone has probably seen too many police procedurals. Still grinning, though, as he leans up against the wall beside the open door. "Yeah, though, wholesome hobbies aside. Maybe he just needed to know shit was how y'all expected even if it ain't how he did."

"To be fair," Monica says, raising her voice just a little over the hum of the various electronics in the room, "it wasn't, exactly. But it's rare that anything is." There's some rustling that can be heard under the hum - and some muttering besides - a silence to follow.

Then, she says, "For instance," --pause-- "I wouldn't have guessed that you were a fan of Major Crimes." Beat. "Though I suppose that could just as easily be CSI-- Whatever, or NYPD Blue, huh?" Another pause. After which there's the sound of footsteps, and she re-emerges in her usual attire, which the smoothed-out hair and extra touches of make-up don't exactly *match*, but... Whatever. Won't be long before that ceases to matter.

"I was always partial to The Closer, myself," she says with a half-smile. "No accounting for taste, though, I suppose. Even my own." She nods back towards the stairwell, and begins moving in that direction.

"Prolly CSI Whatever," Felix says, "or Bones maybe. Those're the ones I remember, anyhow. ...an' of course I'm just =full= of surprises. But like you suggested, ain't we all..." He pushes up to fully standing with a stretch, and retraces his path toward and up the stairs.

The outfit Monica had arrived at the hotel in is folded up, bagged in durable clear plastic, and stowed in the trunk of her car, alongside several other bags. There's only a cursory glance offered, but it looks like each one has a different outfit wrapped up inside, all of them neatly stacked off to one side. Everything else is more or less what one would expect from an organized trunk, though: first aid, emergency tool set, flood light, blankets (the last likely a throwback to Wisconsin living).

Getting into the car (an older-model silver Honda, if you're counting), and leaning over to unlock his door, she starts it up, and begins to make her way out onto the city streets, pack of cigarette and lighter both nudged partway between her thighs for easy access.

And, of course, as she drives, she talks. "We've run into this type of fomori before," she says. "Seems like a new breed of some kind. Don't know much about 'em, only that the type of banes they court--" She pauses to consider. "They're what you'd call--" beat "fuck. I keep forgetting the term." She moves to light up a cigarette, but before she gets that far, she plucks the cigarette back out of her mouth to say, "Consecrated. They're consecrated. That's the word. Just-- not by the bane that possessed them, which-- seems a little weird to me." She shrugs. "In any event-- someone's making them, and someone *else* is recruiting them, and training them. So..." She replaces the cigarette, and lights it up. "If these two are from the same 'batch,' this may turn out to be more than just another bughunt."

<OOC> Monica says, "Oh. She would have gotten a leather satchel out of the trunk, too. Looks Rite-related."

[6 successes on singing]

Felix snags the hat on the way out, though he doesn't put it on -- more like passing by it reminded him it exists and probably shouldn't live on Monica's desk. Instead, he abandons it to her car; he opens the door when it's unlocked and slides in easy enough, dropping the cap where it seems accessible but out of the way. He doesn't bother to buckle up here anymore than he does in the Caddy. He's still smoking, and takes a quick glance to see if there's an open ashtray; if not he'll probably go for opening the window. "Consecrated?" he asks, brow slightly furrowed, "like," and he sings, "'Take my life and let it be consecrated, Lord, to Thee'?" And holy (just about literally) =shit= is he a good singer. It's a good voice speaking, and damn good in song, but more than that he briefly sounds as though there genuinely is nothing, from the depths of his soul, that he would want more in life than to devote his full being to God. Which makes for a weird contrast when he stops, glancing to her, and adds, speaking again in his usual manner, "An' what exactly are they gettin' trained to do? Just fight?"

<OOC> Monica laughs. If I hadn't seen the roll I'd be like 'okay mr tone it down' lol

<OOC> Felix says, "If he hadn't rolled that I totally would have. ;)"

The outburst of song gets a decidedly incredulous look from Monica, but that isn't to say she isn't impressed. She *does* afford him that, brow arching a bit to compliment an appreciative (albeit entirely amused) grin, a slight shake of her head punctuating it. "Well played, Pavarotti," she says mildly. "You'll have to let me know when it comes time for your next gig at Carnegie Hall." It's facetious, sure, but there's a sincere (impressed) compliment couched in there, with a remaining note of incredulity.

Once that begins to dissipate: "Anyway--" is said, "since you asked-- first, consecrated basically means that a particular type of bane has an affinity for them. They'll show up and 'help out' if the going gets rough, and-- well. As it turns out, the bane type they've got on spiritual speed-dial are the ones that have an affinity for *us*." Beat. "Don't know if you've ever seen a Shambler," she says, "but it's not pretty."

She ashes her cigarette out the window (as, no, there isn't an ash tray, but there's remnants of ashes in the cupholders from those times when it's raining too hard to bother opening the window), then takes another drag, pulling on to the freeway and heading in the general direction of the forest. "Don't know if that affinity is 'in-born,' or if it's something they eventually get accustomed to... but I'd sure as hell love to find out." See also: why she isn't chancing this trip on her own.

"As for what they're getting trained for..." Her lip quirks. "Well, given that the last pair we met were playing Pied Piper to a cloud of Hell on Earth for any solitary werewolf that crossed their path, I've got a pretty good idea of what they're going for. All their behaviors were meant to trip our triggers enough to launch an investigation. Left all kinds of clues for us to follow, even if their usual MO suggested that they were more than capable of covering their tracks." Beat. "So," she says grimly, "you do the math on that one."

Felix snorts softly at the appellation, which doesn't mean he looks displeased to get it. "Music's the only thing made church worthwhile," he says, perhaps by way of explanation, though after a considering drag he adds, "A'ight, an' a few of the girls. Anyway, dunno 'bout Carnegie, but if I stick around long enough to get me a new band, I'll letcha know." It's only half-joking, and followed by, "...huh. Now, there's a thing I could do with that cash..." as he crushes the butt and flicks it out the window. His attention turns to her answer, then, with a small shake of his head as to seeing a Shambler. "Only heard 'em mentioned once or twice," he elabourates, and the rest gets a nod, and a look out the window, his fingers drumming once on the doorframe. "I reckon I can prolly get four outta that. Or at least, more'n three an' less'n five."

Monica arches a brow at the mention of the cash, but doesn't remark on it, for the moment, preferring merely to address the musings with an amused smile. The expression sobers, though, her eyes on the road to weave between what little pockets of traffic they encounter (which isn't *much*, but this is still pseudo-San Diego, so, really...)

"They had enough banes with them to make at least that many Shamblers," she says. "Means we'll be approaching in the Umbra first. If this one-- or *two*, depending, they seem to show up in pairs a lot-- has the same number of screeching groupies that the others did, we'll be leaving 'em alone until we can get some backup."

There is just a flicker of a look as though Felix is about to protest that last decree, lips parting as he glances aside to her again -- then the sense of a pause, followed by a nod. "S'pose that's prolly wise," he allows, and while he doesn't exactly sound thrilled, he seems to mean it. He brightens a bit, "Might be there's only a couple, though."

"My hope is there's none," Monica says. "But yeah," she sighs, angling for an upcoming exit, "even a few'd be better than the goddamn swarm we saw last time around. I mean--" She shoot him a sidelong glance, and a halfsmile. "I want answers as much as anyone, but there's risky, and there's downright suicidal."

Felix nods. "All things bein' equal, I generally vote for not dyin'," he says, and seems to be reaching for his cigarettes again -- but the aim for the exit gets a pause. "We nearly there?" he asks.

[Blur of the Milky Eye botch]

"Nearly to where we're parking, at least," Monica replies. "After that, it's just a matter of checking some GPS coordinates, and going on foot." Taking the exit, she turns on to a decidedly less populace road. "Plenty of forest cover, though. Shouldn't take long."

And-- it doesn't! She drives a ways out into what counts as 'rural' territory this close to the city. It's the kind of locale that attracts plenty of tourists: lots of little 'rustic motels' here and there, camping sites, and whatnot. It's one of the camping alcoves that she pulls into, throwing the car into park, and loading up the GPS. Confirming the little tags she's put on a specific set of coordinates (three in total), she explains that there's three possible cabins the targets could have checked into. "Been on a long-term basis for a while now," she says, noting that whatever appearance these men (or women) had before, the way they look now could easily give the Phantom of the Opera a run for his money.

After which, they're off! Well, off into the woods a fair ways. It's still quite seasonable out, enough to attract a small number of campers, though none are so close together that returning to the car should be an issue. And it's only a brief walk off the beaten path until they find somewhere suitable to change. From there, it's on to the Umbra-- and off towards the cabins that had been indicated.

The spirit fauna around here is curious, certainly. At some points, the two wolves have the rare tag-along, chittering at them in a language neither of them fully (or even remotely) comprehends. Most depart once it's clear they won't get any interesting conversation out of the duo, but, by the end of their circuit around the three cabins that had been pinpointed, they still have two or three individuals who appear to be keeping pace for the sheer hell of it.

<<Good sign,>> Keres points out to Cake as they approach the last cabin. Presumably, if there was a concentration of banes here, the freeloaders wouldn't stick around. Still, the cabin up ahead - visible through fauna spotted by flecks of dry, blue crystal, the veins that spread through each leaf pulsing with radiant violets and deep, chlorophyll greens - is a murky contrast to everything around it. It's faded into monochrome by comparison, its windows cracked and darkened, the plants that surround it still standing, but-- frozen. More like a photograph than anything living.

Upon seeing it, Keres pauses to concentrate-- and shudders for a moment, giving the wolf equivalent of a grimace as the itty-bitties that have been running along with them seem to flit about more spastically, whatever she was trying to do apparently going over with all the subtlety of a wet fart to anyone in the vicinity. As for the result? Well-- one glance at her, and it appears as though her Umbral ~colors~ are really shining tonight. It's quite a pleasant effect, actually! Just.. the complete opposite of what she was going for.

<<Bad sign,>> she grunts, shaking her head, a move that turns into shaking the rest of herself off, eyes immediately raising to see if there's any activity overhead.

There's none, so far. Even with the Fury doing a fantastic impression of a lighthouse in the thicket they occupy.

Well, then, that's plenty of time to have another cigarette, which Felix goes ahead and does, along the way. Of course, it's done long before they change, long before they step across to the other side. Cake regards his surroundings with interest as they go; this area is brand new to him, and far from the places he's more familiar with. He quite clearly has no idea what any of the spirits are trying to say, although he seems game to attempt a conversation anyway, on the off-chance they happen to be bilingual. Alas, this doesn't seem to be the case.

He stops when she does, studying the plants around them and the contrast of the cabin. The latter seems to have him thinking -- at least, until there's that burst of brilliance beside him, and he looks to his companion to see her current state. Wolves are not known for laughing, but this one looks like he just might consider giving it a try. They also don't generally sing, as such, but when there's no sign of approaching enemies, he does do his damnedest to quietly approximate a tune: <<Such a dazzling coat of many colours! How he loved his coat of many colours!>>

Keres regards the jeering with a snort of amusement, regardless of how determined she is to keep her game face on. Only so serious you can be when your pelt is glittering like something off of a Lisa Frank trapper keeper.

Still, she's obligated - obligated! - to feign a nip at his nape. If it's an actual warning, it's... pretty pathetic; thankfully, it seems more playful than anything else. ~Webber?~ she says in the Mother tongue, feigning insult. ~Really?~ She snorts again, looking back towards the cabin. ~You really know how to hurt a girl.~ She pads forward a couple paces to look through the fauna, nonetheless. It's funny, actually; given how vibrant it is, if she stayed right here, she might blend in. Her fur has the same swath of pulsing violets, greens, and deep blues as the surroundings, mimicking what the Gift is *supposed* to do, in practice, but doing it all wrong.

~Don't smell anything here,~ she says, then, sobering. ~Must be on the other side.~ She looks over at Cake. ~Not sure how this is going to translate to 'reality,'~ she says, looking over her shoulder at her pelt for a moment, tail swishing once to see the odd vapor-trails effect it has, ~but it might still be useful somehow...~

The nip and scolding get a a playful dance to the side, and Cake offers (changing languages, which helps just slightly; at least it's one sometimes sung in): ~Although we had no money, I was rich as I could be in my coat of many colours my mama made for me.~

He watches the odd way she sort-of-nearly blends, and takes a couple steps himself, trying to stay relatively low and inconspicuous, though his coat is probably closer to matching the cabin itself than the flora. He turns his head just in time to catch that 'trails' effect. ~You could probably convince someone they're hallucinatin',~ he suggests. Okay, he's not sure how THAT would be useful, precisely, but surely it has some kind of potential.

Keres gives a light grunt by way of response, still amused but regarding the situation a *bit* more seriously, turning back to look at the cabin, ears pricked. ~And if we were going after a pair of stoners, that'd probably be worth trying,~ she says. ~But, all joking aside...~ She looks around the thicket. ~This seems as good a place as any to step back through. Chances are, these guys are doing their damndest to keep everyone as far from this cabin as possible, so I don't expect any onlookers, but...~ Beat. ~We'll wait 'til we're through to change.~ Seems obvious, but it's clear at this point that she's more thinking aloud than giving orders, or even advice. The fur *is* a bit of a setback, and there's no telling how it'll appear outside of the Umbra. Nonetheless, she looks to him, and says, ~Ready?~

That was apparently as far as the Galliard intended to push it, though he's still amused as well. There's also a bit of excitement, ramping up as they get closer to their objective. ~Ready,~ he replies, and gives a good stretch, then glances around and adjusts his position to get a better view of the cabin's window, using the trunk of the 'tree' beside him to help support him so that when when he peers toward it, he can just barely find the faint image there of himself. He leads the way across this time, quick though it isn't, and soon enough they're back in the more physical realm.

The Fury is right there beside him when it's over, as expected, her dark pelt still glistening subtly, the colors of the Umbra still mimicked in her coat with a vague luminescence. It looks not unlike an oil slick, really-- and just so happens to be highlighted by a small campfire through the trees, not far from their position.

A single glance in that direction proves that an error's been made. Standing there is a near-featureless human, skin waxy and tight across the bones, tight enough that the lacrimalae and lids of his-- hers?-- its beady eyes stretch partly across the upper edge of its cheekbones. Its mouth is lipless, taut, face expressionless but for the tic of a frown.

There is no immediate recognition of what's about to happen, however. It just stands there, frozen, a tinge of startled fear wafting acrid off its tainted hide.

Keres sideglances to Cake, and back towards the creature, apparently as baffled by this inadvertent stalemate as it is.

Well, that counts as both 'hella ugly' and 'overenthusiastic facelift', and there wasn't a cloud of banes on the other side, which suggests this is one of the Fomori and the condition for not killing them isn't fulfilled; it takes about the space of a flickered sideglance to Keres for Lets-Them-Eat-Cake to reason thusly. Possibly he should be adding the fact that Keres isn't yet attacking into the calculation, but maybe it's quick enough it hasn't registered as anything more than just-getting-started, maybe he's trying to take advantage of the presumed enemy's surprise while he can, or maybe he's just impatient -- he darts through the trees at top speed, shifting up to Hispo as he goes, and leaps at the creature with claws and teeth bared.

For a creature whose body is about as skeletal as it gets, the unnatural speed in which it dodges the charging wolf's assault is-- even more unnatural. Doesn't stop there, though. A shudder rushes through it just moments after the deft, nigh-instinctual shift to one side, a low, hoarse moan coming from a throat that's fallen to disuse, "Nuh," all but sobbed out as the momentum it used to move forces it into a stumble.

~Shit,~ is hissed out from Keres's direction, but while the Fury runs towards the spasmic fomor, a burst of activity makes her think otherwise.

What follows happens in a matter of two seconds. Its neck swells abruptly, extending to the tune of a wet, scraping sound, that incomprehensible "Nuuh!" exclamation coming again, thicker this time, strangled, coming alongside the rapid growth of muscle tissue that threatens to swallow its skull whole. Blood pours where its strained skin breaks open, spine erupting both upwards and out, splitting the creature at its midsection and forming a lengthy tail behind it, formed of bone and connective tissue. Screams blot out the worst of the sounds that accompany the transition.

Shoulders and legs bulge with new muscle tissue; fingers extend to form crooked, misshapen claws, sharp, crooked teeth ruining its already taut mouth. And all the while, innards coil around its lengthened spine like morbid garlands, wed to it by arteries and connective tissue that simply should not be. Then comes the finishing touch: lengthened feet and abbreviated calves that mirror the legs of a Crinos.

By then, the rattled screaming stops. Whatever timid soul had been there is clearly gone.

<OOC> Keres should also note that tail is flailing around and looks nasty. Hence the distance.

The very second that it raises its head, Keres takes the opportunity to change near-instantaneously into her war form, hand lashing out to rip open the thing's neck, and part of its already ruined face, the move exposing-- more teeth, the way it jerks sharply to one side giving the impression that there's *bone* under there, the jaws stretching down to the collarbones at nearly two feet in length.

Staggered, its hind end shifts in Cake's direction, its clawed hands lashing out to claim purchase on damp soil, tail still too ungainly to be a significant threat.

Lets-Them-Eat-Cake unexpectedly lands on ground instead of Fomor, and there's a snarl as he comes to a stop -- which cuts off suddenly at the transformation, his eyes widening a bit. ~Gaia fuck,~ he says, moving a step further aside as it changes shape and size, a step back as that tail seems likely to come into play -- and as Keres's attack pushes the creature in his direction, he lunges, jaws wide, to rend that exposed-looking spine. He doesn't manage to rip it out as he'd probably prefer, but the squish and tear of flesh, the ripping of arteries, and the crack of bone suggest at least some progress being made.

The unearthly wail that raises from it says *that* enough on its own. It begins to struggle, thrashing, and in the midst of that thrashing, some of those innards-- move. They don't just *move*, they raise up from its pelvic cavity, four distinct ropes of intestine whipping out to grab hold of the Gnawer's face and muzzle, the limbs still too untested to do much more than *stay* there.

In the midst of all this, one of the creature's brethren drops down from the trees, bounding at a sharp angle, and leaping at the last second, its body twisting around in a swift, tight curve to lash its tail out at the Fury's back. 'Whiff' would be the best way to describe what happens next, Keres's fur parting like Noah his-own-goddamn-self was in command of it. As if that wasn't enough, the sheer amount of momentum that went into the attack is enough to lodge its tail partway up the tree trunk, leaving its lower half ridiculously suspended, its clawed hands scraping at the ground as unearthly sounds of protest are raised.

Alerted to Bad Things happening, Keres nearly misses the feeble attempt on the part of the newcomer's nearly-fallen ally to swipe at her, stepping back a couple paces at just the right moment, attention divided between three sources: the newcomer, Cake, and the asshole that just tries to take a chunk out of her feet.

The decision is nonetheless made quickly, ~Hold on to it!~ barked out, the head of the creature seized, its body starting to flail maniacally in an attempt to break free, its movements limited by the firm hold Cake's jaws have on its spine. ~PULL!~ comes next, the spine just as quickly going taut as quite possibly the most morbid game of tug-of-war is put into motion.

Lets-Them-Eat-Cake can just about see what's going on with Keres and the new entrant from the corner of his eye, though intestines make a surprisingly effective blindfold. With the blood and other, more difficult and probably even less pleasant to identify liquids oozing off and from them, what little he can make out is blurred, as well. But he can hear just fine, and though his first instinct seems to be to go for the giblets gripping him, a paw leaving the ground in preparation to slash, at the yell from Keres his teeth clench tighter and the paw returns to the ground with force. All four of his feet dig in, adding leverage to the power of his jaws and neck.

As the creature's spine strains, the arteries and tissues connecting the flesh that surround it begin to pop, starting with the ones already wounded from teeth or claws, but continuing along the length between the two Garou. There is a moment, then, where the two are in perfect opposition, and nothing seems to happen but the screaming of the beast. And then, with a pop followed by a sickening rip, the formor virtually explodes apart -- one half for each of them -- blood, a few bone pieces, and what entrails had until then managed to remain on the inside bursting out and into the air between them like unbelievably morbid confetti.

The second the body rips into bisected pieces, Keres lets loose the Crinos equivalent of a 'hell yeah,' a *highly* satisfied snarl raising from her muzzle, the portion she's grabbed hold of flipped around, the spine seized, the segment swung at the pinned fomor.

Probably a *good* thing nothing more jubilant than that snarl was raised, 'cause the fallen fomor's buddy manages to use its arms to swing itself away from the incoming blow. Rather than get frustrated (as one might), Keres merely huffs, and tosses the dead fomor's upper body aside.

~Worth a shot.~

The attempts to claw at the air are best described as pathetic, all told. The fomor bumps against the tree erratically as its arms flail in every direction, *desperate* for some kind of purchase. It'd be sad if it wasn't so--

--Great?

~Grab its arm,~ Keres calls back to Cake, reaching out to seize one of its flailing arms with both clawed hands. ~When you've got a hold of it, pull.~ She bares her teeth at the fomor, its beady eyes registering *some* recognition of what's coming. ~May as well make it a calling card.~

Lets-Them-Eat-Cake nearly falls on his rear when the first falls apart, and there's about as close as a Hispo can get to a laugh as his jaws come free of the spine. And then his expression screws up and there's several seconds of just spitting and rubbing giblet gravy off his face while Keres makes her swing.

~How could you not?~ he agrees, and gives the dangling Fomor a considering look. At her instruction, he grins with too many (and still slightly gory) teeth even for a Hispo, and shifts up to Crinos as he approaches the other side. He reaches for a good grip, asking, ~If I get the big piece does my wish come true?~

~If it's to break this guy open with its own arms,~ Keres replies over the fomor's protests, its now-flailing back legs and mid-bits ducked or leaned away from little issue, ~I'm all for it.~ Beat. ~*Pull.*~ And on that note, she braces her feet against the ground, pulling against the opposite force Lets-Them-Eat-Cake puts into it, her weight leaned into the hold she has as more tearing sounds erupt in the clearing.

The fomor cries out, another unearthly howl to disturb an otherwise pleasant evening, bones cracking, muscle tissue tearing, skin ripping down what's left of its torso above the ribcage. It breaks apart soon after, two arms messily separated from its body, a fair amount of skin coming with it, leaving a sick kind of drapery hanging from the subdermal layers.

Turns out Cake did get the bigger piece. Well-- the one with more skin, anyway. Taking a couple steps back to watch the creature as its legs try erratically to strike out at the two wolves, she just-- stares at it for a moment, blood alternately spurting and pouring from the ragged stumps where its arms used to be.

~No more of you,~ she snarls at it, tongue lashing out to lick at her teeth in aggressive anticipation of landing a killing shot. ~You understand? *No more*.~ But rather than act on the clear impulse to *end* it, with her hackles raised and body clearly primed to take the kill as her own, she instead tosses the arm aside.

~One of yours corrupted one of his tribemates, last time you came around,~ she continues lowly, before those eyes turn too incomprehending to understand what's being said. ~Turned her into a walking gut farm. Wouldn't let her die with some goddamn dignity. And *why*? Because you thought she was an easy target? *Forgettable?*~ She takes a step back then. ~Seems only right that he gets to decide what to do with you. See how memorable *you* are when it's over.~

Lets-Them-Eat-Cake lifts the 'larger' arm piece in triumph as if it were an extremely artistically =challenging= version of the Olympic torch, adding more spatterings of blood to their surroundings -- not that it makes much of a difference, at this point. He lowers it, taking a two- (or arguably, three-) handed grip so it looks as if he's -- and he may well be -- considering playing pinata with it, with the arm as the bat.

That, however, is before Keres gives it a proper talking to. His eyes narrow when she mentions a tribemate of his, and he lowers the arm, then tosses it over his shoulder toward the corpse of the first Fomor. The playfulness fades from his attitude, and he takes a couple steps toward the creature. The previous demeanor probably wasn't exactly comforting, if the thing even still experiences such concepts, but the switch to icy cold is no kind of improvement. He crouches down to be closer to face-to-face, watching the slowly dimming eyes. ~I dunno if you can pass shit on,~ he says, almost calmly, ~but if you can, pass this. We ain't easy. We ain't disposable. We ain't alone. An' we ain't YOURS!~ His voice rises on the last word, a snarl that almost seems to echo off the trees, and he half-rises as well, using the movement to help drive his fist through the weakened chestbones of the creature, his claws finding purchase around the heart and ripping it back out through the fresh hole.

When it's over-- from start to finish-- and the air is allowed to settle after several long moments, Keres takes a couple steps forward, kneeling by the ravaged corpse of the still-hanging kill, her hand dipping beneath an arm stump still oozing with blood. Spatters fall to the pad of her thumb, and she raises, looking to the Galliard.

She first places a hand on his shoulder, the bloodied hand raised in turn, thumb extended. She waits for acceptance, careful not to lord over him, and when it's clear it's there, she draws a line of blood along the fur on his cheek. Her ears are relaxed, but upright, making it clear she's approaching as a superior, but there's no aggression. Just recognition.

~And people wondered why I called your tribemates brother,~ she says, ~or sister.~ Her hand drops away. ~One of you deserved to be here to make that kill.~ Beat. ~I may not have known you for long, but I'm glad it was you.~ She looks around the clearing again, to the fire that's well on its way to burning out-- to the wreckage of bodies. ~Now,~ she says, affecting a slightly lighter tone, ~where's that acid bath when you need it?~

The Gnawer stands in front of the corpse for those moments, hands by his side and the heart still dribbling blood through his fingers. His breaths are slow and deep, face unusually expressionless, and the hand on his shoulder seems to come almost as a shock -- a twitch of the muscles, though not away, and his gaze refocuses at the proper distance. He turns his head to look at Keres, with a very faint smile for her presence, and his chin lowers fractionally as she reaches to draw that line -- a consent. Her remarks get a very simple, but sincere reply: ~Thank you.~ For the words, for bringing him, or for allowing him to make the kill is unclear, but it's probably not bad odds to bet on all of the above.

It's her last words that get the smile to something closer to characteristic. ~Reckon we left it back in the basement.~ He looks at the heart in his hand, and then sets it down -- on the ground, but not with the rest of the pieces. ~Well. S'pose we could get that fire up an' put 'em in that.~ There's a little dubiousness. They're pretty large, and the fire isn't.

Keres looks to the parts strewn on the ground, considerate. She hasn't lost the gravity of the moment, in spite of her own flippant remark (and his to follow). Not to say there isn't a sense of accomplishment. By all accounts, all of this could have gone horribly, horribly wrong.

~Still need to cleanse this place,~ she says, finally. ~Can clear the ground of underbrush. Make the remains part of the outer circle.~ She takes in a slow breath, letting her shoulders lift with it, and sag when it leaves her. ~There's a lot to cleanse here,~ she says, then, turning her head to him. ~Us, too, probably.~ Beat. ~Could pool our resources,~ she says, then. ~Make sure it's done right, all at once. Maybe even say a proper goodbye to a woman who didn't deserve what she got.~