challenge.

[apotheosis] Once upon a time, there was a little boy who was given a sword.


The arrangements are discussed over dinner one night. It's always casual when it's at Danicka's place; the lack of a dining room table inserts some laxity in manner. They get takeout. It isn't that Danicka can't cook well or that Lukas can't make a passable meal, and it certainly isn't that they don't enjoy cooking with and for each other. It's that Danicka has a presentation on Wednesday and, as she puts it, she'd rather maximize the time spent just relaxing with Lukas than bustling around the kitchen with him.

So: he picks up sushi for her on his way over, some meat-laden concoction for himself, and they sit on the couch with their drinks and plates and takeout containers on the huge black wood coffee table, and they nail down their plans for the weekend as though it's any other day. They make plans, the framework upon which the future takes place or the structure it destroys in a wave.

He'll go to New York by moonbridge. He'll take the hours he has there ahead of her to pay his chiminage to the Sept of the Green, to go visit his parents and say hello. Even now he doesn't know if he'll tell them why he's here, the details, the fact that he's challenging for Adren. They might not understand. It might just feel like one step further away from being their son.

She'll come by plane later that day, and he'll pick her up at the airport in whatever rental car he's procured. Something economical, nothing flashy, something Danicka can drive around if she needs to while he's on whatever challenge is set before him. It won't be too late in the evening just yet, even crossing timezones, so they'll get a late dinner and drive up to Stark Falls. Not to Danicka's motel in the nearby town, but directly to the kin village.

Lukas will introduce her to a few people there, the ones she might need to know, the ones who should know there's a Shadow Lord's mate staying nearby. The night will darken further and further all around them while they exchange numbers, make the obvious statements about not knowing how long this will take but maybe we can get together for dinner tomorrow night, and so on and so forth. He'll take her back to her motel so she can check in and unload her luggage. She'll only have packed enough to last her through the weekend. She has a return ticket.

Maybe he'll be done in a single night, like his Fostern challenge. Maybe it will last longer than her break from school. They won't talk about that, about whether she should go back or not. Wait for him or not.

And they'll be together for awhile. Danicka will lay in bed with him, both of them still clothed and facing each other. They can't plan these things: how it will feel. What they might say. But maybe, even as they talk about it days beforehand, they have some notion, some vision:

that Danicka won't say a word when she kisses him, that it won't be some sudden, wild, clothes-grabbing pull at each other, that it doesn't matter if it's a cliche, that they don't want to treat this like he's not coming back, that it's anything but what it is. That when he makes love to her it will echo the very first time, this motel the nicest in town but also one of three in town, nothing fancy or special or expensive. That this time he'll be over her, shielding her, that when he feels her arch under him in orgasm, that when he kisses her hard on the mouth as his own pleasure overtakes him, he will feel immortal, he will feel that he can protect her from anything, even his own death, because he can make sure she'll be taken care of after he's gone. He will feel like a god.


It belonged first to your ancestor, Blackened Fang, who was an Ahroun, like you. The sword was made for him by his packbrother Gaze of Iron, Theurge of the tribe. When he died it was passed to his daughter Fells the Bloodless, a Galliard and one of the first truly great heroes of your lineage. She killed many of the undead with it. Her wrath was so great that the sound of her roar made the soulless tremble...

...would you like to hear the story?


Back in Chicago he has a pack. A strong young Ahroun. A truly honorable Philodox on the verge of her own challenge for Adren. A Galliard who grows in wisdom every time he hears her speak. His is a pack that other Garou seek to join. His is a pack that leads the sept in battle. And he leads them. He lead them from a totem that no longer suited the truth of who they were becoming to Perun, and they are strong with the fury of a god of thunder now.

Back in Chicago he is the elder of his tribe, of his auspice. He protects and wards his kinfolk. He shows other tribes by his example how to comport themselves. He is the warmaster of the sept, the trainer of other Full Moons. He knows very well he's coming into his own as not just a leader in battle but a teacher, a guardian of the very earth.

Back in Chicago he has a room he keeps like an office where everyone knows they can find him. He owns a house that he found, that he repaired, that he built up and cleaned and furnished so that he could bring his mate to it. He has set down roots -- literally. He has this mate beside him even now, and knows that because he took her from her brother, she can finally be seen as strong as she really is, not broken, worthless, damaged because of her childhood. She's beautiful, and her breeding makes her moreso, and she's his.

Back in Chicago. And always with him, these things, living as a part of the very way he carries himself, a very part of who he is as he walks into the Sept of Stark Falls. It's nearly midnight now, right on the crest between one day and the next. No matter that a part of him longed to curl up and sleep with his mate for more than the scant hour or less that he had. There is no reason to waste time.

He wouldn't be who he is if he delayed.

Winter is crisp in the air, the wind frigid. He passes the Kin village, he passes the bawn, and because of that earlier visit the rumors have already started. The spirits have been talking. They speak of him as though he already is the Adren he wishes to be recognized as. They whisper in the ears of the Theurges here, and when Lukas enters the caern grounds there are wolves gathering to see the son who was brought to them as a young boy, who they have heard of -- even if only earlier tonight. There is Promised Rain, looking as well as the last time Lukas paid his respects, watching with his dark, thoughtful eyes.

The fire pit he approaches is not the heart of the caern, but he remembers it well from his youth. His fosterage. (He is still young.) A few young Garou he's never seen before are sitting on fallen, split logs that have been there for decades. A few are in lupus, striding around in their thick black coats. He sees some of other tribes, though not many. Some wear glabro or hispo, as though they are more comfortable now in these shapes than any other. The fire makes the shadows dance, and grants some warmth as he stands there.

There are many Ahrouns before him, several of Adren rank. They are not surprised to see him, and they say nothing. Lukas can see Istok's eyes glance at the sword he has brought with him, as though he remembers when he gave it to the boy who was, once upon a time, no bigger than a stripling. A whelp, with nothing more than the potential to be the broad-shouldered warrior he is today.

Among the Adren Ahrouns he can see Breaks the Mountain, gray-eyed and bearded and known for his strength of arm more than the elegance of his strategies. There is Iceriver, whose leanness and ferocious eyes belie how many scars she has taken in the defense of her pack, of her people, of Gaia, how many times she has died and raged back, how deep her honor runs. Finds the Grave, perhaps the wisest Full Moon in the sept, or so his bearing suggests. He sits on the logs amidst the lurking, watching Cliaths and Fosterns and a cub or two, elbows on knees and eyes on Lukas.

No one says a word. They know why he's here. And it says something about how far the war has come that a challenge for Adren is enough to bring most of a sept together, that it is rare for a Full Moon especially to live that long. It says something that even with a few packs' worth of garou here, the sept seems so much smaller than it was when he was fostered.

Lukas could tell himself that's just the shift of memory between childhood and adulthood. But Lukas isn't a liar.


This sword was given over the centuries to packmates to hold for descendants. We are a dwindling race, Lukáš. Even in a family as strong as yours there are fewer and fewer Garou born from generation to generation. It has been a long time since this blade knew the grip of a Full Moon of the bloodline it was forged for. Understand what that means, and bear it with honor.

[Wyrmbreaker] Though Wyrmbreaker's preparations for the inevitable eventuality of his own death was most evident the night he sat his packmate down and told her everything, every wish and final testament he could think of to give, they began long before that.

One might argue they began not very long after Istok took him in hand and showed him: this is your ancestors' blade. it was forged for a full moon of your line, and your line, like every other, has grown thin. Told him: understand what that means. bear it with honor. Istok Promised-Rain was like that. Much of what he taught Wyrmbreaker was right here on the surface, stated firm and unflinching. Much more of what he taught Wyrmbreaker was beneath the surface, implied, laid forth in a way that required the young Ahroun to think, to consider, to unearth wisdom for himself. Nothing else would be acceptable: a pupil who had to be force-fed every nugget of learning he gained was no worthy pupil at all.

So; yes. One might argue that Wyrmbreaker understood he would not be expected to live long, could very well die before he ever sired children. Could very well be the last Garou of his branch of the line. Could even, by some Wyrm catastrophe or by ever-more-vicious politicking or by simple, blind bad luck be the last Garou of his entire line. He understood that he had to prepare for his own death before his life had properly begun, and that every additional day he lived was a prize that would not be won with carelessness or bravado. And every additional day was a gift -- not to him but to the cause he was born to, to the war.

Still. The first time Lukas Wyrmbreaker sat down, thought of his own death explicitly, and made any decision other than some internal, mute realization was the day he said to his mate-to-be

(though they did not know each other as such, then)

that if he were to die in Chicago, he wanted her to tell his parents and his sister. Not his packmates. Not his Grand Elder; not whoever might succeed him as alpha of his pack or tribe. Her.

It was not an honor. It was a burden. But he wanted it to be her because the lines had stretched thin between he and his parents; because he didn't know any other way, now, to reach across and tell them: I was still your son. I turned out pretty well. I was happy in Chicago. I was loved, and I loved.

I knew love. This was the woman I loved.

Those preparations are all in place now, and they leave Wyrmbreaker feeling strangely light, unworried. That's like him, too: to plan excessively, yes; to worry overmuch, even, before the true battle -- metaphorical or otherwise -- begins. To lose all that when the stage is set and the ball rolls into motion. To shed all extraneous burdens and leave himself agile, his mind sleek, his confidence absolute.


He's been to New York several times this year; more in one year than the past three or five. He was here for thanksgiving. He was here even before that, back in October, when he came primarily for the purpose of scoping out the Sept. Of meeting the Adrens he might soon challenge, learning about them, discovering what they might set before him.

He met his parents then, too. His mother makes him lunch. He let her, because otherwise she would fuss more; worry privately. Lunch is traditional and hearty, beef and potatoes. His father appeared and ceded him the head of the table, calls him Wyrmbreaker-rhya. But then his father smiled furrow-browed the way he does and warned Lukas, joking, that his mother was addled with the thought of grandchildren. I understand why you didn't tell us earlier, he says. She talks of nothing else now. Always. You'll see. Ha!

It was the first time Lukas had heard his father joke in -- well; years. It made him smile, quick, delighted, surprised.


Later, he realized his father hadn't been joking at all. It was all his mother talks about over lunch. She made an attempt at subtlety, at broaching the topic obliquely and delicately: it mostly failed. She had been at Central Park the other day and a preschool class was feeding the ducks. Such beautiful toddlers. She had been shopping with Lida the other day -- you remember Lida, you called her Mrs. Petrovsky and she lived two doors down? -- and Lida's daughter had dropped them off. When she picked them up she had had her son with her, only eighteen months, so adorable! Such big blue eyes. Your eyes were that blue when you were born, you know.

(I always thought they were still pretty blue, he interjected, amused.)

Well, bring home a bouncing grandson and you'll see. Blue eyes always ran strong on your father's side. Speaking of which, have you and Danička...?

-- Lukas started shaking his head before the question is even finished: shook it slow and wide and deliberate, nope, nope, nope. We haven't talked about it yet, he says, which is not quite the truth, but close enough. She's still in school, he added, which is a mistake, because his mother looks taken aback, mildly shocked.

Still in school? How old is she?

About as old as Anežka, he replied, dryly, and catches his father hiding a smile behind his tea.


A month or so later, when he decided to come home for Thanksgiving after all, he thought of his father, smiling. It made him decide to come. He thought of his mother, angling. It made him wary of the comments she directed at Danicka for half the night. After that, he was too drunk to be wary.


Two months after that, he comes across the moonbridge. He makes himself known to the Sept, and then he leaves to pick Danicka up at the airport: parks on the curb and waits for her to emerge, moving forward at a crawl only when the parking enforcement blows her whistle all but in his ear and directs him onward. When Danicka appears, he can see her a mile away: tall in her boots, with golden hair and intelligent eyes, her mother's sharp chin. She looks like she belongs here, he thinks, standing at the curb while a sea of honking cars and taxis go by. In this city of skyscrapers, in the City of cities. She shines like a beacon, but he knows this is because he can see her for what she is,

Shadow Lord,
purebred,
mate,

and though he's been apart from her for all of a day he goes to her and scoops her up into a bear hug, spinning her around once before setting her down and helping her with her luggage. He's happy; she can see that. He doesn't say it, but she can tell: he's happy.

He asks if she wants to stop off anywhere. He doesn't mention home; he doesn't want his parents to worry, didn't even tell them he would be here this time. Will tell him afterward, if he passes. If he survives. She doesn't mention home either; she mentions the greek place in SoHo, though, and they stop-and-go all the way across the bridge and down Broadway, and before too long Lukas is holding down the horn and bellowing out the window with the best of them.

They get gyros. He mentions he found a new place that serves gyros in Lakeview run by a tattooed Fianna. No, really. Pretty good gyros too. Lukas grabs another gyro to go, and then

they drive north, out of the city, in the wilderness.


That first night may be the last they spend together for a while. Or he might be back before dusk the next day. It's impossible to tell. They don't make more -- or less -- of it than what it is.

They make love. And she makes him see god. And afterward, holding her, falling asleep in a strange bed in a strange room in a strange town that nonetheless feels like home because she's here,

he wonders if their child would have blue eyes or green, or some color they could not have predicted.


Stark Falls is an old Sept and an older Caern. It used to belong to the Wendigo, under whom it stood strong for untold years; the Shadow Lords wrested control sometime in the early 1800s, when boatloads of their kin landed in New York City and brought with them their watchful, storm-eyed Garou. Two hundred years later, it's still a strong Sept, but dwindling. They're all dwindling. Last time Lukas was here, Istok mentioned they'd just lost their Wyrmfoe. Mentioned perhaps if Lukas wanted a way back to this Sept, he could take up that mantle.

This time, he sees someone else has filled that role. He sees that it's Oldrich Stone-Sky, who is strong and bold and brave, but very young. Barely Fostern. Twenty years ago, it would have been unthinkable for a Sept position of Stark Falls, even one so minor as Wyrmfoe, to fall to him.

Twenty years ago, though, there were twice as many Garou here.


Still; there are enough. This is a rural sept, its holdings vast, its population more scattered. As winter locks its grip over these lands, the Garou range closer to the caern's heart and to their kin. Tonight, many of them are here in the center of their lands. They know why he has come. They have come to see him, this son of Thunder who was reborn as Wyrmbreaker amongst them, who was trained by one of their own, their trusted. They have come to see what he has made of himself, and to see for themselves if he is worthy of the rank he seeks.

Last night, Lukas introduced his mate to some of their kin. He introduced her to his former mentor, to whom he paid his respects in person, as he always does when he passes through.

Tonight, he is formal, distant, reserved. He meets Istok's gaze briefly, nods his head in deference and greeting, but does not go to him. He stands instead for a moment -- not quite indecisive -- deciding.

He is warmly and sturdily dressed. There is a longsword over his shoulder, very old, with far more worksmanship put into the keenness and strength of the blade than the ornateness of the hilt. Thirteen years ago, it was too large to wear at his hip. He could do that now, but he's grown used to drawing over the shoulder, and there it still hangs, the wide belt crossing his wide chest, tanned leather padded with suede.


When he moves again, it's in a straight, unwavering line. He bows, head and shoulders, respectful, to the Adren he faces.

"Iceriver-rhya," he says, "I was named Wyrmbreaker by Istok Ígéret Eső in this very Sept. Years have passed. I have grown in honor, glory and wisdom; given and gained loyalty and love; earned the respect of the spirits. I have returned to the sept of my fosterage to challenge for the rank of Adren.

"Would you honor by accepting this challenge?"

[apotheosis] Born as a Kinfolk, Iceriver would have been deemed handsome enough for a second glance if you were looking for a mate. There's a smattering of purity to her blood. She would have more children than the one sturdy little girl she never sees, but not so well-bred that she wouldn't be allowed near harder work, rougher times. She is in her late twenties, maybe thirty years old now. Older than many Ahrouns, older than Finds the Grave, older even than Breaks the Mountain. Not old enough, by human standards, for the threads of white that run through her short, choppy black hair. Her eyes are the color of snowmelt running across stones smoothed by time and water.

Born to the same life he was, a fresh Cliath when he was brought here by Istok, Iceriver is not easy to look at. The left side of her face is so mangled by scars that her ear is little more than twisted shadow of its partner. She only barely escaped losing the eye on that side. Her form is covered by long sleeves, long pants, a scarf around her neck, but her right hand has only a thumb and two fingers. Gaia only knows what scars crisscross her torso, remember the time she was impaled, the time she almost lost that leg, the shredding claws of Spirals and fangs of fomori and everything else he can imagine, everything else he himself has faced.

Her arms rest easily at her sides. A few of the Shadow Lords and other watching them look at each other. One can almost feel the buzz of totems carrying messages between packmates. The other Adrens, wiser than the gossiping Cliaths and eager Fosterns, don't so much as blink. Iceriver, shorter than Lukas by several inches, is more than scars and a reputation for honor. Her mind is quicker and sharper than most, and her dark eyes flick to the hilt of the sword seen over his shoulder.

She looks back to him, answering simply. "Yes." Then, with barely a beat, "When was the last time you used that?"

[Wyrmbreaker] There's a faint stirring as Lukas makes his choice and challenge; as it is accepted by Iceriver. Neither of them acknowledge it or allow it to sway their attention. He remembers the Cliath she was, but only faintly: he was busy with his own concerns, and lucky enough to be one of the rare, very rare Shadow Lord cubs with a mentor of his own, and that mentor kept his nose squarely to the grindstone most days. Besides, back then, even a Cliath was far out of his sphere.

"In training," Lukas replies with very little pause, "against my packmate, Brutal Revelation, four or five days ago. In true combat: many years ago." Now there is a short pause. "Seven or eight now, I think, not long after my deedname was earned. It was in Boston, when I led my pack as Beta and war-alpha. We were called the Unbroken Circle then. We were so newly formed that we did not yet have our totem."

[apotheosis] As a Fostern she would have cut him off after that pause, interrupted him as he opened his mouth to speak again. As a Fostern, she was more impatient. She has been an Adren for a few years now; it may be that one day in the coming years she will challenge for Athro. One has to hope there's someone for her to challenge, then.

That's where they're at. As a tribe. As a people.

As a Cliath she might have challenged what he says about claiming to lead a pack as its Beta, would have snarled something about in the final days there is no alpha but a war-alpha, would have pressed every button he has. She was an angry, wild thing once, longhaired and fastrunning, but that was a long time before the first time she died. She would have kicked his ass if he'd stepped out of line when he was a cub.

Now she listens to him. Seven or eight years since he's drawn the sword in battle, four or five days since he's felt its weight in his hand, swung it at an opponent, drawn blood. He wasn't even bound to his first pack the last time he fought with it.

"You follow Perun now," she says. "Thunder's brood." It's thoughtful, these pieces of his life she knows by reputation or because -- when he showed his face here the last time -- she and Finds the Grave were talking and so she asked Istok about him. Or she's psychic. There's a pause, and then: "Key of Heaven," she says, her voice louder than a moment before.

A pale head in the background lifts, a very tall blue-eyed man of about twenty-three looking directly at her. It's as though she can sense his attention, knows he wouldn't ignore that call. He's got storms in his eyes. He's lean, narrower by far than Lukas. There is no way he's an Ahroun. He says nothing, then moves between the others to walk forward. "Yes, -rhya," he says, deferential but difficult to read.

His eyes flick at Lukas for only the barest second; it's as though he already knows what's coming. For her part, Iceriver does not take her eyes off of Lukas.

"Key is a Theurge of your rank, Beta of his pack and leading them as they search for their missing Alpha. Stormstrike, Starfall has been gone for over a week. By their bond they know she's still alive. Thus far, Key and his pack have failed to find her and return her to us." As she says these words, the so-called Beta is visibly tense, his failure stinging him like a lash with everything Iceriver says to Lukas.

"I give them to you, Wyrmbreaker. They have lost their Alpha and their Ahroun; you will step into that role. Find Stormstrike and return her, or if her packmates feel her death, avenge her. You may begin when ready."

[Wyrmbreaker] [o rite. EMPATHEE ON KoH!]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 1, 6, 7, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Wyrmbreaker] Wyrmbreaker was never the sort of Garou Iceriver once was. When they were both younger -- when he was a cub and she a Cliath -- she was hotheaded, angry, wild. He was -- if such a thing is possible -- even more reticient, watchful, serious, thoughtful than he is now. She might have thought him weak. He might have secretly, quietly thought her reckless.

If those two Garou stood here today, it's likely Iceriver would have snarled that there's no such thing as a Beta who leads. No such thing as an alpha who is not a war-alpha. It's likely that Lukas -- young, stubborn, and frankly, filled with a teenager's visions of his own visionary-ness -- would have defended his alpha, his position, his pack, how they were different, you don't understand.

Childish.

But then Iceriver went into the world and died for the first time. Then Lukas went to Chicago and -- some might say -- truly lived for himself for the first time. And ironically, they are closer in outlook and demeanor now than they were. The topic does not come up now, but if it did, it is far more likely Lukas would reflect on that with more honesty, less teenage angst and defensiveness. It is far more likely that he would say now, It was weak of us to follow a wolf who was weak. Wrong of us to work to cover his faults rather than to tear him down and raise a stronger wolf in his place.

He does not answer when she states his totem affiliation. There's no need to. Everyone knows, and she was not asking. Thunder's Brood, she adds, where once they were Falcon's. He does respond to that: with a single slight nod.

Then, as Key of Heaven is called forth, Lukas's head turns. He looks at the young man, who is very tall, very lean. He is introduced as a Beta; as a failure. Wyrmbreaker's eyes are on Key of Heaven for most of it, thoughtful, observing reactions, micro-expressions, minutiae.

Only at the last does he turn back to Iceriver. And then, only to nod.

"I understand, Rhya."