901/Tracking Rover

Tracking Rover
Date of Scene:	11 June 2017
Location:	Unknown
Synopsis:	Summary needed
Cast of Characters:	Ares, Feral

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Ares has posed:
    The agreement was made, terms settled, words were given. It was almost a ritual in some ways on John Aaron's part, the way he spoke, the precise formality... even if it was just a verbal agreement. Such things carry weight with those of his ilk. And so when he arrived he told her of the lead he had, told her of where they were going to go and what he needed. Rover's dwelling in Queens.
    When the black SUV pulled up to a halt, the door opened and out of the driver's side emerged John. He paused for a moment to rest his arms atop it, the man tall enough to lean there comfortably a moment as he looked at the dwelling. It was government housing, abandoned now, had definitely seen better days. Right now, there was little going on. The street was dead, like a place out of Old Detroit. Maybe a handful of people were visible on the street itself, and of those that were visible most of them were wasted on some head trip or another.
    "Let me know when you get something," He says levelly as he starts to step around. For once he's not dressed for pure comfort and ease of movement. He's wearing form-fitting jeans and a black hoodie sweatshirt. His shoes are sneakers and dark, and his manner had been business-like for the most part. Though if she'd crack a joke here or there she might've been able to wrangle a smirk out of him.
    "We'll check inside, see who is there if anyone, then the perimeter." His brown eyes meet hers, "Sound good?"

Feral has posed:
    The passenger door opens to emit a paradoxically clean-cut figure that's been riding at the tall man's side. Done up with black loafers and a crisp black jacket with matching pants - neither of a cheap leather - Vanya is almost unrecognizable from her more common ringside appearance. Orange sunglasses shade her eyes and her wild hair has even been forced back into a bun, keeping loose strands from blowing in her face.
    Even so, she's spent the entire ride with one arm halfway out the window and her nose in the passing current. While ostensibly human, it's been twitching at each street corner they've passed, looking for a familiar scent. As she stands up with the little clicks from her hard-heeled shoes, the bestial brawler stretches her arms over her head and grunts, regarding the street around them with disinterest and a mild frown - the smell isn't exactly pleasant.
    "Perimeter first," she replies, tapping her nose as she looks back through blue-blocker lenses. "If dog-breath has been there today, I'll smell him in a minute..." Turning her head from her towering employer, the wolf-woman lets her features contort as grey fur begins to sprout from her face and her nose broadens and stretches into a muzzle. John may have accidentally hired a wolf to catch a wolf.

Ares has posed:
    For some reason, John exhibits no hint of surprise or trepidation at the fact that his partner is now a bit more furred than she was a moment ago. "You are the hunter." He offers as he accepts her decision to make a circle around the property. He'll take point, however, as his initial concern had perhaps been in regards to an owner or a dweller taking exception to two people crossing through their yard this time of evening. It's not quite fully dark, what with the Summer hours being long, so there's still a haze of blue far off to the West. Enough light to operate by since none is coming from the building itself.
    John steps up to the old chainlink fence that circles the property, and to the gate at the side of the building. A few old discarded children's toys have been left in the yard, overgrown, along with a plastic jungle gym. He undoes the latch to the gate and pulls it open, then moves further into the area.
    To her, this place with all of its curious smells is a cacophonic odor of decay and neglect. She can smell the variety of drugs that had been sold out of the place, the myriad of humans all tinged with the sweat of desperation and blurred senses. She can probably even taste on the air the myriad of animals that have taken up living in the building. Yet nothing of their prey, not quite yet.

Feral has posed:
    Vanya's long face still manages an all too human smirk at the address and she adjusts her sunglasses so they lay properly on her muzzle. "I've earned that title more than once," she adds. There's no putting clothes over the ego.
    As she follows behind John, more focused now on her nose than her eyes as her loafers crunch through the overgrown lawn, she can't help dropped her smirk to a light sneer. They're hardly unfamiliar smells, which makes for easy sorting, but they're not exactly pleasant. "Nothing yet unless you want possum and heroin for dinner."

Ares has posed:
    The tall man casts a long shadow over what passes for the backyard of the place. He stands aside to let her have easier access for the area, his hands resting on his hips as he looks around. His eyes narrow a touch as his gaze sweeps the area. He is no stranger to tracking or hunting quarry, but she... she is another creature entire.
    For when she steps back there she is able to discern hints of the family that once lived there in happier times. The scents of a mother, a father, a daughter. All with hints of each other in their barely there scents on some of the old equipment. She can probably get a whiff of the musk of a dog that may have been there during that time, some broken bits of wood perhaps being what remains of its dog house from some time back.
    And as she works he watches her, gaze level for a time then slipping away as he considers the area around them. Firing lines are discerned, modifications that would be needed to hold off an attack, idle thoughts to entertain him in idle hours.
    But then she'll reach an area of earth just underneath one of the second story windows, and there's the musk of Rover whom she had faced some time ago in the ring. It's a strong scent, focused, and apparently only /moments/ old and heading out and away from the house.

Feral has posed:
    "Aww, they had a dog," Vanya notes fondly as she sniffs around, crouching down to scent a bit of old wood a little more closely before moving on. Hunting by smell might not be the most thrilling thing to watch but it is...
    
    "Found him o/~"
    
    ...undoubtedly effective. A wide, toothy smile parts Vanya's jaws as she turns back to John with her features beginning to recede back towards human. "He was here a moment ago and went..." she turns her head away and scents the air in a small arc before starting a brisk walk. "This way."
    As her muzzle shrinks back it stops just short of completion, leaving the werewolf's nose and face a canvas of grey stripes, just faintly pointed and animalistic.

Ares has posed:
    It's on the wind now, it's near, even as she breaks from the yard and is drawn into the alleyway. It's clear that Rover had been here, moments ago? Seconds? There's a footprint, a scuff upon the corner of a garage door that opens into the alleyway. A rushing dash down this way... a turn down onto this other alleyway between what seems like dozens of storage facilities and garages.
    And as she breaks he follows after her, keeping up a pace and rushing forth. He's fast on his feet. And as she's forced to leap or move over an old rusted out Ford, he's able to keep up with her, planting a hand and leaping over the hood with a single smooth motion.
    For a moment the scent leads her into another vacant lot area that must've been a communal back yard area. There are old sheds around, piles of trash and junk, with large grass growing all around them that definitely needs a cut. The smell is all around now. She might have even heard him for a bare instant. But now... it's like he's around everywhere, nearby... unseen.

Feral has posed:
    The the scent of her quarry on her nose and on the wind, Vanya's trot escalates itself to a jog and then a run as the two-legged beast chases down Rover's smell. Other, small changes begin to spread across her body, faint but visible to the man following behind. Her ears are widening and fanning, her fingernails lengthening and refining themselves into points, and the stride carrying her forward is growing larger and springier as she shifts to the balls of her feet.
    By the time she reaches the vacant lot, more than just Vanya's sense of smell has been driven in an inhuman direction.
    
    "He's here...!" she alarms, all her heightened senses alert as she whips her head around and smirks proudly. "Hey Rover!" Vanya calls out, standing tall and cock-sure atop an old tire. "I brought a friend who'd like a word with you."

Ares has posed:
    There's no responding jape, no repartee. It's just the two of them standing there in the middle of all the debris and detritus, him standing somewhat behind her and to the side. Then he steps forwards slowly, a few steps. Another step as the grass gives faint wheezes of stalks brushing against stalks, compressed under foot by the tall man. He looks down for a moment, a twig about a foot long between a pair of rocks. For a moment he gestures to it, looking at her as he then motions to himself, as if to tell her silently to make ready.
    He takes another step, the branch /cracks/ under foot, and suddenly the two of them are three. Out of the shadows of a she's rooftop, Rover /leaps/ off of the structure and charges straight into the side of John Aaron. The two come together with a heavy impact. She can see the half-dog creature snarling, though still mostly a man he is not above trying to bite and tear. He grabs hold of John's arm and upper shoulder from behind, seeking to dig fangs into the man's neck...
    Only for John to reach up grasping the back of his neck, leaning forward and going to one knee abruptly. It's a quick smooth throw, executed as well as she has ever seen and enough to send the unfortunate Rover heavy to the ground in front of Vanya.
    "I said I would not harm you, Rover." John's voice rises even as he gains his feet. "Vanya, however, has made no such promise."

Feral has posed:
    Vanya raises her chin just slightly to present a silent challenge to the watching werewolf and waits, not crouching nor baring claws. For a werewolf that's *hiding*? The predator of predators is above that.
    Despite the bravado, her head still whips in John's direct as Rover leaps out and she watches with an excited smile as a fight between them begins - and then ends in a moment. She looks down at the supine half-man and hops off her tire, landing with one foot on the ground and the other pinning down his chest with double the weight the brawler's body should have for its size. Vanya leans over it and rests a hand on her knee as she stares Rover in the eyes. Her other hand reaches up to remove her sunglasses; her brown eyes are a predatory golden orange.
    "Technically~ he just wants to talk with you, but you've made your furry butt hard enough to find in the ring I'd like to make a little wager: I let you up and we have a ring-style fight. You win and it's up to this guy to chase you back down himself. You lose and you talk - and I get a hundred in cash."

Ares has posed:
    Under the pressure of her weight, she can /feel/ the were-canine squirming, writhign, trying to get free with both hands grabbing at her leg and knee. He twitches and snarls, snapping a few words up at her as his eyes meet hers, "How do I know he won't jump in? What's he got on you that he's holding yer leash, Vanya?" Even as he tries to plant a foot on the ground and gets some leverage on her. He fails.
    But then John rises to his feet and says simply, curiously in support of Vanya. "If you win, then you can go. I give you my word I will not interfere." Such is his confidence in her for some reason, even though he has not seen her fight. Not yet. Perhaps that is as much intriguing to him as whatever this half-man half-dog might say.
    Rover looks over at John, then up at Vanya, even as his features shift back to be more... human, losing some of the edges, the fur. He scowls, "You always talked a lot of shit. Fine, I'll do it. Get offa me."

Feral has posed:
    "You know me, Volkya. I'm Feral, I just want a good fight," the black-dressed woman purrs down with a wide smile at the prospect of what's to come. Her tense leg is like gripping a rock face and enough weight shifts to and from her off leg to keep the werewolf pinned but not crushed.
    When Rover finally relents, the footprint eases off his chest and Vanya steps back. "Heeeh... don't get too comfortable. I'll be on top of you again soon..."
    Turning away from the wolf-man, she strides out into the grass while reaching for her clothes. The jacket is opened and shrugged from her shoulders, followed moments later by the loafers and pants. As she turns back around, Vanya pulls the binder out of her hair and whips it free in an arc that lands across one shoulder as she turns a challenging golden gaze to her opponent.
    The glimpses that John had caught at the Pit are now complete - the feral woman is down to only underwear beneath her formal garbs and she takes a moment to roll her arms and loosen up before the fun begins, flexing and contorting valleys and rivers of sinew across her frame - part warm-up and part pre-fight show boating.
    "Werewolf up before we get started, da? You've made me wait far too long to cop out by holding back."

Ares has posed:
    Volkya twinges and twitches as he gets to his feet, his arms seeming to tense and untense over and over as he shoots a vitriolic gaze at her, as if he were fighting for control against the most roiling and wild instinct of the primal he's ever felt. But she's seen him in the ring at times, never truly holding back though the claws... the fangs has always been held off at first lest escalation be immediate. No the crowd likes its show. But then the only crowd here is that bastard that's been hounding him these last two weeks.
    Her opponent tears his shirt off his chest, balls it up, and throws it aside. He's built well, a swimmer's build with the tension playing over each line and curve of the taut musculature. He rolls his head to the side, as he extends his hands, no claws... for now. But when he snarls at her, snapping crazed with anger words at her that she'll see the flash of fangs, "Won't need claws to bend you, break you. Hope that fucker with your leash in his hand gives a shit about you, cuz otherwise I'm gonna leave you bleedin' in the dirt."
    Declarations are made, passed, in some ways a ritual all its own. John, for his part however, takes up a place standing against the rusted remains of an old Chevy Nova. His arms are crossed over his broad chest and he crosses his feet at the ankles. There is nothing he needs to add here, this is between them.

Feral has posed:
    Vanya puts her hands together and cracks her knuckles ominously, causing the broad muscles of her back to flare out like a cobra's opening hood. She smiles with excitement dancing in her golden eyes - and John might notice, most of a tooth already growing back from the night before.
    "Fine, we'll start with kid gloves. You're just giving me an advantage," she replies, bouncing in place to check the spring of her ankles and get in just a last moment of show-boating before settling into a tall and relaxed fighting posture. Taking a side-on pose with only a slight bend in her knees, Vanya's lead arm is low and lightly fisted while her rear hangs before her solar plexus; the subtle tension visible across her bare abs, the alertness in her eyes, and the fine details of her posture are what separate a martial defence from what could otherwise be sloppy boxing. The were-woman is taking her enemies measure and to start with, is counting on speed.

Ares has posed:
    She really is a remarkable creature, her forearms, elbows, knees, the lines of her shins, all so clearly honed to smash and crush, the delineation of her musculature so well trained, approaching a peak of perfection that he has seen rarely save for a handful of few beings in the past. Age old champions who all took to the task so well, but also almost to a man... died early in their lives. His appraisal of her is open, and with an intensity that if it were seen in other men it would be deemed lascivious from afar. But for him he is gauging her, the reach of her arms, the length of her legs, her balance, the speed of her movements. Data, all absorbed by a being who lives for naught save conflict. That perhaps makes two of them there, two creatures who want nothing more than to test themselves against the best challenges the world dare throw their way.
    It is a pity that Volkya is not one of them.
    His stance is head on, hands raised high, balance shifting at times between one foot or the other. A homogenized mongrel of a style between american and thai boxing. He protects his face behind raised fists and begins to shift back and forth almost rhythmically before he darts forwards and lashes out with an abrupt front kick to start the festivities.
    He exhales a short sharp, 'TSSST!' as he strikes, focusing his breath to strengthen the strike.

Feral has posed:
    Vanya exploits her narrow stance as synapses fire, propelling her sideways to weave the kick as her lead arm comes up to help brush it away with a twist of her forearm. It's an equally short and sharp move but delivered in the subtlest ways more casually; even bared almost completely, the wolf-woman's chest isn't matching the wolf-man's strike-focusing rise and fall. She's breathing naturally, almost imperceptibly, with rhythmic tensing in the very base of her core and lower back.
    Lunging forward with her arm still high, Vanya follows Rover's leg back in with a jab towards his face as her stance sinks for longer reach. Her foremost calloused knuckles are about to check his guard.

Ares has posed:
    There's a crunch of grass under foot, rasping against their bare skin and giving more of a voice to sound in the bout than either two of them make at the moment. It's just that, the impact of flesh to flesh, faint exhalations of air. Their eyes hold each others' gaze, and they come together with short sharp bursts of impact, slaps striking skin.
    She's able to slip past his kick, and he's already snapping it back, moving in to press with his own arm strikes. Her jab finds his forearm as it's brushed to the side almost in perfect counterpoint to his earlier strike. There's that rapid-fire exchange between them, each still feeling out the defense of the other, assaying reach and strength. For some reason the corner of his mouth lifts, fang baring as he tries to snap a quick side kick straight into her shin, then lifting slightly to her knee.
    But that is aimed at mainly shifting balance, initiative, and letting him press in to slam an elbow into the side of her head as he snaps out a sharp, /TSAI!/

Feral has posed:
    Vanya's eyes shine in the exchange, figuratively and literally as a stray beam of light alights her pupils for just a moment. It's a small thing to any but a well-honed eye but as the were-woman's foot snaps in from the ground to pivot a retreat from Rover's reach and she jabs out again to forestall his charge, seeking space, there's a feeling of... the primal.
    Responding with a feinted low then truly high side kick of her own, Vanya's shifting feet and graceful but powerful agility leave deep marks in the grass from the unseen forces they're marshalling and there's just subtly something more rousing her limbs and whipping brown hair in her wake like the tassel of a spear. Working the werewolf at range, the were-woman's powerful and often hidden legs easily compensate for any natural advantage of reach or strength her larger opponent's arms might give him.

Ares has posed:
    The momentum of the man is aimed at pressing, at keeping her on the back of her feet. She can read his strategy in the choice of his attacks, in the rhythm of his movements. The times she's seen him fight before and be victorious it was him trusting to his aggression, his instincts. And in this moment she's playing him like a fiddle.
    An errant aluminum can is struck as he shifts to the side around one of her jabs and takes another strike on his shoulder. She'll see those bared fangs again even as he sees the gleam in her eyes. His mouth hangs open a moment, just a lupine grin as he seems to bite on her tactic, committing himself to something of a heavy haymaker to try and bring this fight to a close abruptly. She can see it chamber, see the tension in the taut lines of his chest, and then he lashes out...
    Even as she's balancing back on her rear leg and uncoiling with that feint he had been ready to accept on his shin, expecting her to strike low again only for her to check it and /smash/ it into the side of his head.
    She'll feel her toe dig into the skin of his cheek even as the ball of her foot follows a bare moment after to /crash/ into the bone. It snaps his head to the side, a solid impact that'll jolt up along the line of her leg as her body extends, lashes out, connects, then retreats. He's off step for a second, enough to shift his defense to one degree, to get him to turn his head with a quick jolt of his head as if trying to clear the abrupt cobwebs.
    Yet she remembers him in those ring fights. The naked aggression, the rage that starts to sprout hints of fur along the line of his shoulders even as he viciously lashes out again with another cross trying to take her head off with that more reckless strike.

Feral has posed:
    The lupine grin is encouragement, the raw tension a shot of adrenaline, and the clash of bodies is music that rings through her marrows. It's early, they're only just getting started, but Feral's namesake fervour is already peeking through. Not bloodlust, not sadism, the wild-eyed woman is simply in her element - and she wants more.
    The more human fighter ducks and twists herself as her arms follow the predictable reprisal, guide it, bind it, and turn the weight of the werewolf's cross into a flip onto the ground.
    Following her prey into the grass, Vanya rolls and spreads herself across Rover's chest, pinning his captured arm against her body and raising her hips to complete an arm bar.

Ares has posed:
    The growth of fur is felt under the pressure of her hands, but in this case it gives her more purchase as she moves to refocus the inertia of her opponent. She'll get her arm slipped under his, then turn and twist, his hip slamming into hers for a brief moment. His weight, with all the adrenaline roiling, seems almost negligible as he is tossed down onto his back with a short /whumpf/ his off arm reaching out to _smack_ the ground to try and dissipate some of the power of the impact.
    Yet he's no easy mark, he's already recovering as he reaches up to /grab/ at his own hand, fighting against her seizing his forearm fully, his hands clasping, clenching. She'll see the muscles of his biceps and pectorals blazing into life as they stand out upon the now shifting bone structure beneath those whipcords of flesh.
    He curls up around his own limb, fighting with her as she swings her legs into place, fighting to get an edge, one of her legs behind his back, while the other still across his abdomen. The weredog Volkya suddenly seems to grow in size, his body crackling and tearing beneath the skin as his upper body seems to grow in size for a moment, aiding him in resisting her locking down that arm bar.
    It's enough for him to almost bull through, but it carries the double edge of it that if he loses his grip the lash back of his arm suddenly being in her grip and her hips thrusting upwards will snap his elbow or dislocate his shoulder painfully.

Feral has posed:
    Muscle struggles against muscle, tendons tense, bodies grind and slam together as Vanya tries to out-muscle and out-maneuver her larger opponent... and he's growing even larger. Her hands clamp around sprouting fur like vices as the feral fighter grunts and struggles. Kid gloves or not, unbridled strength is clashing from both sides before Rover's enlarged and inhuman frame finally claims victory with a sudden jerk to freedom.
    Now left without a hold, Vanya tries to quickly untangle herself and push the werewolf away before the grapple can reverse with her smaller body on the receiving side.

Ares has posed:
    A retreat is just what he wants. He needed a moment, two, even as he spins away, skittering to his feet as fast as he can and hops back a few feet to again shake his head. Only now he's got a fine sheen of fur, short coated, but with fangs more prominent though still no claws. His chest has grown several shirt sizes and his arms are lined with clear vascularity, and taut tendons clenching powerful hands the size of sledgehammer heads.
    Rolling his head once he refocuses, re-aligns himself with her and snarls with a fist smashing backwards to shatter a few white pickets of what used to be a fence. "Kill you!" The animal in him cries, more primal than he was moments ago and for some reason... more primal than she's seen him in the ring. It's in those eyes of his, eyes that clearly lust for the sensation of her neck crackling under the pressure of his jaws, eyes that scream with barely lucid animosity as he immediately throws himself back at her.
    Uncoiling like the crack of a whip into a series of low kicks trying to push her back towards a tall dead oak tree, seeking to punish her shins, her knees, her thighs, looking to wear her down.

Feral has posed:
    Vanya gets to her feet just as quickly and despite the loss of her hold - because of the loss of her hold - the raw excitement of the fight has had that much time to spread down her spine and send tingles racing down her skin. The bestial brawler lets out a deep, low, and hot breath as she watches the werewolf across from her. Her arms are up in a reflexive mid-guard and a light sheen of sweat is beginning to form in the fading light of dusk. A small but stubborn smile is keeping her jaw pried open as her golden gaze roams the grey field covering her opponent, the inhuman strength of his arms, the threatening fangs, and the howl of fury that only just falls short of his pure lupine kin...
    It's enough of a sight that Vanya truly loses focus for just a breath and it's long enough that her snap back to reality throws a werewolf in her face. The female fighter beats a hasty retreat backwards, stumbling in her first steps and paying for them with her legs. There's haste, there's a glimpse of uncertainty in her movements as thick shins slam into her sides and force her body to bend to their wills, but there's no fear. Suddenly she's losing but Vanya continues to smile happily, excitedly, and yet eager for more than Rover is showing even now.
    As she's pushed back towards the tree for her own safety, Feral's own body begins to change. It's quiet at first, like the spark of predatory bearing that rests deep within her eyes, but by the time her back presses against dry bark, Vanya's legs have grown a little thicker, her shins a little harder, and her teeth just a little bit more wolf-fang pointed. It's perhaps too subtle to reach through her opponent's bloodlust rage but not so to a keener eye.
    Battered and bruising but not broken, the golden-eyed fighter's gaze raises from Rover's chest to his head as she realizes she's out of room.

Ares has posed:
    In response to the kicks her legs have thickened, harder, more durable as at first his own shin was slicing into softer albeit firm flesh. But now it's like striking a bound tree stump. Oh he has trained for years improving his kicks, smashing bamboo with shins, knees, toes. Yet in the haze of the fight it's not enough to stop him, although she is able to weather the storm of strikes, enduring and growing stronger despite each impact.
    His own open jaw is less a smile of anticipation, and more the predator preparing to rend and tear as his teeth become this serrated mass of points. He /rrroroowwls/ before letting a few more words fall from his transformed jaw, "Stop smiling!" He presses in as her back is almost at that tree. "Stop fucking smiling!"
    And then he goes in for that clinch, trying to grab her close, grab the back of her head and /piston/ his knees into her jaw the same time he attempts to pull her head down into the strike. In the rings of Thailand when such a strike hits it's often the end for one fighter. As not just one knee hits, it's the first one that stuns to get through, and then the repeated ones that do the damage. More than one fighter has been robbed of his life in such a moment, and it's clear he would not care if she did join that number.

Feral has posed:
    Vanya laughs. A true, genuine, light-hearted laugh in the face of Rover's rage as she's pinned before the werewolf. It escapes only a moment before she's silenced by the clinch and the feral woman's body because a picture of taut sinew and flesh as the imminent danger sparks an instinctive, deeply-honed response.
    One arm comes up to mirror the clinch and brace herself against the werewolf's chest. The animal woman moves in as close as time allows to shrink the distance of their hips. The other arm goes down as she feels Rover's weight shift through his grapple to present its elbow at the rising socket. Then with what leverage she can gain from the tree at her back and half a hold on her opponent, Vanya pushes Rover towards the coming knee to dampen its power. He's not the only one who's studied Muay Thai.
    
    Weakened but not stopped, the werewolf's rock-hard kneecap still slams into the last line of token defence that is Vanya's forearm and pins it to her chin with a *crack!* that reverberates through the clinch. Vanya's teeth are forced together, one might even be chipped, and a visceral flex reminds that as hard as bones may seem, they bend before they break.

Ares has posed:
    For a moment she can feel his breath as they grapple, his arms are sweaty and it smells as if he had devoured something... or someone only a few hours ago. His chest is a low steady grumble that rises each in time with his limbs when he tries to strike her in that clench. There's a short shake as he tries to /whip/ her to the left, to the right, but she's able to resist him as he plants one foot into the dirt, pressing into her and trying to smash her back against the tree.
    Yet each time he lashes out, each time he tries to get a handle on her, to feel some purchase to his knee or his elbow he fails. Yet it builds frustration, builds the rage-filled tension as he _can't get through at her_. He snarls and then almost angrily he tries to pull her in and /bites/ at the side of her neck, barely able to get through seeking to grasp the flesh and tear it free with the shake of his head even as he twists his limbs and attempts to send her crashing to the ground.
    If he succeeds and she's still standing he /leaps/ into the air, chambering a kick and seeking to crash it into her chest powerfully. But if she's fallen... then he seeks to end this fight by using that leap to cast a heavy shadow over her and then _crush_ her under an outthrust knee, seeking to break her torso with all of his weight.

Feral has posed:
    Fur slaps against flesh; bones slam, bend, and crackle with each impact; muscles struggle, tendons are strained; and Vanya's proud body is tested from both sides as she's hammered from the front and given the reprieve of her bare back slammed and dragged against the dry bark of the dead tree behind her.
    The smile is gone from her face, a snarl of focus is in its place as the cock-sure and show-boating fighter gives herself fully to the task of defence. Rapid, shallow breaths sneak in air between blows that force her armour of muscles tense, and the blood rushing frantically through her body has already begun the process of colouring her legs a wounded, swollen blue where strikes best found their marks. Despite her bravado, Feral is no Super Woman; her body follows nature's laws.
    
    Just not all the human ones...
    
    When Rover in his fury bites for her neck there's a sudden stop in the action. Not because of interruption, not because of hot lifeblood spraying from a bloodied victor's wound - because Vanya thrust herself forward in the same moment leaving Rover's fangs deep in the meat of her shoulder, and sunk her own fangs into his.
    Piercing flesh, slicing and parting muscle, and crushing down with every ounce the same predatory force, the were-woman's bite is matching Rover fang for fang. The yellowed eyes of a wolf glance to John from their deadly embrace and Vanya curls back just a little more lip to smile at the man as her rough tongue laps at the fresh blood she's forced out.
    It's a visceral moment between breaths and then it's over as the bestial woman's leg hooks the true werewolf's knee and she turns their kinship embrace into a second tumble to the earth. This time she's not pinning just his arm.

Ares has posed:
    She can feel it, the pounding of pulse against tongue, against lips, the spurt of ichor into her mouth as she can feel her fangs dig, and pierce, then catch upon sinew and bone. It's a deep wound, and then there's a tearing as he instinctively tries to pull away, his own bite being forgotten as he whips his head back and away and...
    Hooowwwwls!
    It's a loud thing that causes nearby hounds to bark and yap in the night, causes a bolt of tension lash through his entire body under her grip. It's a bare instant where his own embrace goes weak. From surprise? From pain? No, from the abrupt realization of weakness, of a weakness internal.
    Her yellowed feral eyes slash across the distance and between them she is able to find John's features. Find the tall man's calm and reserved stance against the hood of that old car to be unchanged...
    Except for his eyes, the blaze of intensity is there in them, a haze of kinship so dark, so primal that it is almost as if she reached out she could feel him there, curled with her and straining to crush her foe vicariously through her. It is a vicious look of such utter carnage that has not been seen in the gaze of this god who plays at being mortal in some two hundred years. It is an acceptance of that darker side of his self.
    And just before she shifts her leg along the powerful thigh of her opponent, she'll see John's lips part, his eyes hood. And then he moistens them as if about to say something, as if about to roar a challenge of his own...
    Just as she takes her opponent down and crushes him to the earth.

Feral has posed:
    Rover will feel the heartbeat that resonates in Vanya's chest when the two predators' eyes meet the moment before his world spins. Their combined weight makes the earth tremble underneath and chokes grass against dirt, fur against roots, and startles loose a crowd of insects hiding in a nearby burrow.
    Vanya puts the whole of herself atop her massive prey and gives no quarter to torso or limbs. She growls ferally with the taste of blood in her mouth and more of her own gushing from her shoulder. But there's now a severe size difference and the pair twist, roll, and struggle for dominance in the seeding grass, leaving licks of life-giving red on the blades they pass.
    Threatening barks, lashing bites, and clawing devolve the pile - the broad, statuesque muscles of Vanya's back are painted by cuts until finally the pair stop with the victor defiantly looming over its foe. Technique and skill have fallen behind in what, in its last moments, could only be a test of strength and size. Years of honed training, mental clarity, have in this instance been forced to concede to the might of raw power.
    Vanya smiles a fresh, ear-splitting smile and answers Rover's howl with one of her own, matching its character, its ferocity, and trailing just a little longer and larger as her shadow stretches across the werewolf nature has forsaken. A grey pallor spreads across the victor's presented body as skin darkens, furs, and swells with the vigour of something more than human. Sharp nails throw off their guises and grow into full claws, a fluffed tail stretches up overhead, Feral's hair merges into a thick coat down her back, and nature's victor over a werewolf displays itself as another werewolf.
    A clawed hand takes a hasty grip of Rover's head and wrenches it back in the moment of surprise. Vanya's face dives from sight as she embraces her fellow pit fighter one last, most intimate way... with her fangs resting threateningly against his neck.
    "Say it," she breaths in a low, growling tone as hot gulps of breath soak the tender fur of Rover's throat.

Ares has posed:
    Her opponent beneath her, his limbs sprawled. One arm is lifted around her side almost like a lover's while his feet had been scrabbling in the grass and the dirt, digging furrows as he sought the most desperate of purchase and leverage to try and get some grasp to throw her from him before she can capitalize it, before she can seize such utter dominance that he is left with naught of himself anymore, only an instinctive surrender from predator to prey.
    And then her fangs are around his neck, her thickly muscled form now entirely a furred demon with another of its kind at her mercy. She can feel the lightning flash of tension through him as he stops moving, of bravado slipping away from rage and into the purity of fear. His voice is still ragged, still a contorted growl even as he murmurs over the feeling of those fangs upon his neck.
    "You..." Heavy hard breaths, "You are superior."
    A grudging thing torn from him taken with such power that there is no sign of resistance further. Instead he is left to breathe slowly under her most vicious of embraces. The last thing to be determined is whether she will accept his surrender, or tear that throat free of the flesh that holds it.

Feral has posed:
    The massive chest, broad and powerful limbs, the razor-sharp dangers of claws and fangs, and the lethal, white-hot predatory rage all barely bound together in the grip of her body and smothering her senses... the steely tension of muscles aching to swing and rend and destroy... and Vanya gets to feel, hear, and smell all the fight bleed away into the grass.
    A low rumble echoes in the back of her mouth as her tongue drags itself against Rover's neck and the werewolf's grip relaxes on its kin, holding him long enough to take a deep, sweet breath to remember the scent of its victory, then he's released. Vanya sits up to her full height still straddling Rover's stomach and gazes down at him from on high, drinking in the sheer power he holds - the power she just surpassed. Her fangs peek out in a smile of satisfaction as she stands back up and catches her breath. The fighting posture leaves her and the victorious woman stands spine erect, shoulders back, and turns to look once more towards John.
    This is why it's her domain.

Ares has posed:
    When she glances in his direction, even as she exults in the moment, in the victory that cries to the wild and races through her blood, she will see him having pushed off from his place against the old car. She will see him step across the distance towards her, his loose jacket unzipped and held in one arm. And then he steps close to her, not for any words of congratulation, nor admonishment. Not for any question uttered, or supposed debt to be accepted.
    No. What draws him forward is this simply small moment when she'll feel him drape that jacket over her shoulders if she will allow him, stepping close enough for a moment that she can take in his scent, can taste what she may not have noticed before. The way his scent is a heady thing, of masculine exertion, steel, sweat... and the tang of blood. Blood that is not his own. But small traces, yet it is of him, and now it is hers. Perhaps a faint touch of the symbolic even as he then murmurs quietly.
    "Await in the car should you wish, I will join you shortly."
    Then his back is given to her as he kneels before the fallen lycanthrope. A sign of trust perhaps, acceptance. For in some ways after this moment, after her exultation in victory, her revelry in pure furious endeavour... she is in touch with him. But what is more, she is in touch with what a god of war truly must be.
    "Now, my friend." He tells the fallen werewolf. "We have much to discuss."

Feral has posed:
    Hot breaths break across John's shirt as Vanya pants while watching the towering man approach. It smells like beans and salsa, the woman herself much like her employer but with her bestial undertone unbridled and bare. Her tail rises high and swishes as she catches a kindred scent, and despite the blood beginning to discolour her fur, the cage fighter with feral eyes almost looks ready for round two...
    But body language can be a subtle thing and Vanya makes no move to fight. John is staring into nature and within the yellow rings beneath the den of her grey brow, an apex predator is staring back - alive, attentive, but quiet. No claws come forward, no signs of tension mar her body except the silent challenge that's rang by her very existence.
    John is granted the smile of a wolf in payment for his jacket and slowly, gradually, the changes reverse. The fur that's inflamed her feral silhouette draws back and a human pallor begins to return, exposing once again the badges of a hard-won victory. It's a partial transformation, one that's left the edges of her features lightly marked with the jagged lines of a beast and her battered legs protected by a shallow coat. The wolfish woman flashes an enlarged canine to John's back and turns to depart, sniffing at his jacket as she goes to regather her things.
    
    "Don't forget my hundred."