Feathers and Fur

July 31, 2014: Corvinus meets the Werewolf by Night.


A neighborhood in Lower Manhattan, New York City, which in recent history came to the public's attention for being the location of many artists' lofts and art galleries, but is now more noted for its variety of shops ranging from trendy upscale boutiques to national and international chain store outlets.



  • Lizzy Goldberg - Young, pretty, has trouble with men

Mood Music:

Late night in Lower Manhattan. The moon hangs in the stale air, not yet half full, enveloped in wisps of clouds. A passenger jet moves lazily off to the right, while to the left a new club opening (possibly) fires off twin beams of spotlights. A night like any other. Nothing special.

In Soho, trendy bars and restaurants are alive with activity, catering to a hip crowd that brings with it charm, good looks, and money. All three keep the neighborhood kicking, but they can present problems if combined in just the wrong way. And in this city, problems creep up all the time. Like the one that's sending Lizzy Goldberg screaming into the street.

"Oh! My! God!" The young woman, a look of disbelief and horror on her face, has just run out of an alleyway a few blocks from a stretch of bars like the ones mentioned previously. Her makeup is running and her little red dress is torn. She's scared shitless.

A heavier-set fellow, looking nowhere near hip, trendy, or money is walking through the neighborhood. He's been trying to find work, after all, he's a hard worker, he just needs an opportunity… a leg up, as it were. And perhaps a drug store in Soho might be willing to hire him, or some ma and pa. But right now, he's looking for coffee. A long day of searching and another day of rejection culminated in seeing the night scene rocking the night fantastic.

Jim Reha blinks at the young lady as she comes screaming up into the street. Given New York, even in such a trendy neighborhood, it's probably unlikely that the locals are going to do much about this, so he makes his way to the woman.

"HEY, someone call 9-1-1!" he shouts at no one in particular as he looks to the woman. "What happened? Are you hurt?" Freakin' Boy Scout comes out, even as jaded as he is.

It's true, people in New York aren't, as a whole, keen on helping those they don't know. When it comes to Lizzy, even her friends might look the other way, because - and there's no way Jim would know this - she is known for being dramatic.

"Over there," she tells Jim, panting and pointing to a dark side street. "Oh my god, both of them. Why do these things always happen to me?" Her breathing starts to slow along with her heartbeat, the panic subsiding momentarily. Then a deep, animalistic bark-grunt from the direction she indicated sends her running again.

If Jim is to put his attention on the source of Lizzy's panic, he'll hear the sounds of a scuffle.

A normal, sane person would remain out by the street. A well-adjusted person might even wait for the police arrival…if anyone even called them. And most folks probably wouldn't dare to venture into a dark alley late at night even in such a shiny neighborhood.

However, given the recent dearth of job and the earlier-in-the-week encounter with the strange yellow-booted man, Jim's kind of hit his level of BS tolerance. With the woman having run off, there's only one thing for a frustrated fellow to do to try and make things right, and that's to charge in where angels fear to tread.

This being said, he's not a complete idiot, he expects to run into two someones, probably strung-out dope-heads or some such.

The alley is like another world, devoid of much of the light that makes the street so appealing for most, and claustrophobic in being flanked on multiple sides by the surrounding buildings. There's also a stench that can't be placed.

At the end of the alley in question, two figures can be seen, one of human height and build, the other much bigger. And hairier. This second figure has the other cornered, and appears to be entrenched in a form of dance. He moves lithely from side to side, padded feet - no, paws - making little noise across the damp ground. The other - his prey, it would seem - tries to outdo those steps and get away. It's not working, as the man's sobs would indicate.

Into the darkness the touristy sort strides, briefly becoming nauseated as that strange scent hits his nostrils. And then the strange furry, big thing. Yeah, that's definitely not kosher—not that Jim's a rabbi or anything.

He pulls up a brief second and coughs politely. "HEY, furry-reject! Try picking on someone your own size, eh?"

The fellow gets a bit taller, even as his form distorts a bit, large limbs rising up behind his back as he makes sure he's fully in the alley. "What, conventions not good enough for you?"

The Werewolf by Night stops his hunter's dance at the sound of the voice behind him. His head turns slowly, revealing a wolven muzzle barring large, sharp teeth. A pair of crimson eyes stare back at Corvinus and narrow slightly. "What are you?" the creature snarls in a husky voice that would unsurprisingly belong to a wolf that could talk.

The distraction offers the third being in the alley, the most human of them all, a chance to run. And he takes it. The main entrance to the alley, now blocked by an equally-terrifying bird man, is clearly off-limits, so the man chooses to wend his way further into the maze of buildings, shouts and curses echoing off of them.

The werewolf, on the other hand, turns his massive form to face the newcomer in full.

The strange bird-man cracks its wings, then its neck, as if getting used to the feeling of them after some time away. It takes a step forwards, arms held low, palms forward.

The tone is almost patronizing, yet backed with a depth of experience that seems greater than the words. "Corvinus." It's a term that could be both a descriptor of form or of identity. "And what might you be?"

Even as the wolf-entity turns and rises a bit, obsidian eyes stare back as it adjusts its footing to a more martial stance.

The man running off into the alleyways gets a brief glance, then a nod.

"Werewolf," is the response Corvinus gets, along with a comic shrug. Werewolves can do that? This one can, and his tone suggests that his nature should be obvious. It, too, takes a step forward.

"You let that twerp get away. He was mine. Not like I was going to kill him or anything." He snorts and then there's more of that smell again. "But I guess I got a good scare in." Those large nostrils comb the air, though, noting his scent is still strong and, should the werewolf desire it, he could always continue the hunt later.

Corvinus tilts its head slightly at the shrug, then mimics the action with not only a shoulder-shrug but that of his wings. "Then perhaps an apology is in order for the 'furry' comment? Unless that is a thing for you, of course?" There's a bit of a pause as it considers the situation, trying to get a feel for why the 'werewolf was doing that previous act.

"What did that man do to you? Or alternatively, what claim did you have on that man? It is rather improper to hunt one's fellow sentients, after all? Hardly the sign of enlightenment."

What an odd bird, looking to a mythological figure of rage, fury, and bestiality for… enlightenment?

"I would rather NOT fight you, but if you feel it necessary.."

The werewolf pauses a moment, as if to consider. Its breathing and heart rate accelerate, the former of which is noticeable to anyone with eyes and ears. It wants nothing more than to attack Corvinus, rend the bird's flesh and tear off that silly beak. It does want to fight. But Jack does not, and though control is never easy, it is something he's worked hard to obtain. And he doesn't give it up.

Instead of baring teeth or swiping with cleaver claws, the werewolf answers the bird. "Not me. Her. She deserves better." Whether or not Corvinus is supposed to know what that means remains unclear, though Jim can surely put two and two together.

"We won't fight tonight," continues the werewolf. "But do not interrupt me again."

The avian entity stands ready, calm as the eye of a hurricane yet ready for the potential crashing of the far end of the eyewall. He has ended more fights through talking and negotiation than ever by force of arms, and he is glad that the other entity has decided to remain in check. The restraint is rewarded with a bit of a head-bob.

"That choice is a personal one, though. If always someone is there to provide all the solutions, then one does not learn, one does not grow. One would wish her to grow and learn, yes?" There's a slight tilt of the head.

"Excellent! May we work out some method to indicate when you're simply providing an 'object lesson' versus your 'rending someone limb from limb' mode, then? In the case of the former, education is paramount, but in the latter, it is highly detrimental to the future of this world."

Another pause for reflection. Maybe Jack should lose control. Just this once. If only to teach the bird brain a lesson in…well, not to lecture. Then again, maybe Jack should just think this through all the way.

"Save it, Corvinus," states the werewolf simply. "I know it was juvenile, but damn if it didn't feel good." His massive hands clench into a fist, then open again at his sides. "You and I shouldn't stay here long."

As if on cue, lights and sirens coming closer. Looks like someone did call the fuzz.

The bird-being tenses during the pause, then nods. "Any evening where we all learn something is a productive evening. And being honest with one's emotions leads to greater clarity for one." Damned if the thing didn't sound satisfied—perhaps not pleased, but definitely satisfied.

The approaching lights and sirens get its attention.

"A day late and a dollar short, or so the saying goes. I would much rather avoid having to deal with their lack of care for the time being, so yes. Thank you very much for the warning, and for the courtesy. May you have a great evening, sir." It bows slowly then looks for a building to climb up, to get out of the alley and fly free and away from this situation. A nice quiet spot away from here to unwind would be good.

The Werewolf by night watches the bird being fly off, eyes narrowing once more. As the creature does, he gets a good, long whiff of it, noting its scent and taking inventory of it. This is one he's interested in.

No time to think about that now, though, because the cops are on his tail. With practiced ease, the werewolf bounds out of the scene of the crime, moving quickly and gingerly through the narrow alley passages. Soon, he's gone with little trace.

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