A swipe of a katana was narrowly blocked by Fenrir's right Nth metal gauntlet, the folded steel blade, a design that has survived for centuries even when the advent of gunpowder weapons made it largely obsolete, hardly even marked the alien armour. The Wolfman pressed his advantage, twisting his wrist to slide the blade out of his path while stepping in close to slam his helmeted head into the assassins face. The black garbed sword's man dropped to the floor without a sound, but there was no time for Fenrir to congratulate himself, another foe jumping into replace his fallen comrade, while third man approached silently from behind to slide a tanto dagger into the meta's back. 

The Wolfman yelped, equal measures pain and shock, but it turned to a snarl as he spun on his heel, throwing his own knife out in a wide arc. The assassin was quick, jumping backwards to avoid the blow, but the steel still whipped along his hip, little more than a glancing blow, but it slowed him enough for Fenrir to step forwards to deliver a straight kick, the blow thundering into the ninja's stomach, sending him flying from his feet to crash into the bookcase next to the executive, who was cowering in the corner and largely forgotten in the chaos. That assassin was down, winded to the point of uselessness in this fight, but there was still plenty more foes all wanting a piece. 

There was a lull in the fighting then, Fenrir trying to figure out a way to win this encounter while the League knew it was only a matter of time until they brought the meta down, but were loathe to join their fallen comrades. It galled the Wolfman to be caught in this situation. The assassins were definitely more skilled than he, and they had the numbers to swarm him. The only thing keeping him in this fight was his greater speed, strength and resilience, but that could only count for so much. He was a great wolf, proud and mighty, but he was alone, and the curs would wear him down. An ignominious end. 

Searing heat roared between Fenrir and his prey, a wall of flame leaping up in the no-mans land between them, tearing the feral teen from his defeatist thoughts. He grunted in surprise, sparing a moment of confusion before recognising the distinctive black flames and scenting his brother. Gabe had followed him, of course. Magnus should have known. His relief quickly turned to horror as the assassins attacked his brother, a swift battle, mere heartbeats from start to finish, ending with Gabe clutching his bleeding side and vomiting across the floor. He was easy prey for the League now, two of the assassins approaching him with raised blades.

The sight was like the breeze that stirred the leaves before strengthening into a hurricane that tore oaks from the ground. A terrible heat began to build within Fenrir's chest, while a distant, half remembered noise sounded in the back of his head. He stepped towards the assassins, the heat in his chest rising, the noise in his head growing louder and louder and till it was impossible to mistake. It was the howl of the Wolf, a cry of the wild. He welcomed it like an old friend, knowing he'd need it for what was to come. An assassin positioned himself to strike Gabe down. 

Like lighting in a summer storm Fenrir struck then, leaping through Gabe's wall of fire, tongues of black flame wreathing him as he tore into the League of Shadows. He howled as he struck, snarled and spat like a wild thing, tearing and leaping and twisting with all the savage grace and ferocious energy of a mother wolf protecting her cubs. 

The fight became a blur, a wash of bloody red that hardly seemed worthy of the scene of weapons and fists striking from the feral metahuman, who ignored them glibly to strike back with ten times the force, talons ripping into unprotected flesh, his knife long forgotten, left in a foes belly. He was dimly aware of the salty tang of blood in his mouth, but he was unsure of when he had bitten anyone. There was an incessant screaming, the kind of high pitched shriek someone can only manage when suffering a death wound, but he paid the screecher no heed, to caught up in slamming his fist again and again into the face of a unconscious ninja, his face little more than a pulped mess already. Fenrir laughed while he struck, the kind of rolling rumble that would haunt a mans dreams. 

The Wolf gloried in the carnage, uncaring for the wounds his body had accrued in the fight, or the poison swimming through his veins. He had conquered his foes, that was all that mattered now. He even forgot about Gabe's plight for the moment, his baser instincts drowning out his concern for his brother. The League lay in broken heaps, hideous lumps of meat that had once been men, useless to their master now. He couldn't believe he had thought these foes could have proven his undoing. They were pups fighting in the arena of the Alpha, and they had paid the price for their foolishness. 

Fenrir had predicted there would be blood, and he was right. There was enough to bathe in now.