it's time, rhya.

[Brutal Revelation] When Sinclair comes back to the Loft, where she sort of kinda mostly lives now, she's wearing a red zip-up jacket, the hood -- and possibly the rest of it -- lined with sheepskin. This is the girl who grew up in Kansas and decided that she wanted to go to school in Southern California partly because, y'know, it's really cold up in Massachusetts. To her, the mid-fifties are damn well cold enough to want at very least a sweater. One has to wonder why she came to Chicago, why she bothers to stay, how she tolerates the cold when winter really hits.

The answer is the same to each question: pack.

pack.

pack.

There was a brief period of time when Sinclair lived in a whole lot of places. She moved out of the Brotherhood but she would stay there sometimes, stay here sometimes, stay in her car sometimes, stay... somewhere else, sometimes. And then an incredibly brief time where she took everything she had and moved it into a tiny shoebox of an apartment and it was cozy, and she was happy, and

well, a little while after that, she claimed the single room next to Lukas's at the Brotherhood. She claimed a room at the Loft, and that is where she usually stays. When her moon is waning, she's almost certain to be found there night after night until the worst of it passes, until the moon turns half.

She was never very close to Theron, but after he earned his second rank when she saw him she was less brusque with him, less vicious. She never knew Caleb as anything but this cousin of Kate's who came around every few months and treated everyone like his best friend. She was glad to see Edward go. She misses Asha. She has varying relationships with other septmembers, everything from respectful to wary to downright antagonistic, but ultimately she has few relationships, total.

She has her parents, anew after years of separation. And she has her pack. Her pack, asking her why she was rolling in mud and getting the simple answer that it seemed like an exceptionally good idea at the time, which is another way of saying: I don't totally understand why I acted that way. I need to think some more.

Which is another way of saying that in a little while, she might just up and have Shit To Say about it.

Not tonight. She's not here tonight to go to bed, though she's tired and there are dark circles under her eyes and underneath her summer tan she's a bit gray-looking. She's not here to raid the kitchen and avoid Lucille because Lucille, even Lucille, is not sure how to act around Sinclair. She's not even here to play Wii (yet). She's here because as she left the Caern she cast about in her mind for the dark, solid presence she knows as her Alpha, and she did not so much ask where he was as nudge that presence, sniff at it, and receive something of a curious welcome, a

yes, i'm here. what's up?

So now she's at the Loft, pushing her hood back and walking quietly inside, looking around for Lukas. She checks the pool room and she checks the kitchen before she ever considers going upstairs, even though there's an invisible thread running from her mind to his, telling her here. here. over here.

olly olly all-come-free.

[Lukas] He's not swimming tonight, that rather largeish Ahroun whose presence in their minds is nothing so vain as a fully-formed version of himself, and nothing so amorphous as the loose collection of thoughts and inquiries and questions and uncertainties Theron so often was. Dark and solid and quiet and warm: that's what he is, like a piece of a summer's night hewn and compacted and folded into being.

He's not raiding the kitchen either. Or playing on the Wii. Lukas is, in fact, laid out on the couch. His feet are up on one arm of the sofa, his head pillowed on the other. He's reading: something he used to do so often in the Brotherhood that a stretch of the sectional sofa became 'his'. He doesn't hang out quite so much in the Brotherhood these days. His room there is more like an office now, and his clothes and belongings seem to be slowly migrating elsewhere.

Sometimes he stays here at the Loft. He hasn't officially claimed a room, but he leaves a change or two of his clothing here now. Most nights he stays elsewhere.

He's here now, though. Pages turn quietly as Sinclair enters. He lets her check the pool room, but on her way to the kitchen he intercepts her, setting the book down on his chest to raise his eyebrows wordlessly at her.

Yes, he's here. What's up?

[Brutal Revelation] It's disconcerting for some young Garou to enter a fully-formed pack that's been around for some time, running together, learning each other. Their bond changes as it deepens, mental presences becoming instantly familiar where to a new packmate they might be confusing. To know intimately and without a moment's consideration that the dark presence you can reach out to with a thought is Lukas, is Alpha, is Shadow Lord, is something that comes with time, like learning to read the expressions on someone's face.

To know that the steady, unblinking light in the distance that casts a silver-white glow, fuzzy and gray at the edges and growing more and more blindingly clear the closer you get to it is Kate is like knowing that Sinclair searches for Lukas as though by ritual, that she checks on the pool room partly because it gives her an odd little centered feeling, settling into a different kind of home.

To know that the livid red pulse surrounded by shadow is Sinclair, and to know that its intensity of color alters according to the moods and thoughts she shares with her packmates, to know that the beat of it falters unevenly when her moon is waning, is like understanding without having to be told what exactly is going on that something in Sinclair is wounded, and taking its time to heal.

But is, in fact, healing.

She unzips her hoodie as she 'looks' for Lukas, revealing the blue t-shirt underneath that has Grover the Muppet on it. Her long hair is up in a ponytail. She hasn't cut it since she moved to Chicago, but has no split ends. The benefit, one could say, of melting and reforming her body again and again and again, every time she rages.

Eventually she meanders her way into the living room, coming over to one of the armchairs and lowering herself onto it with a quiet whumpf. She smiles softly, folding her hands in her lap. "In April, the night I challenged for my rank, you told me: I'm almost Adren. I knew that already. I'm no Theurge, but I've seen and talked to --"

as best as one without the gift of speaking to spirits can 'talk' to one,

"-- spirits of renown more than you might think. I knew what they were saying about you. I know what they've been saying about you since. And I understand why you weren't ready in April to challenge."

Sinclair leans back into her chair, settling in a bit more. "In July, when we sat in the Caern and you gave me your testament, I thought: 'okay, maybe now'. I thought that being able to look at your death without thoughts of either glory or fatalism but acceptance was sign that you were ready.

"I thought, when I learned that you'd begun to mentor Christian, 'any day now'. I figured that if you were ready to teach a Cliath in the ways of your auspice, without even a flicker of hesitance to do so for a worthy pupil, then it would be a matter of days or weeks before you challenged. When you didn't, I thought perhaps you were going to wait until he was more settled into the pack and more secure in his teachings before leaving for your challenge."

Sinclair takes a breath. "It's been nearly half a year since you earned the right, if not the readiness, to challenge for Adren. Nearly half a year since you admitted that waiting was unwise, and in dereliction of your duty. Nearly half a year ago, I understood and I could accept that. Now Christian has left to try and build on your teaching or abandon it, as he will, and while he is gone you are relieved of your responsibilities as his mentor. Now Katherine, who is your Beta in everything but battle and name, is coming so close to Adren herself that she can almost taste it. And I have to know, because I am going to be the one who keeps the memory of your life after you're gone --"

There's a pause there. A softening of her stance, her voice, her eyes. "And I want to know, as your friend and packmate and sister... why haven't you challenged yet, Wyrmbreaker? Why won't you be recognized for what you are?"

[Lukas] Sinclair has Shit To Say.

That much is so obvious it's all but a scent on the air. It's there when she sits her ass down. It's there in that soft little smile of hers, which is so unlike her usual grin that Lukas would have taken notice at once had everything else not already tipped him off.

And, true to form, Sinclair says it. What she's come to say. She says it like she's telling a story, which is ironic because when she actually tells stories she makes them sound like reports. Not even news reports, but briefings. Passing intelligence on with minimal subjectivity. She lays this one out for Lukas, though: the buildup, the times, the dates, all of it. April. July. August. September. Her challenge. The spirits. Christian coming, Christian going.

And all through it: Wyrmbreaker, a Fostern with the renown of an Adren. Halfway to fucking Athro by now, though that meteoric rise has slowed in recent months ... perhaps not least of all because as ready as his renown says he is, as ready as his actions say he is,

he simply. won't. challenge.

So Sinclair asks what everyone else must wonder. She asks it bluntly, because that's what she does, and when she's finished Lukas's eyebrows pull together. The frown looks a little like pain. He sets the book aside and rises, all in one motion, sitting up smooth and sure as a cobra rising out of its basket.

"Because," he says softly, "I don't want to die in pursuit of my personal power and glory and leave all my loved ones to pick up the pieces."

[Brutal Revelation] The name that Waking Dream, Breaking Heart gave Sinclair when she completed -- won -- her challenge in April has proved itself to be just as fitting as the first name she earned, just as appropriate as the name they gave her when she was brought into the Glass Walker sept in San Diego and locked her away til she stopped raging.

Havoc, then, screaming and gnashing, changing shape uncontrollably in the first few hours, throwing herself at the walls like something in a frenzy. Havoc, getting into fights just while trying to walk through the hallways, destroying almost everything that got within arm's reach til she was sedated or overcome. Havoc, even in the game room where she was marginally calm, leveling her opponents because it seemed to give her some kind of internal peace to defeat what was outside,

since she couldn't defeat what was finally breaking open inside of her.

Then Warcry, a little more controlled, a little more directed, opening her maw and roaring at the Wyrm because here was something to kill, here was something to tear apart, here was something she was actually made for. Because it had become so clear she wasn't made to be a cheerleader or someone's girlfriend or a human or a scientist or any of the things she'd thought she might be. It had become so clear what she really was, she could do nothing but voice it, and throw herself into it, carrying everyone who could hear her into it with her.

Now this: Brutal Revelation. It doesn't need to be explained once someone has heard her speak at a moot. Lukas has heard her speak like this even more than Katherine, but Katherine has heard her be a human woman in her early twenties more than Lukas ever will, so it pans out. It's not flippant. It's not harsh. But it's unflinching, yanking all of this to the surface and laying it before him as though to say

explain this. deal with it.

His explanation is rather simple, and Sinclair doesn't stir from where she sits. The look on his face causes an echo on her own, a tightness of her brow that lasts for only a moment and is restrained by whatever inner strength causes her -- lets her -- put these questions to him so firmly, even if she knows it might make him angry, it might make him defensive, it might be the wrong time, it might it might it might --

but it needs to be said.

"Do you really believe," she says gently, after a moment or two, "that challenging for rank is just a pursuit of your own personal power and glory?"

It's easy enough to hear in her voice what Sinclair thinks, and what she thinks Lukas's answer is.

[Lukas] "I know what the party line is," Lukas replies, and there's this, at least: his voice is even; he doesn't seem angry. It's possible he's asked this of himself on occasion. Never very deeply, and never for long before he pushes it aside, pushes it under again, buries it like the bone that Brutal Revelation has finally dug up for him, cracked open in her merciless teeth, and laid out for him to pick clean.

"I know," he goes on, "that the strength I gain is meant to be used for Gaia. And for Thunder, and for Perun, and for the pack and for my mate and for ... everyone whose welfare I have a stake in. I know that, and that is what I intend. But it's still so very hard to reconcile that with the fact that I'm going to be the one walking up to a Garou the spirits call Adren and saying, recognize me. Give me more power. Make me stronger."

[Brutal Revelation] "It's not a party line," Sinclair says, just as calmly -- as gently -- as before. It's hard for her to be roused to anger -- true anger, at least. Deep, snarling anger that comes from a real source of frustration or hurt. Petty, surface anger is easy for her to find when her moon is waning. Nothing about this conversation is petty, though.

She listens to what Lukas says, what he puts out there intentionally, and she doesn't look deeper than that right now. She doesn't probe further than what he is willing to show her, what he absolutely can't or will not conceal.

Her legs bend, drawing up into the chair. Well, halfway. She looks down, realizing that she was out and about in Chicago after rainfall and that the hems of her jeans are muddy from tromping through the caern. The armchair is white. Sinclair stares at her feet consideringly, then sets them back down. It's a small thing, the sort of consideration and respect one would assume be showed to the home of another, but in a way it's not what people would expect of Warcry.

As she settles back into her seat, slouching somewhat, she looks back at Lukas. "I'm not going to try and tell you not to see it that way. If that's how you feel about it -- and you aren't entirely wrong -- then maybe it's best that you have those thoughts lurking at the back of your mind, reminding you not to slaver and pant after power like a wretch or a dog.

"But," she goes on, carefully enunciating the word though her voice never grows past its somewhat fuzzy softness, "being recognized in your rank isn't just about using the strength you gain for Gaia, Thunder, Perun, etcetera, etcetera. Look, I don't want to turn this into an oral exam. I'm just going to tell you what I think."

Her left pinky hits the air. "I think it's about giving lower-ranked Garou some hope. Especially for Ahrouns, most of whom these days can't shut the fuck up about how they're probably going to die before they get anywhere near Fostern. And that fatalism is self-centered, and it distracts them from the war, and it makes them less effective as a unified force if they think 'this is it, this is all there is for me, I'm cannon fodder, nothing I do matters'."

And her ring finger. "I think it's about keeping the worthy consistently above the unworthy. We're not humans. Might does make right, as much as wisdom and leadership and charisma do. Rank and rulership belong to those who deserve it and can keep it, and you're going to have a damn hard time holding onto those things if the reputation you get is the Fostern who could have been, but didn't want to be. They'll call you a coward, and whatever else you do, if the spirits hear that enough, they'll believe it, too. Then we'll be led into war by selfish, powerhungry morons, thankyouverymuch."

Her middle finger joins the others, fanning out in midair. She has her elbow propped on the arm of the chair, her eyebrows lifting. "I think it's about understanding that if you won't challenge for rank because you might die and leave all of us behind, then you may as well stop fighting, altogether. You can tell yourself that in battle you're at least fighting for something, but you know as well as I do that a lot of those random skirmishes barely even make dents in the war overall. We fight them anyway. We need to fight them. It may seem like we don't get anywhere or we're just looking for ways to get our rage out and our rocks off, but that still doesn't mean we can turn away from them."

Sinclair pauses a moment, then drops her arm, sighing. "Look, I'm sure I have other reasons, but my head kinda hurts. And I love you, and I honestly do understand, better than I can tell you, what you're saying, here. But seriously? The thing I really want to say is just: it's time, -rhya."

Though they are of equal rank. She has been calling him -rhya for months now. But of course: he's her Alpha. He's the Ahroun Elder. It makes sense that she might call him -rhya.

More sense, now.

[Lukas] It's not often that one sees this side of Sinclair. Half the Sept -- perhaps most of the Sept -- thinks of her as a raging beast. Thinks of her as unhinged, bloodthirsty, vicious. They look at her and they see the beast that killed three Garou, one of whom never came back. They look at her and they see, even now, the Garou that stood in a ring of shame while all her allies and compatriots carved glyphs of shame into a stone as heavy as sin.

And in all fairness, these things are part of who Sinclair is. They're in her history, and for a Galliard, history is everything. There's more to her, though. The Garou that Lukas sometimes sees staying up til 4am typing, typing, typing away on her laptop to take down the stories of all the Garou she meets and interviews and hears: that's Sinclair, too. The Garou that lays her muzzle across the back of her youngest borther: that's Sinclair. The Garou that sits here now,

counseling him, which is something none of his packmates outside of Sinclair and Katherine ever seem to do:

that's Sinclair, too.

And he listens. Because he trusts her counsel. Because he trusts her, period. Because they've been packmates for a long time now, and their bond is deep. They understand each other without words. She knows what he wants done after he's gone. She knows what this pack means to him, and what she and Katherine mean to him; she knows that he does not fear death at all, but he fears leaving his loved ones behind almost more than words can say.

When she's finished, he doesn't have a lot to say back. It's not necessary. She knows he heard her, even if he didn't nod; even if he didn't voice assent. She knows she's gotten through to him when he does nod at the very end, and just once, and says:

"I know."

A small pause after that. Then he adds, quieter:

"And I know there's never going to be a perfect time. A time when everything fits together, and is neatly tied off, and is so self-sufficient and self-managing that if I were to fall, everything would go on without a hitch. I know it's foolish to keep waiting for such a time. I know it's ... just as selfish not to challenge as it is to challenge for power alone.

"Maybe I did need to hear it from someone else, though." His mouth moves: a faint smile. "The proverbial nudge when I won't jump."

[Brutal Revelation] She huffs a small breath of laughter out. "Waiting for the perfect time to do anything is like those couples who wait to be able to 'afford' having a kid. It ain't never gonna happen."

Her hands go to the armrests of the chair, as though she's about to lever herself up. Her duty's done. The reason she sought him out tonight -- a night at random, a night when it occurred to her and the moon overhead seemed to shrug and say okay, a night like the night she thought okay. I'm ready. -- is fulfilled. But she doesn't stand up yet.

Heather Sinclair's eyes are more winter than seadepths, moonlight-on-snow rather than crystal. There's a diffuse light to them that's different, in its way, from the piercing intensity of Kate and Lukas's blue. At times they can look almost gray. At other times they seem nearly white. They're opaque, which makes them ethereal, and yet they hide very little of what she thinks and feels. They don't make her seem untouchable or so inhuman she can't be reached.

"Yeah," she says softly, as he mentions a nudge when he won't jump. "Just don't make me start nipping your heels."

Now she stands, pushing herself to her feet when he knows two things: one, she wouldn't normally need to do that, and two, she wouldn't do it anyway in front of anyone but her packmates. She lets herself rise slowly, like her joints ache, like her skin feels stretched too tight over her bones, and she reaches over to Lukas and scuffs her hand over his head.

"Get a haircut, too," she grouses, though he doesn't need one. Sinclair goes on muttering advice and nags at him as she starts to head off, fully intending to go upstairs and let herself crash... after she writes in her journal. After she records this, too, while it's fresh in her memory.

"And floss yer teeth. An' getcher feet off the furniture. An' do yer homework."

Mutter, mutter.

Grumble.

[Lukas] Lukas doesn't duck away from the hair-ruffling, though he does squint his eyes shut like a dog suffering unwelcome attention from a toddler. When she's finished, he catches her by the hand, hauls her back as he's standing, and wraps his arms around her in a big hug. Big bear hug. Complete with growling and pretend-razzling and side-to-side rocking.

Lukas has never pitied Sinclair for her bad days. He's never felt bad for her or even wished that she didn't have them. He sees them, but he sees her good days, too. He sees how bright she shines then, how glorious she is, how sure, how certain, how invincible. And he understands -- far better than your average Ahroun -- the concept of balance. Of give and take. Win some, lose some.

That's her balance, like Achilles, heroism traded for a shortened lifespan. In return for those days of sheer glory, these days of ... well. Very nearly misery.

Still; pity isn't the same as compassion. Caring. He cares about his packmates. He knows when she isn't feeling her best. He knows not to coddle her; knows that's the last thing she wants. This is what she gets instead: a big bonecrushing hug, followed by a smooch on her forehead.

"I love you, kiddo," he says. "Get some sleep."

[Brutal Revelation] "Gaaaaagh," hacks Sinclair, wriggling away from his bear hug --

though not really

-- the way he pretend-tolerated her hair-scuffing. She's smaller than he is, and it's hard to look at them like this and acknowledge that she comes very close even now to matching him in sheer speed, sheer lethality. She's slender and athletic and pretty; it's difficult to imagine her lunging into battle after Lukas and tearing out a throat, ripping a Spiral in half, just as he does.

Though frankly, while he's razzing her and mock-growling and bear-hugging her and she's batting at him with her palms going "Ack, ack, stoppit, ack," it's hard to imagine either of them doing all that. She even wrinkles her nose when he smooches her forehead, making a face usually seen on bright green stickers that used to get slapped on bottles of cleaning products.

When Lukas lets her go Sinclair stumbles away from him, windmilling her arms in wild flails for balance. "Kiddo," she huffs, but there's no followup grumbling. She just flaps a hand at him on her way out, aching inside, but she can't tell him that, can't explain why, or what it even is. "G'night, weirdo," she murmurs fondly, and heads out of the sitting room to go upstairs.