InsaneJournal

Who: Eamon Flood, Hugh Cadigan, & Connor Macrae
What: Competitive penis measuring Training
Where: Eamon's Yard
When: Late afternoon
Rating: TBD

Rumor had it that Eamon Flood was building an army. Or possibly a pit fighting ring. Or an obstacle course. Or, some rather broad-minded folks suggested, all three. The fourth rumor was, as it happened, rather closer to the truth. In the weeks since Amelia’s attack Eamon, along with several other pack wolves, had been busy transforming the Second’s backyard into physical training center for non-humans. Deep sparring pits had been dug and staked, weights and complicated looking physical fitness machinery (some still bearing price tags) had been found in quarters best not mentioned, and attack dummies had been sewn and stuffed. A brick barbeque that could be best summed up as ‘immense’ had been added alongside a two double-wide refrigerators that were continually restocked with beef and beer (mostly Newcastle’s new ‘Werewolf Ale,’ which the pack found hysterical despite the berry flavor). Power came from a half dozen surge protectors that were themselves hooked onto long extension cords that terminated not in Eamon’s home but, rather, in the woods rather near to where one of the city generators squatted. Thus far the city had yet to investigate reports of possible electrical use malfeasance—something about having to wade through a pack of werewolves first seemed to put them off.

In recent days the pits and weight machines had begun to fill with trusted werewolves. Some came on their own, others came at the command of their Second. It had taken only a day or two to become a deafening affair marked by roars and snarls and clangs by day and shouts and song at night. The summons sent to Hugh Cadigan had initially run ‘Your sheep-shagging arse here, now’ but the runner who had delivered it had had the good sense to adjust the language to something rather more polite. Hugh wasn’t pack, Eamon certainly wouldn’t consider him anything close to it until he dropped his foreign loyalties, but he was, he knew, a reliable set of claws and jaws should Amelia come under attack again. He wanted the Welshman training with his wolves. He wanted to know, too, what the sheep-shagger thought of the training system currently in place. Outside eyes bought fresh perspective, no matter what sort of man they were attached to.

Now Eamon paced between pits, watching the combatants below him thrash and scramble. To his left was an evenly matched pair of heavyset wolves, each trying to use their own weight to unsteady their opponent. Other wolves, unchanged, sat watching as they received a lecture on the technique being demonstrated and the best ways to counter it should they ever come across it in combat. To right the match was far less fair. Connor, wolf form and manacled so he could hardly move, was beset by eight of his pack mates. The pup was learning to control his shifts better under duress, but his ability to shift at will from wolf to man was stalled. Blood, noise, and the threat of danger seemed to lock the wolf in and the man out. The wolves in the pit were trying to break him of the habit as one breaks a kicking horse with a hobble. Ahead, on an embankment rather than a pit, pairs of werewolves in their bipedal form sparred as well. A werewolf was always stronger on all fours but there were situations wherein a change might not always be possible or best. Later there would be training against non-werewolf bipeds. Eamon was not taking anything to chance.