Snippet #2638610

"Well it is a study on werewolf transformation. How else would I gather data?" Oren responded to Kate's apparent concern.
"Besides, nordic wolf, bred for war...she's been doing forced shifts since before she could write her name...assuming she's capable of that even at this stage."

Some more crashing from inside the room at the werewolf slmmed down on the table in the small kitchen and crushed the legs inwards, the researcher peered round the door whilst she endeavoured to answer Alexander's question.
-"Can't give an exact answer. Moon-based shifts stay in effect til moonfall. Battle shifts work until the fight is over. Shifts invoked for scientific study and upheld by the werewolf attempting to ruin my morning are a little hard to predict."

What prevented her from intervening directly was mostly that she was aware of the wolf's pathological hatred of her, and the likelihood of it trying to behead her on sight, regardless of whether Kora was deliberately doing this. You were still dealing with an animal, and it was still likely to act on instinct.

This was more a practical concern than one borne of fear. Oren wasn't really easily rattled. She didn't really want to end up damaging a useful asset (particularly not one with an influential family) and she also didn't really want to get mauled in the line of duty. It was hard to get things right when you were covered in werewolf bites. Her previous career had tsught her that.

Still, she wasn't concerned so much as she was irritated by the whole thing, and Rafael's comment provoked an eyeroll from the vampress.
"There are no 'real demons' in SCION, only big scary egos that possess people and cause their head to disappear up their-" Oren switched off into muttered hungarian that was, if one understood it, more than a little obscene. Her only cause to shift was the entrance of Roderic Montana, because, hey, if he wanted to get his hand bitten off, that was his affair.

Inside the rooms, the form of Kora was tearing the cupboards off the walls of the kitchen, biting clear through the tin cans that had been left in for whoever was going to occupy it and messily bolting some corned beef from a freshly ripped-open tin. The beast turned as Montana made his way in, and eyed him levelly, pressing its paw-like hands onto the linoleum.

As he spoke the sides of its mouth pulled back to show the full set of teeth, like a sort of wolfish approximation of a grin, and, as if taking his offer as a challenge, it sprang forwards at the man.