honesty.

[Wyrmbreaker] Morning in the Caern: grey dawn over grey ground, grey ice. When sklora-Myrgen comes upon Wyrmbreaker, War-Handed is walking away from the Ahroun. Both wolves are wounded, but only lightly; the amount of blood on the ground, however, suggests a far more vicious battle.

Also: Wyrmbreaker is painted, barbarically, with a strip of blood: smeared from third eye to tip of nose. He turns as he hears the Fang's approached.

"sklora-Myrgen," he greets him.

[sklora-Myrgen] sklora-Myrgen is spent. The length of the moot, the confrontation with Kemp, the Revel, his all out assault on Silence, his sudden expenditure of Rage and will, of heart and determination. He's spent, but not done, and no injury mars his form. Rather, he seems if anything simply more ethereal, something that might slip through a fold in the umbra and fade away from this all too concrete place.

Pausing before the Ahroun Elder, he bows his head with respect. "Rhya," he says, voice soft, quiet. "I would speak with you if you have a moment."

[Wyrmbreaker] Lukas nods. He gestures wordlessly to one of the broken juts of concrete: makeshift seating shaped from the tarmac of the docks, long since shattered by freeze and thaw and the slow persistent growth of plant life.

Seating himself, he waits to hear what sklora-Myrgen has to say, his silence sparing the other from the chafe of his voice.

[sklora-Myrgen] sklora-Myrgen chooses not to sit. The light of the dawn bleaches the world of color; on a Caern already monochromatic and still, variations on concrete gray and rusted iron, the world seems distant, unreal. The Silver Fang stands before the Elder, at ease, pensive, frowning. Then, he takes a breath, holds it, and begins.

"Wyrmbreaker-rhya. I voted against you in the Ahroun Elder challenge. Now you are my Elder, and I wish to establish... trust between us. Understanding. To align my thoughts with what I now feel, which is loyalty, a desire to follow, to assist and challenge. I wish to speak with you so as to clear doubts, and be able to follow you with complete dedication."

These words do not come easily to him. They come from his wolf mind, the part that intuitively adjusts to rank changes, to hierarchy. But the part of him that is man, that is intellect and thought, seeks to express them in words. So he perserveres. He pauses, however, for an indication from Wyrmbreaker that he should continue. Should the Shadow Lord show no interest, or seek to simply put matters behind them--then that would be that. Otherwise, he shall expound.

[Wyrmbreaker] "I don't hold that against you, sklora-Myrgen. I was not surprised, and did not blame you for it. At that point, I had not had a chance to speak clearly of my intentions. All you knew of me was that I slew your tribesman in the streets -- the same tribesman that had previously insinuated that I tend to eliminate all perceived enemies and obstacles by doing exactly that -- and so recently that I still bear punishment for the crime."

A pause.

"If you have remaining doubts, I would hear them now. Let's clear the air, sklora-Myrgen."

[sklora-Myrgen] "Indeed, Wyrmbreaker. Let us clear the air." Not said with rancor, bitterness or vehemence, but rather a quiet agreement. A deliberate, heavy assent.

"I shall be direct, at risk of offending you. If I do, my apologies. The stakes are too high for us to play games with each other."

A beat. It's hard to converse normally with Lukas when his voice is so heinous. Makes it hard to believe the sincerity of his words, to not wince and scowl.

"We are all masters of our rage until it suddenly masters us. But in that final moment, we have a choice. A choice to either flee, to find safety, or to engage the enemy and cast all caution into the wind. I ask you, without Gift to ascertain truth, but simple trust that you will answer me honestly, warrior to warrior, did you descend into your frenzy with a fleeting moment of gladness at the end, to lose control at last and engage Fons in what would be final battle?"A beat. "And now, when you think of him, do you regret your actions?"

There is something in the way these questions are asked. They are simple, they are obvious. Offensive, even. But it's in the way sklora-Myrgen stares at Lukas. In the calm, measured beats of his words. They are both Ahrouns, they both labor under the same curse and blessing. This is no Ragabash questioning him, no Philodox, but rather a fellow Ahroun. One who knows intimately the complexities and dire simplicities of rage. These questions are simple because to sklora-Myrgen they cut to the heart of the matter, to the essence of Wyrmbreaker's character as the Silver Fang sees it.

[Wyrmbreaker] Lukas corrects softly: "I was not even in a Frenzy, sklora-Myrgen. Only Dirge of the Covenant was frenzied. My fury was a much more mundane sort.

"The Grand Elder asked me if I intended to kill him. I did not have an answer for that. This is what I do know: when your tribesman came at me, I did not join battle intending to destroy him. In that instant when my teeth bit down, I didn't consciously intend to end his life. But: nor did I think to hold back. Both of these things -- to kill and to spare -- were simply not in my mind. There was only... " a pause, thinking.

"There was only savagery."

Asked about regret, then, Wyrmbreaker's brow furrows suddenly. "Of course I'm regretful," he replies, so suddenly there's almost a note of pique there. "When I dragged him from his forbidden meeting with Genevre, I intended to bring him to the Caern to bind him into my pack immediately. I was angry, but I had hopes. I thought I could make him see that his true enemy was not I. I meant to treat him fairly -- perhaps not gently or softly, but fairly. I meant to make him my packmate.

"Instead I killed him in the streets. In that one instant I ended all the potential that may have existed in him and in his association with Perun. In that one instant I besmirched my honor and gave credence to the very rumors I once dragged Dirge of the Covenant before the Council to denounce."

[sklora-Myrgen] sklora-Myrgen listens with ferocious focus, a focus that is only reflected in his gaze. Half way through the Shadow Lord's answer, his chin lowers, , as do his eyelids, as if he's trying to hear the words beyond the voice. Focus on the message, not the delivery.

A deep breath after Wyrmbreaker finishes. A band of muscle flashes into view over his jaw, and then disappears. The silence drag out, seconds like dripping honey.

"You see my dilemma clearly, rhya." There is almost a tinge of sorrow to his voice. If only things were simpler. If only they could simply charge into war, do battle, be victorious, share honor and glory. Instead, these dawn dealings, these parsings of intent, these figuring out of responsibility, honor, character.

Eyes snap up, meet the Shadow Lord's. "I've come to you because I sincerely desire to clear the air. I do not wish to prove a point, nor find you guilty. So help me, rhya. Help me understand how I can trust you when you admit to having acted in such manner that gives credence to the rumors." Here now, there is pain. A rending within. Conflict, as instinct bids him simply follow, and intellect urges him to swim against the current, and question yet.

"You killed a Gaian in clear control of yourself, savage or not. You ended his life, his future, all he could do for our nation. He was a fool, but he was a Cliath. I look at you and see so much to respect, admire, emulate. Yet this fact sticks in my craw like a bone, and makes me want to choke." He pauses, shakes his head. "I do not know if there is an answer to this question. Perhaps I must simply judge you over time. But if there is anything you can say to me now, as I prepare to follow you in war, then please. I would hear it. Reconcile this ability to murder one weaker and more foolish than you with your responsibility to us all now."

[Wyrmbreaker] "sklora-Myrgen, nothing I can say to you will speak louder than actions. Ultimately, you will need to do what I expect every Ahroun of this Sept to do: watch me, follow me, replace me if I prove weak or unworthy.

"But if it is some comfort you wish to hear, then this is all I can offer you: the difference between what I have done to Fons and what Fons insinuated I'd done to my own packmates is intent and premeditation. It's the difference between an error, a crime or accident of passion, and murder. I did not plan to kill your tribesmate. I did not plot it, scheme it, measure it down to the instant and make provisions to hide what I had done. It was a failure of control; a grievous mistake committed then and there in the moment.

"I cannot promise it will not happen again. There is no promise I can make you that would not be meaningless, because any such promise would not take a lifetime to fulfill."

He's said that before: but not to sklora-Myrgen, and not even to a werewolf.

"All I can offer you is this: I strive for control. And for honor. And for some way to balance this against the violence I was born to embody."

[sklora-Myrgen] sklora-Myrgen listens. Bows his head once more, and strives to pierce the mockery for a voice in order to reach the content, the substance. To focus on anything but that discordant sound that causes his instinct to writhe with displeasure.

When Wyrmbreaker finishes, the Silver Fang looks up once more, holds the Shadow Lord's gaze for a good five heart beats, and then turns away. Moves to the water's edge, and falls into an easy crouch. Balanced precisely on the balls of his feet, forearms resting lightly on his bunched quads, he gazes out over the leaden waters, at a distant knot of birds who wheel and trace and tangled skein in the air.

The Ahroun Elder's words hang between them. Seem to resonate in the air, louder than the gusts of wind, the distant sounds of the awakening city, the raucous cries of the birds.

sklora-Myrgen remains crouched and staring out over the waters for a good couple of minutes. There is a tension to him that makes the stillness an active one, clear that he is processing, trying to gauge his own reaction to Wyrmbreaker's words.

Finally, he stands, the movement lithe and fluid; no stiffness of the knees. Looks at Wyrmbreaker, and then nods, once.

"Thank you for your honesty. Let us see what tomorrow brings."

[Wyrmbreaker] [...any such promise WOULD take a lifetime to fulfill. i kan rite.]

[Wyrmbreaker] Wyrmbreaker merely nods to that: a mixed gesture, a dip of the head accompanied by a closing of the eyes that comes from a different, more feral form. Then he also stands.

"I will see you on the crescent moon, sklora-Myrgen," he says, "if not before."

[sklora-Myrgen] There is nothing more to be said. With a final respectful nod, the Silver Fang turns away to return to his home. To find sleep, to find surcease from the travails of the night. To rest.

To prepare for the war that shall recommence the very moment he awakens.