tell kathy to put the coffee on.

[Lukas]
Lukas does not, after all, seek Ezra out with a challenge moments after meeting with Marni. The Shadow Lord and the Bone Gnawer are on the roof for some time. When Wyrmbreaker returns, he looks disgruntled, dark. He tells Ezra:

"Marni's challenge is not yet concluded. Come back tomorrow."


Tomorrow, then:

Daytime again. A little past noon, the weather warm and muggy, the sun bright. The rooftop is scorchingly hot, heat baking off concrete and tar. The Ahroun is uncharacteristically underdressed. Bare to the waist, his pants are a light drawstringed ripstop linen, cool in the heat.

"The kinsman Raymond Ostermann has been given to the Bone Gnawer tribe," he informs the Theurge. That's an unusual word to describe the outcome of a challenge: not won, or lost, but given. "You and I, however, still have an outstanding challenge.

"If you have something else to challenge over, I'll hear it now."

[Ezra]
Given eh?

*Ezra snorts, slicking back a black bonfire of hair with restless fingers. The glance given to the other Shadowlord is unadulterated disgust. Lip twitching as though the slimy Theurge is seriously considering spitting on the fostern ahroun, spitting until his mouth was dry and cracked and Ezra Turk was nothing but a dehydrated husk, puffing contempt and dust in Wyrmbreaker's general direction. Still, he holds his tongue, (and his saliva), instead turning his back, and walking towards the stairs. If they had an outstanding challenge, it would seem Ezra wasn't interested, rasping over his shoulder.*

MmmMMMm. We're done.

[Lukas]
"We're not, actually."

Lukas waits for Ezra to face him again.

"Explain to me why you felt it was acceptable for you to put your claws in a kin of the tribe when all rights of discipline are mine alone."

[Ezra]
Because you're a pissy little punk, precious. If I thought you could control, or even effectively educate your kin, I'd leave you to it mmmmmm? Instead they're getting poached by bonegnawers right under your nose. I've seen how... attentive.. you and your pack are to kin.

*Ezra turns, and the look he shoots over his shoulder dripping with malice. It should be no surprise he addresses Lukas such, no honor in the rasping weasel of a shaman, but plenty of venom to make up for it, it would seem. Black eyes locked in challenge.*

[Lukas]
Here's the thing, now.

The words Ezra unleash are enough to goad any Ahroun to fury. They're enough to lash the pride, wound the ego. They're enough to prick anyone to frenzy.

Except, when the Theurge turns, the Ahroun is watching him. His eyes are keen. Fixed and watchful. He doesn't seem to even hear the noises coming out of his tribesman's mouth; they roll off him like water off a swan.

He's no swan. Something about his eyes brings to mind a predator, a carnivore just waiting for the quarry to take that one

fatal

misstep.

And then Ezra's eyes meet his. Their eyes lock for a single instant. Even in that briefest of moments, Ezra can feel the Ahroun's strength, his raw potency of presence. He knows who has the upper hand.

He can see the look in the Shadow Lord's eyes, too.

Gotcha.


In the next, Wyrmbreaker is nothing human. He drops forward, snaps into fur and fang, blackness and heat and strength. Supernatural terror slams into the Theurge, and then the Ahroun is on him like his death, his terrible teeth seeking out the weakest joints of the neck and --

-- seizing. Without biting down. There's a perfect cold control in the grip of those murdering jaws as the Fostern wrestles the Cliath to the ground and holds him there.

The rooftop is clear. Not a single shred of clothing. Everything Wyrmbreaker wore, every piece of that odd, scant outfit from his shoes to his socks to his pants to his underwear, was dedicated.

As though he expected to begin in one form, and end in another.


The growl in his chest is so low, so deep, that it's felt through the contact of tooth to flesh more than it is heard. He keeps his teeth pressing down for a moment more, and then he lifts his head. His paw replaces his teeth, pinning the Theurge where he is. It's a blatant, ruthless show of dominance, speaking as much to the Cliath's instinct as to his intellect.

"I know you." So soft, that growl, black and deep and soft like velvet. "I know these things you do. I know your kind. You think brutality is the same as strength. You think dominance is the same as victory. You have no vision, no understanding beyond your own little games.

"Just because I don't play your games doesn't mean I can't. You've given me every justification to kill you for insubordination in a time of war."

A beat. The longest in the world.

"But I am not you."


Pressure eases. The hot paw on Ezra's neck lifts. Wyrmbreaker steps back, letting the Theurge to his feet. His eyes are glittering, crackling, hot with the redblooded rush of dominance. I know the game, he said. He wasn't lying. He knows it too well. It's in his blood, after all; generations of Lords slaughtering each other for the lightning-seared summit.

"Thunder chose you," he says. "You must have some worth. So you'll live. But as long as you serve Maelstrom, you will play by my rules.

"You will not abuse the kin of your own blood. You will not disrespect me, nor the hierarchy of our Sept and Tribe. You will fix this ridiculous honor of yours, which is less than that of a cub. You will attend moots and pay honor to the Caern spirits. You will run with my pack until I find someone willing to tolerate you and able to control you. And if you cross me again, Curl of Talons Hither, I'll take a tongue, an eye, or a hand.

"Am I understood? Yes or no."

[Ezra]
*Ezra's brought down, as he has been so many times before. No stranger to being bloodied in the challenge circle, this one. No stranger to being taken to task out side of it either. Bar fights, Pack ambushes, annoyed mates of pleasured kin... Hell, a gnawer had once caved his head in for something as trivial as toppling her snowman. Still, he hardly expects the ahroun to move so fast and frightening as he does, and it takes the pale theurge a moment to gather his breath back once his skinny form is sprawled on the ground. When he does, he does the only logical thing for a cocky little maniac in such an awkward, vulnerable position. He starts to laugh. A high grating noise, like the chittering of a jackal. Unpleasant in the utmost as he convulses at the hilarity of it all. Fingers rat-tat-tat-tat on his belt as he takes his time getting to his feet. Skulking away from the Ahroun's steely glare, voice cracking despite himself as he gravels -*

MmmmmmmMm, Yes of course. Tell Kathy to put the Coffee on...

*Ezra backs towards the stairs, reluctant to give Lukas his back. He's every inch a cornered pit snake, as terrified as he dangerous and chocked full of venom. Nervous beat of his fingers following him down the stairwell to freedom.*

[Lukas]
The Ahroun's eyes track Ezra all the way to the stairwell. When the door's open he adds, almost offhandedly --

"Room 1 is empty downstairs. You should move in."

It doesn't sound much like a suggestion.