
KESSLER
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Location: Abandoned Warehouse • Time: Nightfall
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He stood there, in the dank, rotten abattoir that reeked of death and Logan in equal measure. He could smell his struggle, his torture, the bitter scent of defeat and loss. He stood there in his tattered clothes, ripped and ruined from his earlier endeavours, and for the first time in a long time felt ill-at-ease with how dishevelled he must have looked. One of his pant-legs was ripped off at the thigh. His shirt was little more than a rag, all of it bloody. Only his kutte was spared the destruction of the past hour. Small mercies. He never would have come before Logan this way. Dom, yeah. There was little to no judgement from Dom. Not for doing the job, at least. But Logan had expected them all to be better than they were. To rise above, if not in station, in action. He stood there with the girl's blood on him, and his own, adding to the stench of the place, and wished it hadn't been this way. After but a moment, he realized he couldn't move. Couldn't act, as he was transfixed by the sight, his senses. To have moved from where he was rooted, would have been to give in to the blood lust. To act on instinct, and tear limb from limb. To find the root of this evil, and dig it up with his bare hands.
What was before him, was no way for any of their pack to die. It was undignified. It wasn't a warrior's death, and Logan had most certainly been that, and so much more. Images and memories came rushing to him of the kind, fatherly mentor and guide Logan had been for him in his early years. If Dom had been a companion, an older brother and a yardstick to measure his own accomplishments against, Logan had been the wise sensei, a father on occasion, a calm centre to a place that could be wild and unpredictable, but also a fearless hunter, a ruthless tactician, and a damn good friend.
He found his emotions overtaking him, and fought to maintain control. His claws were out, and Kessler kept his hands balled into massive, powerful, dangerous fists until the claws dug into flesh, nearly protruding from the other side of his hands, and blood ran freely from his clenched meat. His digits swelled around the rings he wore, adding to the pain. He could feel the change in his jaw and shoulders, teeth extending, jaw cracking, reforming. He held it in check, allowing just enough of the change to envelope him that it hurt. Hurt badly. The pain was amplified when you fought it. He wanted it to hurt. He needed the pain. The pain informed many of his reactions, allowed the tears to fall.
Tilting his head back, he howled. An ungodly thing to hear, all barrel chest and unbridled power, pushing from diaphragm to throat, the howl was likewise centred in the current duality of his form, equal parts his human bass, and partly the beast within. It spoke plainly of anguish, pain, loss and betrayal. And rage. So much seething rage, he hoped the perpetrators of this crime were stupid enough to be nearby to shit their collective pants when his cry pierced their eardrums and told them that death was coming to collect.
The howl spoke all the things that Kessler might've said if he were prone to speaking his mind. Though it would be only dimly understood by non-Lycans -- intent more than direct translation, to those that mattered to him -- namely Dominic, and Lucian, it would be as clear a treatise as any human dialogue. When he was finished, the howl lasting far longer than the capacity of his lungs would seem to allow, he reverted fully to his human form, taking a deep breath to centre himself, before looking to his palms, seeing the wounds there receding already, and wiped the blood, his own, across his forehead and under his eyes like war-paint. Marking himself for the hunt to come.
He received the bottle from Lucian, and took a short swig. He squeezed, breaking the bottle into long shards, and pocketed one of the pieces, tossing the rest of the mess against the far wall, over a hundred paces distant, adding to the rest of the debris strewn through the old warehouse. He finally spoke, and though it wasn't to anyone in particular, there was no mistaking whose ears it was meant for. Together they would devise a way to unleash hell on those who had done this, and together they would see it out. His voice was mostly growl, tainted with disgust and anger at the horrible deed that lay before them.
"The motherfuckers... An eye for an eye won't cleanse this. This is a declaration of war. This ends any notion of peace." He was calculated, calm, though the rage was bubbling under the surface. Held at bay by the need to do right by his pack, and his dead friend. He stooped, getting close to the body, letting his razor-sharp senses do their job, equal parts forensic lab-rat and savage bloodletter. "No scent of vamp here. Faint human traces, but that could be circumstantial. There's a lot of wolf here, too. Maybe too much to be all from Logan." He paused, letting that settle in, or rather - unsettle. Didn't mean nothin'. Vamps could have covered their trail. Or bought off others to do their bidding. It seemed too big a hit for Wardens, but they'd been getting bolder. The idea that rival Lycans could have had anything to do with this nearly made his gorge rise. But the play to be made was Dom's choice. He stood, and turned to the two pack-members in silent question. The question was obvious: What now? "Word of this will be all over the Gutter by morning. If we're going to move, it has to be soon." He caught Lucian's eye, before stepping closer to Dominic. "At your word, Dom... anything."