Kalista Delacroix
Kalista stood on the edge of the ring, watching through curious cat-eyes as Finch went at Karl with his claws. Not too much hope there: even her claws couldn't do much more than leave gouges in the resin-man, and she was geared towards their use. Wolves fared better with fangs. Of course, since Finch had no control over his partial transformations, he might not have much choice.
Karl did his damndest to stoke the werewolf's fury, and Kali smelled the transformation before she saw it. There was a sudden spike in Finch's wolf-smell, which would probably only be recognizable to someone else with a were's nose. Technically, this was what she'd been trying to prevent, but she was not overly concerned. He'd lasted much longer than he might have, and that was enough for her to know that he had made an effort to stay in control. That was all she needed; Kalista loved lost causes, but she would not waste her time and energy on someone who wasn't willing to work at it.
Karl was flung to one side, and Finch turned. His hostile instinct was in control right now, and he looked very much like he wanted to rip her apart. That was just too damn bad; he wasn't going to get the chance. Not only would Karl not allow it, but she wasn't going to indulge him. He was beyond thinking logically at the moment, which meant she wasn't all that interested in fighting him. She'd probably have to intervene later, talk him down, so to speak, but for now she simply regarded the wolf levelly, not the slightest hint of fear in her slit-pupiled eyes.
She saw Karl approach over Finch's shoulder, and jerked her chin in that direction. "Behind you," she advised evenly, still not having moved from where she stood, arms crossed, the picture of composure.