matters of tribe.

[Fell Prayer] The burly black Lincoln Navigator is pulled deep into the dirt roads of Tekakwitha, past old mills, slaughterhouses, farms, factories and refineries. It's the truest thing to the wilderness they can hope for in Illinois. And the closest thing to private Milo can hope for without certain rites.

The Garou leans back against the front of the car, arms crossed, the headlights dead and its interior illumination all that allows for vision other than the moon above. And he waits.

[Wyrmbreaker] A bit of coincidence: Wyrmbreaker's car is also a Lincoln. It is, however, parked at the edge of the preserve, near the ranger station. Wyrmbreaker hikes in on foot. Two, and then four, and then two again.

Milo can hear him coming; he doesn't bother to disguise his approach. Branches crackle, twigs snap. The thin crust of ice on the earth, thawing tonight but quite possibly freezing again tomorrow, crunches under his feet.

"Rhya," he greets the other, coming down the embankment to the road.

[Fell Prayer] "Wyrmbreaker," a nod of his head to the other Garou, rolling forward and onto his feet. He walks forward to meet the Ahroun halfway, as soon as he senses his approach. He holds his right hand out toward him to grasp gnarled (callouses, scars and fresher scabs) digits around his forearm.

"I called you out here to discuss matters of tribe. Your words yesterday troubled me, but I then realized that you don't know how I keep my word of dedication to the War- the one I put forward when we first met," his demeanor softened, not as harsh as it had been answering the other Garou the previous night. "That is my fault. I haven't kept a Garou who I consider an ally in the loop."

"These matters of kin, they perhaps aren't my strong suit. I am not the champion of the martial challenge some are. I do not shuck these duties, but sometimes I damn them as distractions and act toward them with anger instead of strategy," calm in his explanation- not excuse- and at the same time paying close attention to the other Garou's reaction, cobalt blue eyes watching his face.

[Wyrmbreaker] Lukas seems troubled by this, odd. He grips the other's forearm for a moment, then drops. His arms fold across his chest. It's not a belligerent gesture, or even a particularly closed one: his hands are open, tucked into his armpits, and as he listens he bows his head, as though in thought, only raising his eyes back to the Fostern at the end.

"Rhya, I was completely out of line last night to address you so disrespectfully, and in front of onlookers. I do not regret my opinions, but my delivery was unacceptable. I lost my temper. You would have been well within your rights to mete out punishment." A pause. His brow is still furrowed. "Some part of me wishes you had, if only to demonstrate your place as elder of the tribe.

"As for the rest of it: I agree completely. It is a distraction. But these trivialities -- our ability to control our kin, our ability to protect our interests, even our ability to maintain a proper hierarchy within the tribe -- these are things that reflect on our overall strength and honor as a tribe, which in turn influences our ability to fight the war."

He looks away for a moment, frowning into the dark, the corner of his lip tucked under his incisor, chewed at for a half-conscious moment. Then he returns his attention to the Theurge.

"You did not need to fight Andrew-rhya to put him in his proper place. There were other avenues just as devastating, and they were all well within your rights. I suppose I wish you had chosen one of them, instead of allowing your packmate to play his dark-moon games.

"I have no doubt Host-of-Traitors had a plan in mind. But I'm afraid what the Sept will remember is that a Shadow Lord spoke harshly to a Child of Gaia over matters of Shadow Lord kinfolk, and at the end of the night a Shadow Lord lay bleeding in the street."

[Wyrmbreaker] (odd...LY. sheesh.)

[the devil] (I haven't figured out how to read tags on firefox yet, do you guys mind if I lurk?)
to Fell Prayer, liar, Wyrmbreaker

[Wyrmbreaker] (tools > options > content > advanced > click "change status bar text"

and i don't mind *grin*)
to Fell Prayer, liar, the devil

[Fell Prayer] The Garou's own hands hang loosely at his sides. One of them actually slips, thumb still out, into his pocket. It seems like it might be a new gesture or mannerism, judging by how he performs it, letting it linger there as he looks toward the other Shadow Lord. Where he picked it up is anyone's guess, and the other hand does the same, shifting the dress pants of his suit so that they bob over his designer shoes.

His words come with nods, the same as when he is listening to Lukas' own. As if he's picking up off of the other Garou's logic, instead of simply spouting rhetoric. Pulling the other Garou into the conversation of his terms. Perhaps more effective after his original statement, which may have thrown the Garou off. "You are right in some of your assertions. But we also have the Alpha of your pack, a Silver Fang and Mistress of the Challenge, Philodox in a Sept where they are thin, who stands by our own words. And your assertions, of these other avenues, which I think are still out options. Who saw a Theurge demand battle as payment, a beating, where perhaps his wisdom and virtue were being questioned. He also demonstrated a lack of control that, while other may not balk at for your own moon, is unacceptable for my own. For now, the Sept will remember a Shadow Lord lay bleeding, but a No Moon and Metis. That's also what he will remember. And perhaps it will goad him on. They will also remember that the matter between him and the tribe, myself chiefly, is not settled. It will be," and his shoulders draw up, lifting his hands and the pockets they are in, as he turns back toward the large black SUV.

A manila folder sits on the hood. It is thin, maybe a dozen or so pages in it. He gestures toward it. He doesn't gesture toward it yet, another matter for discussion, wanting to finish this line of business first but leading the Garou over to it to indicate it will be the next. "Unless you object, and still think I should fight this battle alone, I wish to employ more than one of these options. I wish to invoke the position you offered as enforcer, and for you, myself, and other Shadow Lords that would stand to confront the Garou physically. His insults and dishonor were toward kin, and therefor the entire tribe. He will get his beating, and then we will speak at the moot or before of his actions before the Elders, for a punishment upon his renown."

[Fell Prayer] [ Doh. Take out 'He gestures toward it.' You know, since right after I wrote he doesn't. Sorry. ]

[Wyrmbreaker] "Certainly, we still have options when it comes to Andrew-rhya and your sister. But I do think what happened last night puts us at a disadvantage, and limits our paths.

"For one, I don't think a simple beatdown is a good idea anymore." Imagine hearing that from an Ahroun. "If we'd done it last night or before as a concerted, unemotional act of discipline -- that's one thing. But after he bested your packmate in a fair and formal challenge? It'll look like petty vengeance, Rhya. Worse, it'll look like you needed to call in four or five Garou just to win against one.

"If you want my advice, Rhya, we should take the matter directly before the Sept. Fight him with law and litany, and with the word he gave us, which he later broke.

"And if I may ask: what exactly did he do?"

[Fell Prayer] "He says he plays. Which some might accept as true, seeing as how he acts as a dog at times, but the Garou violated my sister's personal space, sniffs at her womanhood, has stolen a gift meant for your packmate, places his weight on her in blatant shows of lupus dominance, and stalks after her. All of these actions show he acts outside of play, despite being directed to stop. She has been afraid and uncomfortable in his presence, and still he menaces her when these are emotions any lupus should be able to pick up on with little trouble," looking to the other Garou, waiting to see his take on the violations.

[Wyrmbreaker] Wyrmbreaker raises one hand to the bridge of his nose, pinches for a moment -- not out of frustration or disgust, but because he's trying to remember.

"I wish I could recall exactly what was said that night in the alley," he says at the end, grimacing. "My worry is that if we merely play the 'he's kinpoaching no matter what he says' card, too much will hang on the testimonies. And no matter how many Garou we stack against him, as long as he can convince the Philodoxes he honestly had no ill intent beyond 'play', then the worst he'll get is a slap on the wrist and an advisory to learn more about humans and their personal space.

"I think if we want to crush him as an oathbreaker, we have to play the angle that he was warned to not only not poach our kin, but also to not harass, intimidate, or otherwise bother them. Then, all we need is your sister's statement that she did in fact feel harassed -- and that she or someone else told him as much, and he did not change his behavior."

[Fell Prayer] "He has been warned, and he has disregarded that warning. My sister has told me so much. I'll meet with her again to confirm the exact actions, but she feels harassed to the point of anxiety and anger because of his actions," and with that he places his hand on one cover of the folder.

"That's the angle we'll go at this from. And we will hold on the beating until he acts again, until then. Or I will bring it myself. I do not feel I need four or five Garou to beat him, it will be a good fight though. Perhaps this should be brought before the Elders before the moot, to not make it an airing of laundry?"

[Wyrmbreaker] A faint tilt of Lukas' mouth -- the first sign of humor all night. "Yeah. Besides, your sister probably wouldn't want you to wait until the next full moon.

"If you let me know in advance, my packmates and I will join you before the Elders." A pause. "We should request Andrew-rhya's presence too so that he can be there to face his accusers. He behaves ... foolishly, and he'll take what he can get away with, but I don't think he's wholly without honor.

"Anyway; I'm fairly confident the Elders will rule in our favor. If he violates whatever terms are set down afterward, I'll join you in giving him what he's earned."

[Fell Prayer] A final nod, He returns the Ahroun's faint smile with gentle tugging of his lips, and then it is gone and he is back to business. "Now, to the War." Opening the folder, yellow legal pad pages are interspersed with white lined loose leaf paper. The stack is indeed thin, but perhaps he's leaving some things need-to-know. He places his hand down again, a finger on the first line.

"Anthony Piscano," his name indicated, written in thick black marker where the rest of the page is scribbled in pen. "Chicago's mob boss. One of the top guys, if not the top guy. He's my 'shooting for the stars' target," more names indicated next.

'Carmine Palizzola : Underboss to Piscano. Jimmy "The Cleaver" Licavoli: Capo for Piscano's crew.'

"These are his crutches. One, if not both of them, are the opening targets. Cut his legs out from under him. We have a drop off arranged as an ambush, to take whichever shows up. We have contacts in place to know what each of their men are doing- who ever's crew seems the most busy we can assume is showing up."

Turning the page, addresses, business names, cafes, restaurants, companies. "Here are their hangouts and front organizations. Weasel's pack has already showed interest in the glory of cleaning these of banes, as well as toadies in the physical, strategically. We hope to goad him into a war with one of my packmate's criminal associates, who he has been in deep cover with for quite some time. We will be there to pick up the pieces and ingrain ourselves deeper to identify targets of opportunity. I will be making a buy of weapons soon- should you need any, let me know- to ingratiate myself with one of the organization's rising stars. He will probably be placed as one of Piscano's new upper-echelon lackeys," turning the page again.

'Guiseppe Valentine,' the name circled in angry red marker. "Higher up in the line, but below Carmine and Jimmy. A seller of flesh. There are some necessary evils we must allow to coax the snake's head out of hiding, but this banemonger we cannot abide by," leaving the rest of the pages unturned, looking to Lukas for his reaction to what has been revealed so far.

[Wyrmbreaker] Lukas takes the pages and turns so that his back is to the half-moon. It's not easy to see in the dark, but then, they are half-wolf. The Ahroun cradles the manila folder in one hand, thumbing through the loose papers with the other. All the while he listens as the Theurge speaks, nodding here and there.

When Milo is finished, and the stack of papers is leafed through, he closes the folder; does not hand it back just yet.

"Let me see if I understand correctly. You want to take out Piscano, but you want to do it in a way where he won't be replaced in a week by someone as bad or worse. So you want to insert yourself and your packmate in his criminal organization, and then you want to kill off a few rungs of the power-ladder -- both to weaken Piscano's crew and to give yourself some open positions to rise into. Obviously, you can't be the ones rocking the boat.

"So that's where the Weasels and the Circle comes in." He glances down at the folder, as though he could read the names through its closed cover. "Starting with Giuseppe Valentine. Am I following you so far?"

[Fell Prayer] He nods to Wyrmbreaker's question. He seems to have a good grasp on the plan thus far, if Milo's pleased reaction is any indicator. "The power vacuum of direct assassinations in these kind of organizations can lead to more havoc than that they cause when they are fattened and lazy. It needs to be done slowly and surgically. They need to be weakened, but not in ways that send them scurrying to their holes so that they will emerge only weeks later."

"But they do need to be pushed to the point they think killing each other is necessary, destroying their businesses while they're at it. At that point, their lower minions will start making mistakes out of desperation- no large shipments because of our own hits, and they buy drugs from unknown sources to not lose their business to other gangs. That is where law enforcement contacts among our kin, of which I have identified many through my sister, will come into play. Undercover buys. Hits on robberies. Raids for illegal weapons. They will be too tied up with each other to bring legal resources to bear," folding his arms over his chest, but only for a second, as he watches Lukas. And then, it's back to this new mannerism, placing them into his pockets and standing in an assured by not overbearing way.

"I feel it must be done as such, because it allows power to be gained in the organization without the sacrifice of innocent lives- killing witnesses, selling drugs, et cetera. My own organization comes in and gains its infamy killing other murderers and rapists, those that come in to try and cash in on the struggle, and the soldiers who are already at war."

[Wyrmbreaker] While Milo speaks, the Ahroun watches him, frown furrowed -- not out of displeasure, but in focus. Once or twice he glances down at the folder in his hands, flipping through pages to look at the gathered materials, squinting through the dark to read the Theurge's scrawled handwriting.

"It's a good plan," Lukas says when Milo is finished, and meaning it. "My only concerns are these: once you're in, how long will you be under? And how will you maintain your link to the Sept in that time?"

[Fell Prayer] "It will become a part of my persona. It's a landscape I was raised in. My last mission for my own camp was a four year stint in Rikers prison. I have the bona fides of the underworld. My own mate, Bridgette Monarch," pausing a beat after he gives the name, to allow him to memorize it, "has already been a part of the organization for some time, gathering intelligence. Our relationship may become a part of that cover, lifting her out of the muck her family has left her exposed to since she has been moved to the city. My pack mate, Zeke, has established himself as a member of the underworld. We are very careful of our movements. I will consult the spirits of the legal system and other resources at my disposal to help keep them directed upon the other facets of the organization to prevent the Sept and Caern from falling onto their radar. My movements to the Caern, as well as to its protectorates, will be Umbral. But I will stay under for however long is necessary. For as long as the influence, contacts and intelligence are of value."

[Wyrmbreaker] Lukas closes the folder again and, after raising his eyebrows in an implied request for permission to keep the materials, lowers it to his side.

"I probably don't have to tell you this, Rhya, but take care, and be vigilant of yourself. Sometimes corruption creeps up so slowly you won't recognize it until it's too late." A pause. "Your packmate; is he also of your camp?"

[Fell Prayer] Milo nods to Lukas' taking of the materials, and again with genuine thanks for the sentiment in his eyes to his first words, but when the question comes as to Zeke's camp, he shakes his head. "If he were, I couldn't tell you. If he weren't, I couldn't tell you. These are his secrets to share. I did so as an act of confidence in my tribemates. I hope you understand. I will keep one eye on him, though, and one on myself, you have my promise on that."

And if his visage was set and serious, now it becomes sever and grave. "Our tribal sister, White Eyes, and myself sought and communed with the Grandfather. We were granted a direct audience with him," the words uttered with reverence and great pleasure. "He thought himself forgotten, but was glad for our effort. We have shouldered, as we must, the debt of those before us who built his house on shifting sand instead of his mountain, and left it weak and divided in this city," his forehead screwing together in a scowl he directs out into the darkness of the surrounding forest, as if finding these past Shadow Lords in the four corners they have fled to. "He demands of us a great deed, found by us and worthy of our tribe, done in his name and for no other."

[Wyrmbreaker] You have my promise on that, says the Theurge, and the Ahroun nods, interjecting:

"Then I'll bring this matter before my Alpha, and we'll see what the Circle can do. I'll suggest Giuseppe Valentine as our primary target, for now. You'll hear from me or one of my packmates about this, soon."

Fell-Prayer goes on, and Wyrmbreaker's brow contracts into a frown. Truth is, this is something of a default expression for the Ahroun. It's rare that his brow is smooth, his face open and pleasant.

"Did he set any limitations, or are we free to interpret his will as we choose?"

[Fell Prayer] "Your suggestion meshes well with the plan. Targets have been identified. More will follow. Some of our brethren do not find this work as acceptable as others," and he seems fine with that, a matter of fact spit out easily before he moves on, no real resentment in his voice. "But you know your Alpha better than I, and one has already been cast out of my own pack for his inability to stomach the plan. He can be verbally inflammatory, so who knows what he will say upon the next moot. By then I expect we will already have trophies and glory to prove its effectiveness, if necessary."

Milo shakes his head no to the first, then nods to the last part of the question, the last possibility posed by Wyrmbreaker. "In their failure is opportunity. This will set us apart among his children and gain his favor. He trusts our judgment, which I can only interpret as wishing to seeing what limits we put on ourselves- including logical ones."

[Wyrmbreaker] "Erick. I know." Lukas is level, upfront about this. "He expressed concern that you were in this for the power. That you were turning to the Wyrm.

"I think he was speaking as much out of grief as conviction. I told him he dishonored himself as well as you to accuse you of what he had no proof of. I told him the Garou of your camp make it their very lives to walk through the darkness and come out untainted. Forgive me if I shouldn't have betrayed your affiliations, but I thought he would have known.

"I also told him if you did fall to the Wyrm, it would be my duty, and those of my tribemates, to end your dishonor by whatever means necessary." This, too, is levelly spoken, as matter of fact as the rest.

He doesn't seem to require response to that. It was for Milo's information, and that's where he leaves it. As to the rest of it:

"I'd rather it be an act of practical worth, then, rather than some ... shrine or temple dedicated to Thunder. The other day I ran across some Dancers, one of them a fallen Fang. It made me think. Chicago is a stormy city, and like any city, it has a core of rot. Perhaps if we were to find some broodling of Thunder's that has been corrupted, we might salvage it, or failing that, destroy it. Either way, it's a worthy cause, and a statement -- as much to the Sept as to Thunder -- that we mean to erase the mistakes of our predecessors.

"That's just a thought. I'll consider it more, Rhya, and tell you if anything occurs to me."

[Fell Prayer] He waives his hand at the apology for breaking whatever secrecy he may have hoped for, shaking his head. He has, obviously, decided that those who knew must, and that he did not mind being one of the camp's more public members.

"Maybe one hand can wash the other," which seems an interesting cliche applied to this situation. "My activity within the underworld may help with the infiltration of the Wyrm's more direct agencies, including the Black Spiral Dancers, as long as any that might tell the tale are silenced after the fact. I've heard of nearby Hives. It's a good idea," and with that he his hands leave his pocket.

"And now, Danicka?" The last item on the agenda, though she is also the reason for their meeting. He wonders if thoughts of war have erased her from his thoughts, judging by the smile that comes again. "You defended the kin of this city, claiming them before my arrival. I see this as proof you're worthy of her, and your own judgment you've show up to this point tells me you would only pick a good mate," but then, Milo's hands move to the front buttons of his suit jacket. They come free, and he hangs it from the diver's side mirror after a few steps around the Navigator's front. He still wears a black vest, a gray wool tie stuffed into its front, as he folds up the sleeves of his white dress shirt. "But I could use the practice. My footwork has been going to shit," brushing his nose with his thumb as he takes a few steps away from the car, squaring his shoulders and setting his right foot forward, his other back in a boxing stance.

[Wyrmbreaker] Mate, Milo says, which is, of course, a valid and reasonable assumption.

Nonetheless, the word makes Lukas blink visibly, nearly a wince. Everything Milo has seen of him so far says the Ahroun is not the capricious sort; not the reckless, headstrong sort; not the sort to, in short, make a fool of himself over matters of mateship. He is not the sort to play games of will-he-won't-he. He is not the sort to use kin as possessions and objects, and for that, he has more reasons than merely his ironclad honor.

The same honor that makes him feel shame when he disrespects an elder. The same honor that makes him keep so close a rein on his rage that sometimes he doesn't seem a full-moon at all. If nothing else -- he called an angry tirade 'losing his temper'. Other Ahrouns would call it having a conversation.

And for all that: a faint wince at the word, as though it came unexpected and half-painful.

"The question of matehood isn't on the table yet," he says, frankly. "To be honest, my claim was laid as much out of temper as were the ... things I said last night, and perhaps without even so much forethought."

And yet. For all that, Lukas is unbutton his coat, stripping it off his shoulders, folding it, laying it atop the hood of Milo's SUV.

He explains as he's unbuttoning his sleeves and rolling them up, "But I've had a day to think it over. And whatever else, the truth is I would protect this kinwoman -- above and beyond all others. So that alone is cause enough for me to stand by my challenge, if you'll have it."

Lukas turns his body sideways too; not so practiced a stance. Something looser, a little more feral, his right hand low, joints unlocked. He raises his left hand, balls it into a loose fist, and taps it lightly against Milo's to signal his readiness.

[Fell Prayer] [ Initiative: 7 + 1d10: ]

[Wyrmbreaker] (7+1d10)

[Fell Prayer] [ Initiative: 7 + 1d10: ]

[Wyrmbreaker] (rerolling)

[Fell Prayer] "Lukas, I would argue if when you're pissed off at me she's the first thing that comes to your head to claim and try to throw it in my face?" A goodhearted smirk as he grinds the balls of his feet deeper into the dirt road, assuring a good footing, "You're on the track to matehood and you don't even know it."

With that, the moment his hand touches his bouncing fist, one of his elbows comes up to block a blow he expects that never comes. The action also serves to shift his body, and his throws the same side's hip into the action for momentum as his leg kicks out to try and sweet Lukas' feet out from under him.

[Wyrmbreaker] For whatever reason, Lukas, though the faster of the pair by a hair, does not immediately leap in with fists flying.

It could be some odd sense of respect -- see where the Fostern draws the line before he matches it. But then; he's a Shadow Lord. It's equally likely that he does it out of cunning, to see what the other will do.

In either case, it's too dark. Fell Prayer can't tell. And a second later it's a brawl, and it doesn't matter anymore.

Milo's elbow comes up to block, but it was a feint; but then Wyrmbreaker sees that Milo is already expecting a feint, and makes it a true blow, a lightning-quick scissoring of his fist back and forth, a forehand hook followed by a backhand lash. Then the Theurge's leg lashes out at his, and he makes a deliberate choice not to dodge, simply plants his feet, tries to ride it through.

(split action, two punches; no dodge. going ahead w/ the first punch at -2 dice)

[Wyrmbreaker] (damage)

[Fell Prayer] [ Soak ]

[Wyrmbreaker] (1b @ -3 dice)

[Wyrmbreaker] (damage +1)

[Fell Prayer] [ Soak ]

[Fell Prayer] [ Sweep ]

[Wyrmbreaker] The first blow is light; it barely even leaves a spot of pale that quickly flushes red. The second is considerably harder, a punishing backhand that, on a human, would have knocked a few teeth loose, fractured a bone.

Milo is not human. Nor is Lukas. And for all his control, all his courtesy, the Ahroun flashes a savage grin that he may or may not even know he's showing: all teeth, all raw and bloody enjoyment of the battle.

Then Milo's leg tangles with his, and the Ahroun stumbles -- for a second it looks like he might retain his balance -- then he falls flat on his back, the air knocked out of him with a grunt.

(inits, again +7)

[Fell Prayer] [ Initiative: 7 + 1d10: ]

[Wyrmbreaker] (splitting again
1a. getting up
b. tackling
c. headbutt a la zinedine zidane)

[Fell Prayer] Should have? Well, his three back teeth feel fairly loose, and his wisdom teeth are now mentally retarded, but he only grits his jaw a little harder to hold them in place. Either something about getting on his ass slows Lukas down or the aerial view he now has over the Ahroun makes Milo react a little faster to the situation. He spots the momentum he's trying to put behind the scurry to his feet, sensing the tackle coming.

So he takes advantage of the drop while he has it, sending a kick into his side that mimics Lukas' first attack, because it comes back around to plant a heel into his face.

[ Split, kick and kick while he's down. ]

[Fell Prayer] Kick: Dexterity + Brawl - 2 (Split) - 1 (Injured). Difficulty is 7 - 2 (Prone).

[Fell Prayer] Strength + 1 (Kick) + 1 (Sux)

[Wyrmbreaker]

[Fell Prayer] 2nd Kick

[Fell Prayer] Damage: Strength + 1

[Wyrmbreaker] (against 1 autodamage)

[Wyrmbreaker] 1a -- getting up, no roll
b -- tackle, dex/brawl diff 7. (-4 dice) +WP here

[Wyrmbreaker]

[Fell Prayer] Dexterity + Athletics. WP.

[Wyrmbreaker] (that was a stay-standing roll. this is damage--)

[Fell Prayer] Soak

[Wyrmbreaker] (c -- headbutt (rolling as a punch), -5 dice)

[Wyrmbreaker] (damage)

[Wyrmbreaker] Wyrmbreaker takes two fairly not-kidding-around kicks to the stomach with something like -- laughter; or at least, a breath-knocked-out, groaning laughter.

Then he shoves himself up and, almost in the same motion, slams into Fell Prayer with his shoulder. The Ahroun keeps his footing like a champ this time, but Fell Prayer doesn't do poorly himself. Wyrmbreaker grabs him by the head an instant later and slams the crown of his head into the bridge of the other's nose. The Theurge sees it coming, or maybe the Ahroun had mistimed himself, or --

Milo tucks his chin sharply to his chest. Lukas' noggin conks off the top of his. It doesn't feel too good for either of them, but nothing's broken on either side; nothing gushes blood like a geyser.

A break in the action -- Lukas shakes the recoil off with a snap of his head. He's not panting, not yet. It's been too quick, and his body has barely begun to register the strain of the fight. "I don't suppose you'll yield?" he offers.

[Fell Prayer] [ Initiative: 7 + 1d10: ]

[Wyrmbreaker] 7

[Wyrmbreaker] (GOOD GRIEF. *reroll*)

[Fell Prayer] 1d10

[Fell Prayer] Milo answers with a laugh, as again the fight is a standing, and in a great exhale of relief he shakes his hands loose. Fire courses through his nerves, deadening them- hopefully enough. His head jerks next, jaw back and across to his shoulder before it's set forward again in a 'come and get it' motion.

[ Holding action. ]

[Fell Prayer] [ 2 Rage spent to ignore 2 wound levels ]

[Wyrmbreaker] (splitting 2 ways
1a. elbow to the face (rolling as a punch)
b. another backhand punch

first roll, -2)

[Fell Prayer] Split: Parry/block (arm), parry/block (arm)

Dex + Brawl - 2 (Split) - 1 (Injured Level)

[Wyrmbreaker] (second verse, same as the first! only -3.)

[Fell Prayer] Block (arm)

-3 (split) -1 (injured)

[Fell Prayer] This is street fighting codified, the kind of jailhouse rock learned in prison gyms, lunch rooms, yards and even cells in particularly inhospitable living situations. His stance is sure, and when the elbow comes it's deflected off with his own with a crack of fleshy-covered bone on wiry bone. The other backhand gets the same treatment, knuckles glancing off his forearm as he raises it and ducks at the same time in another block that leaves the strike ineffectual- but just barely.

[Fell Prayer] [ Initiative: 7 + 1d10: ]

[Wyrmbreaker] (7+)

[Wyrmbreaker] Previously, when Milo had held back, so had Lukas. There's none of that now. The theurge fights defensively; this is to be expected. The ahroun fights aggressively; this is also to be expected, though, if Milo knew Lukas better he would know -- or perhaps can already guess -- that Lukas would be every bit as cautious, as calculating, as tactical-minded as himself.

Normally. Not right now. Because right now, he is the challenger and Milo is the challenged, and it is right that he cede the defensive position to the Fostern.

He comes at Milo again.

(3 way split
1a. knuckle punch to the throat (targeted +2 diff)/wp here
b. shin stomp (aka kick)
c. chopping his fist down at the top of milo's head (aka punch))

[Fell Prayer] They're close, nearly face to face, only their fists and elbows acting as bumpers between the two. His muscles and nervous system now ache for the rage they have become addicted to as pain returns, and he doesn't consider giving it to them again despite the drain on his reserves. Milo takes it as an opportunity to drive a knee into the other Garou's stomach, and as it falls back down the other into his leg. It's a last-ditch effort to land some kind of blow against him, ready for the deluge that he's sure will follow.

[ 2 Rage, Injured wound penalty again though he's actually Mauled.

Split: Kick, kick (WP). ]

[Fell Prayer] Kick - 2 (Split) - 1 (Wound Penalty)

[Fell Prayer] Damage: Strength + 1

[Wyrmbreaker]

[Fell Prayer] 2nd Kick, WP.

[Fell Prayer] Damage: Strength + 1 + 1 (Sux)

[Wyrmbreaker]

[Wyrmbreaker] (shit, sorry, wrong + of dice there)

[Wyrmbreaker] (1a, -3, +2diff, WP)

[Wyrmbreaker] (damage, +3)

[Fell Prayer] Soak

[Wyrmbreaker] The knee into Lukas' stomach isn't quite twisted away from, but there's resistance there, a sudden and conscious tensing of the musculature to minimize damage. The second stomp hits the knee hard, cracks the joint sideways, sends pain flaring up the Ahroun's thigh.

He could have focused his will, chosen to ignore the pain. They could have both chosen to do a lot of things differently. Fell Prayer could've called down the night itself. Wyrmbreaker could've tapped his rage. Fell Prayer could've chosen to fight in a deadlier form.

They do none of these things. And though a bystander would be shocked at the sudden violence, the truth is: this is a spar. A play-fight and a solemn ritual at once, where one fights because it is proper to win, and the other fights because it is proper to put up a fight, then lose.

The end is brutally fast. Wyrmbreaker's hand snaps up, the fingers curled tight, the knuckles pushed forward -- he strikes the Theurge in the throat, and while the other is recoiling, he's already brought his foot up for a stomp that means to shatter the shin-bone; his elbow up for a blow to the skull that would rattle an ox.

None of this proves necessary. The first blow is hard enough to crush a human voicebox: too much damage, too fast, and the brain shuts down, the body clicks off. Fell Prayer is out like a light, and he does not see how cleanly, how sharply, Wyrmbreaker's control falls over him like a shroud over a huntinghawk. He reins himself in.

--

It's some indeterminate time -- a minute, ten, maybe longer -- before Fell Prayer returns to consciousness. There is light overhead; it's the ceiling lamp in his Navigator. He's in the backseat, stretched full-length, his coat folded over once and laid neatly over his legs. He is not tucked in; he has not been babied. There's a fine line between respect and condescension, and Lukas is always careful not to cross it.

Speaking of which, Wyrmbreaker is not looming over him exulting in his victory. He's not even exulting, period. There are sounds of leaves of paper turning. The Ahroun is sitting outside somewhere beyond Fell Prayer's feet, reading the Theurge's notes on Chicago's mob hierarchy by the borrowed light of the car's interior.

When he senses movement behind him he looks around, then gets up. His smile is slight, somewhat wry. He holds his hand out to clasp forearms.

"Thanks for an honorable fight, Rhya."

[Fell Prayer] It's a shock directly to his system when that fist hits his throat, collapsing his wind pipe and sending him to the floor like a sack of potatoes. When he wheezes in a breath- at least he's still alive- it's wet with blood that sputters out of his mouth in red mucusy strings and misted droplets. He lays there, every breath an act of unconscious effort, only his lower animal brain keeping his body working as bruises begin to blossom across his skin.

His body is crumpled and his suit dirty from falling on his side and then rolling back through sheer momentum. When he wakes up he brushes off his hands first, a conscious order to his actions, before returning the gesture in another clasp. "And thank you for taking knocking my lights out as an honorable surrender," because while his brain had shut down, his memory hasn't been wiped clean as a human's might, and he feels no wounds upon his form other than that he'd gotten before the knockout strike he's just managed to recover from.

His voice croaks out with the words, and he grimaces meanly before clearing his throat again. What little remains of his rage is put to use, and his suit stretches as muscles bulge and hair sprouts angrily across his skin. His forehead slopes out, his chin squaring and swelling, teeth growing into fangs and nails becoming short claws. He looks like an elongated gorilla in an Armani three-piece, his wounds healing with greater speed in the new form.

As soon as he can- the very second he can- he rises from his prone position to seated, not keeping such a weak stance for longer than he has to. He looks over the Ahroun's shoulder at the page he is on. "That club looks dirty. Have to check if he owns it. The fat bastards stuff their faces at the cafe next door almost every day."