The battle was raging on, below him.
He stood above them all, werewolves and humans, fighting against each other. Some to revenge their Caerns and their fallen, others to secure their facility and their profit.
The shots of the firearms almost drowned the growling noises of the rabid garou army.
Monkeys, he thought mockingly, not even able to fend for their survival in an honorable manner.
He would have stood there, watching unamused for a long time, was it not for the sound that came from the creature he had in his paws distracting him.
He looked down at him.
No, not him.
It.
Leeches shouldn't get the courtesy of being addressed as actual living beings.
The philodox raised his arm and the vampire with it. Then he howled all of his rage.
For a moment it seemed as if time and the battle below had both come to an alt. All muzzles and faces were now pointed at the figure of Little Griffon on top of the factory's roof as the smog from the smokestacks parted behind him, letting the moon shine down on his dark blood stained fur and his prey.
He roared.
He raised his other arm.
He struck.
Dust and ashes fell from the garou's palm, trailing off in the cold winter night as the fight below him began anew.