judgment.

[entheogen] When he starts telling her not strong enough, Stormstrike bristles, but he can only guess at why. He can only make assumptions about what makes her so angry at those words that she nearly bites his head off all over again.

And when he says a pack less close-knit than my own, while talking of their loyalty to each other, their walls, not letting him in, some of the Blackwings look like they are with Stormstrike, that they hold him in nothing but disdain. An annoying interloper, in a way they didn't look at him back at the sept, or while they were tracking Stormstrike into the woods.

He speaks to her again. About the truth, and trust. And gives his counsel. She stands there, waiting for him to finish talking, one eyebrow lifted. The Are you done? expression is written as clearly across her face as her rage has been from the start. He starts to step forward and she drops the eyebrow, bares her teeth, flat-out snarls at him in warning not to finish that step.

No one argues with him, though. Tells him if he's right or wrong, if they've even heard his counsel. From the looks of things the Blackwings aren't absorbing a word of it, and Stormstrike is waiting for him to finish solely because the last time she walked away from him he threated to attack her and her pack. Their ears are closed. It's hard to tell what, if anything, got through.

Not so different from Chicago, then.

When the silence after his words hangs, and it becomes evident he's done, Stormstrike turns. Mid-step, she shifts down into lupus, darker even than the shadows the moonlight casts. This time the Blackwings do not gather to her. They gather to each other, Threnody and Sunthief and Wane. The Galliard's claws are all but digging into Key's body over his shoulder. Very slowly, and with Stormstrike not waiting for them, they turn and follow her. This time it's Wane who brings up their rear, gliding across the ground on all fours in crinos, a hulking monster.

She looks back at Wyrmbreaker over her shoulder, her one good eye the same color as her fur, distinguishable only by the white ringing it. Her other eye, blind at least in this world, this life, joins it in watching him for a moment. Then she, too, heads back towards the Sept of Stark Falls.


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

Too heavy to wear on his hip at the time, so he learned to draw it over his shoulder until that motion became more familiar than drawing from his side, even when he was big enough and strong enough to carry it thus. Even with his body shapeshifted, the sword dedicated into his flesh and possessing no material shape, he can feel it weighing diagonally across his back, moving ever so slightly with each roll of his shoulders carrying his legs forward.

It was made by Gaze of Iron, belonged first to Blackened Fang, was passed on to Fells the Bloodless. Lukas's eyes reflect hers, so many generations later. He knows the story of the bane of the undead now, how deeply she plunged herself into the darkness and how many of her packmates fell to it while she remained untainted. He knows that there were songs sung to her purity of spirit, songs long forgotten now. He knows she had every reason to be proud, to be unbending. He knows that the sword burdening his back tonight was used to cut the heads from her packmates whose souls writhed in taint.

The sword is plain. The steel is carefully worked and the edge painstakingly, gently kept sharp over the years. The hilt has, in fact, been repaired more than once, adding to its unornamented simplicity. He had to earn the right to learn how to use it. He had to earn the right to know much of what he knows. Sometimes he had to know, had to figure it out, had to show that he could do it on his own before any guidance would be given, and he developed a keen mind. Thinks, always, five steps ahead or more.

Those steps almost never include using the sword passed down to him by birthright, by being one of the few Garou left in the world. One can imagine a day when the sword breaks coming before the day when it is found by or given to someone not of his line, not even of his tribe. But from a strictly practical sense, the sword is less useful than fangs and claws. Slower, too, and it does not cut as deep, rend as quickly.


She ignores this much of his advice: no words, at least no audible ones, pass between the Blackwings and their Alpha as they head back towards the sept. Key of Heaven stirs, groaning, and Threnody punches him in the head, knocking him out again. From the look of things, it takes the Galliard effort to hold himself back from just snapping the Theurge's neck outright. But, regardless of auspice, Threnody has honor. Given the depression weighing on the pack as they walk, it's possible they're not even speaking to Stormstrike in their minds.

The sept of Stark Falls lies up ahead. Near the borders, Threnody lets out a howl. It chills, undulating darkly through the starlit night, waking Garou and Kin alike, stirring the rage and igniting the uncivilized sides of the Lords and Fianna and others who occupy this place.

"We return with Stormstrike, Starfall-rhya. All live. All must be judged."

As their steps take them towards the gathering place where Lukas first challenged Iceriver, they can hear the wolves coming out of the shadows, wolves in the shape of men, in the shape of monsters, coming to the circle where the firepit is cold.

[Wyrmbreaker] When they left this Sept, Wyrmbreaker ran at their head: the alpha position in physical reality, if never quite in the hearts and minds of the pack. In the return trip, he doesn't even make the pretense. He does not run at their head; he does not bring up their rear. He lags a good fifteen or twenty feet behind, his breathing steady and elevated, slipping into the steadystate he's so familiar with now.

There was a time when the thought of running two, three, five, ten miles was unimaginable to him. There was a time when that sword given to him was too heavy and long to wear at the hip. There was a time when he had no true name, and a time when that name felt ill-fitting on his shoulders: too bland, too generic, or perhaps too much. Too mighty. Wyrmbreaker. Breaker of the Wyrm. Whoever that Garou was, Lukas did not feel like him.

He's grown into that name now. It fits him comfortably, and he has come to shape it and define him, even as his palm has come to shape and define the grip of his ancestors' sword.

These are the thoughts that drift half-formed through his mind as he tails the pack back to the Sept. He does not think of what he saw in Stormstrike, or didn't see. He doesn't think of whether or not she heard him at all, or if the pack is communicating at all across their link during the run back.


As they cross the borders of the Caern, Wyrmbreaker quickens his gait, catches up to the pack. He joins them as they enter the bawn, and there's this much at least: he shadows them, and there's something almost protective about the way he does this. As though, no matter what else, he was given charge of these Garou, and will not relinquish that until it is taken from him.

When they gather again in the challenge circle, Wyrmbreaker holds his warform. It is easier to mask expression here, harder to mask body language. His face is stone, but his back is stiff, his great handpaws laced behind his back, one gripping the other wrist. His eyes flicker around to mark the entrance of the first few wolves, but not the rest. He stares straight ahead when Istok comes, if Istok comes, and his jaw is tight then, the corners of his mouth tense. Even now, years later, he does not want his mentor to see the shape and form of his failure.

[entheogen] The Garou waiting for them are varied. Packs stand thicker than when Lukas first came here earlier in the night -- hours ago. It's closer to dawn now than sunset. Very near dawn, in fact. Iceriver stands before many of the others. She has not changed since Wyrmbreaker saw her earlier. Her arms are crossed over her chest, her eyes watching the Blackwings and Wyrmbreaker as they approach. Istok is there, standing beside her -- a Philodox of the sept, called by a Galliard to judge. He is not the only Half-Moon joining Iceriver along the rim of the challenge circle. Iceriver is not the only Ahroun watching, waiting. One of their own returned to them. One of their own challenging Iceriver and, in a way, the entire Nation.

Recognize me.

At least: that's what he came here for. Now he stands straight, refusing to wear his sense of failure as a cloak on his shoulders and over his head, a mask across his face. To his left stands Eyes that Wax and Wane. Beside her, Threnody for Gaia putting the limp, torn, bloody form of Key of Heaven on the ground before his own feet. Then Sunthief. Then, as far from Wyrmbreaker as she could be, Stormstrike.

Iceriver speaks first, the leader of the first and formal challenge. Her eyes are on the Galliard standing in the center of the line of Garou. "All?"

Threnody takes a breath. "Wyrmbreaker-rhya, in his challenge to you. Stormstrike, Starfall-rhya and Key of Heaven-rhya, for their breach of the Litany and betrayal of their pack. The Blackwings, for our weakness and our blindness."

Iceriver hears this, and looks over at Istok, one of the highest-ranked Philodoxes in the sept. He meets her gaze for a few moments, the two conferring silently and without the benefit of a totem bond. They are very different Garou, really. Finally, Istok takes a breath, and exhales. Iceriver looks at Stormstrike.

"Explain."


And Stormstrike does. The version she gives the sept at large is more detailed than the angry recitation she gave Wyrmbreaker. There are nuances here that she refused to give him, and humility before her sept-brethren that, for whatever reason, she did not show him. The deeper story comes together:

It started because of a frenzy while the two of them were fighting the Wyrm alone, and she fell to Thrall. Unable to physically stop her, Key of Heaven waited it out, waited for her to come back to herself. Unable to comfort her in her horror at what she'd done, Key tried to counsel her, but never to confess. Only to conceal.

She admits that the taste for it didn't abate. She confesses, her voice pushing past agony, that she craved it again and again. That she would speak of these cravings to Key of Heaven. That her words infected him with the bloodlust, and that he eventually convinced her to hunt with him. Just once. Just once, then they'd put it behind them, his curiosity soothed and her craving satisfied.

Just once happened again and again. Just one more. Just this hiker. Just this campsite. Until it wasn't even hunting anymore, just scouting for opportunity. Until she stopped counting how many times they broke the law, how many people they tore apart and ate raw, hunched over the same body, sharing one another's meat.

Until the Wyrm whispered to her in her nightmares, and the voice of it began to drive her mad with guilt. Until she pressed Key to confess, until she begged him, cajoled him, tried to coax and convince him as he had once convinced her to draw him with her into sin. His mind was not as easily changed, and the fighting started.

Again, Wyrmbreaker hears the story of Sunthief's scouting trip to investigate the kilings. He hears it from Stormstrike now, though, how terrified she was that her own pack would ferret out the truth and expose her. How shocked she was when they found the skeletons, because she knew the deaths were her fault, were Key's. How caught off guard she was when a powerful Fostern Theurge could not turn the monsters away.

The story of the week spent in their captivity is stranger. Istok stops her a couple of times for clarification, as do a couple of other Philodoxes with them all tonight. The hum of power is in the air as every Half-Moon who dares listens for truth with Gaia's own hearing. Stormstrike killed the strongest of the skeletons, because she could not communicate with them any other way but to show them her strength. And so she did, and they fell to her sway,

but they also would not let her leave. Could not let her go. Were protecting her, it seems, from being found by the wicked Crescent Moon who had put her there to begin with.

When Stormstrike is asked again, and answers again, the question of why she did not contact her pack through Crow, she gives the same answer. A couple of the Philodoxes look at each other when she says, more firmly than pleadingly this time, that Key might have, would have, and so on.

Eventually her story fades, and is done.


Istok is the one who looks at the Blackwings. Says not a word, but waits for Threnody to explain their weakness. Their blindness. The Galliard has shifted down to homid by now, looking dirty and tired but no worse for wear otherwise.

"We are a close pack," he says, with some defiance in his tone. "We live all together, work as a unit, sleep within arm's reach. We know the rumors people spread about us, that we're all liars because our totem grands us secrecy as well as attentiveness, but we are honest with one another." A beat. "Or we were.

He takes a breath. "We noticed our Alpha and Beta were behaving strangely, and we did not try to find the truth. They spent more time away from us and more time together, and... we assumed they were breaking the first law, and did not know what to do. We should have known what to do. It never should have been a question." Threnody pauses, swallowing hard. "I loved them, and I could not bear to see them punished."

Sunthief is still in lupus. He barks. "Missed scents when track. Should have known better. Should have warned Alpha. I fail." He reaches up, rubbing one forepaw across his snout. "Always follow. Always obey. Always trust. Not question. I fail again. Pack heart broken now. Spirit wounded. My fault."

Istok turns to look at Eyes that Wax and Wane, silent and motionless til now, perhaps the only one of them who seems like she's only half-here. Like she's not hunched over, slinking, kicking herself. He waits. Wane says nothing. Istok clears his throat and she blinks, looking at him. Chuffs a breath of apology. She looks over at Wyrmbreaker, then addresses her elder.

"We were betrayed," she says. "Key of Heaven-rhya's behavior was the most immoral, but his responsibility was less than Stormstrike-rhya's. Her sin and weakness is the greatest. I did not see their wrongs when I should have, and I am guilty of that blindness." She gives one solid shake of her head. "But I will not call trusting my Alpha and Beta a sin. I will not cast that from myself, or take responsibility for accepting a lie fed to me by one who should not have told it."

She has not, obviously, left her birth form. Left the high tongue. Put herself in that strange, small, awkward body she wore when Wyrmbreaker first met her. And this is, he realizes as he stands beside her, Wane's anger. Wane's rage.

Istok gives a small nod, and there is near-silence as he and the other Half-Moons speak to one another briefly. He says something to Iceriver, who glances at the Blackwings and then answers quietly. The elders confer. All must be judged. When Promised Rain turns back to them, he looks directly at Stormstrike.

"Heal Key of Heaven with talens from your own store. You will go with Bond of Worth, War's Foundation, and Still Center, Warning of Storm's Vengeance to be judged. And sentenced. And punished," he says, each phrase falling with lower and deadlier tones from his lips.

Iceriver looks at the Blackwings. "Remain where you are." Without waiting for acknowledgement -- though not a one of them would defy her, would dare, not right now -- she turns to look at Wyrmbreaker.

"Tell me," she says, "about your challenge."

[Wyrmbreaker] Motionless as a statue Wyrmbreaker stands through the course of Stormstrike's testimony, and those of her pack. It is not easy for a Crinos to straighten its spine fully, but this one does, holding himself with a sort of stony determination that isn't quite pride. A few times, his handpaw clenches the opposite wrist harder behind his back, then loosens. Nothing shows on his face.

Not until the end, anyway. Judged, Promised-Rain says. Each word is a stone. Lukas thinks, unbidden, of the Stone of Scorn passed about another judgment; the burning glyphs carved onto its surface. Sentenced. Punished.

His ears pin back against his head. He casts Istok a brief glance, quick, and then stares straight ahead again, waiting his own turn.


When it comes, he stirs like a creature dreaming, then waking. He looks at Iceriver, drawing a breath to fill his broad chest. When he lets it out he begins to speak.

He tells them the story first. In broad strokes, lingering only over necessary details, but leaving nothing out. From the moment he left this circle to the moment he rejoins it, everything is laid out as he remembers it. When that is finished, he takes a moment to think. Then he speaks again.

"I was challenged to find Stormstrike and return her, or to avenge her if she was dead. I have found her. I have returned her. In that I have succeeded."

There is no inflection in this; no pride, no boasting, no false modesty. Just plain truth.

"I was also challenged to step into Stormstrike's role. She was the Ahroun of her pack. My role was hers: to fight and to protect. I fought well. I crushed what enemies faced us. My kills numbered many. I directed the pack, issued orders that were followed faithfully and well. We were victorious without great injury or loss, every time.

"I did not protect well. Key of Heaven is only alive because his rage saved him from death. I did not protect him when I could have. This failing ran deeper than a failure to protect, Rhya, and I will re-address it in a moment.

"Stormstrike was furthermore the Alpha of her pack. I was to assume this role as well. I believe I failed, Rhya. When the Blackwings were given into my command, I sensed secrets in their midst, but could not discern where they lay. I did not know my pack as an Alpha should. I felt the lie like a weakness in the fabric of the pack, but could not mend it.

"I split the pack instead; I took Eyes that Wax and Wane aside and I tried to draw truth from her. I chose her because I thought her the least likely to lie." A pause. "No; the least capable of lying. I chose her because I thought her the weakest, and that is the thinking of a predator, not a protector.

"In doing so I weakened the pack further. I eroded their trust in me. I was not bound into their totem, not even temporarily, not even as a guest of their totem. I should have insisted, but I did not. As a result the innermost workings of the pack remained secret from me, and in turn I never believed I was ever trusted wholly, completely, implicitly, as Stormstrike was trusted. As Key of Heaven was trusted. The failing in that is also mine, and doubly so: once, because I felt I could not earn the trust of the pack that was mine and so began to resent the chasm I sensed; and twice, because they in turn felt my alienation. Whether or not it was true that the Blackwings never trusted me, I made it truth in practice because I assumed it so."

Another pause, longer. Wyrmbreaker has to take a breath before continuing.

"My greatest failing as their Alpha came near the end, as we escaped from the underground caverns. None of what Stormstrike told you here tonight had come to light yet. I was confused and angry. I trusted none of them, not even the pack that was given to me.

"Key of Heaven was fleeing. Stormstrike was in close pursuit, as was I. The tunnel was only wide enough for one. I ... asked Stormstrike to give ground when I should have ordered. When she did not, I allowed her to take precedence over me. This was insult to injury, a blow to my pride that tainted my decisions thereafter.

"As we ran for the surface, Stormstrike had opportunity to maim Key of Heaven, possibly kill him. She harried him on instead as an Alpha should. When we reached the surface, the tunnel collapsed, and Threnody for Gaia was buried in the last few feet. Stormstrike had caught and pinned Key of Heaven. She was not attacking him. She called for me to hold him -- so she could aid Threnody, I imagine -- and in that split instant I made the conscious decision not to do as she asked.

"Not to obey.

"The consideration that she might kill Key of Heaven while I pinned him for her ran through my mind. The consideration that she might ... leave Threnody, or harm her pack, or do something likewise unexpected and terrible did as well. But I did not consider these serious possibilities. Nothing Stormstrike had done to that point indicated she might harm her packmates. The major reason, possibly the only reason, I chose not to hold Key of Heaven was because my pride was injured, and I refused to bow again to this ... proud, sullen barely-Fostern who had refused time and again to bow to me."

A long silence.

"So then she killed him. Instead of chancing his escape, she killed him. At that point I did not know the truth; I did not know if he even remotely deserved his death. I did not know if Stormstrike was turned, or if Key of Heaven was, or -- any of that. At that point, I knew only that Key of Heaven was given to me as a packmate, and I failed utterly to protect him as an Alpha should. And I failed because of pride."

At that point Wyrmbreaker abruptly unclenches his hand from his wrist. He's gripped so hard and long that his fingers have left depressions in the thick black fur there, disrupted the pattern and flow. He raises his hands to his face, scrubbing at the canine muzzle, the eyes and cheeks in a strangely human gesture. By the end of it, he's reduced himself to his birthform, his ancestors' sword slung across his back again.

"I failed once more before the end of it. As the Blackwings turned to go, I stopped them and demanded the truth. When Stormstrike gave it to me, I counseled her, Alpha to Alpha. I told her to speak to her packmates in the time she had left; to leave them some final strength and direction before she faced whatever fate is bestowed upon her. As far as I know, she did not heed my counsel. I think a true Adren would have ... reached through to her."

And then there's nothing left to say. He searches his mind, runs fingers through the murky waters of his memory, and comes up empty. His hand rubs at the back of his neck, the side of it. It is almost dawn. He can't remember the last time he slept. He has just one more thing to say:

"Rhya, it is not my place to judge the Garou of your Sept. Nor do I beg for mercy on another's behalf. But I ask your Philodoxes to consider the following evidence in their judgment of Stormstrike and Key of Heaven:

"That I believe Stormstrike acted in defense of her pack from the time she was taken to the moment she was brought here. She did not contact them because she wanted to protect them. She harried them from the underground caverns because she wanted to protect them. She kept them from the truth to protect them. This may be hubris, but it was not malicious.

"And, that for no reason I can easily discern, Key of Heaven acted largely to help us, even knowing that our quest would lead to his probable downfall. He did not turn the pack against me from the start. He did not tamper with the Questing Stone. He did not turn on us in the heat of battle. He helped us right to the end, right to when we were at the cave, digging Stormstrike from the earth. Even then, his instinct was to run, not to harm. And Stormstrike was never harmed while she was in the company of his creatures. All this may make him a coward, but it does not make him a kinslayer."

That's all. Finished now, some of the tensile steel seems to have left his spine. Wyrmbreaker's stance is easier now, the set of his shoulders less rigid -- as though failure is somehow alleviated by catharsis, by truth.

[entheogen] As Wyrmbreaker speaks, not all of the Garou present stay. Already the elder Philodoxes have taken away Stormstrike and Key of Heaven -- their fate is, at the moment, out of his sight. Out of his hands. Maybe even completely outside of his influence -- if he ever had any influence at all. The Blackwings are ordered to remain in the challenge circle beside him, awaiting their own judgement for crimes as he waits for his in challenge. But others begin to walk away too, either hearing all they need to, or want to, or being called silently away to other matters.

Near the end of his words it is only a few -- mostly Ahrouns -- present, almost all of them Shadow Lords, most of them Fostern ranked or higher. They listen to all of it, out of honor or curiosity or both. A few times while he's speaking, they stir. There are a few indiscernable murmurs, a chuff of air from canine nostrils, a scratching at the earth. A hard yawn from a single Adren Ragabash who has stuck around to see what happens. The Blackwings beside him, too, react a few times, shifting or glancing at each other, or him. But the only one given leave to speak is Iceriver, and she is the only one who answers Wyrmbreaker.

"Many Ahrouns seeking the rank of Adren I would have sent on a quest. Kill this monster, rout this nest of fiends, organize this assault on a hive -- prove your capacity as a Lord of war worthy of the rank. Worthy to be called my peer." She says this evenly, calmly, as though she has considered these words many times over the past several hours. Behind her, the sky is lightening gradually, black to ink-blue, dotted still with stars. "When word spread that you would be coming back here to challenge one of us, I asked Ígéret Es&+337;-rhya about you. Who you were. Who you are now. You're the Alpha of your pack, 'elder' of your tribe in your sept's territory, and leader of your auspice in that oh-so-tidy council your Glass Walker Elder set up."

There is disdain in her voice, primarily for that Glass Walker, and a bit of a huff at the idea of a Fostern being called elder of his very tribe no matter how small the caern -- though the latter is underwritten with the pain of knowing how common this is, how common it will continue to become.

"All of this as a Fostern. Some of it while still a Cliath. You are, and have been, and from all accounts will continue to be, an Alpha on may fronts. This is why I could not test you according to prowess in battle. If you are to continue to lead, and if you seek the authority that comes with the rank of Adren, I demanded you prove yourself a true leader."

Iceriver's gaze never wavers, her body as still and frozen as her name. "You say you failed to earn the trust of the pack I gave into your charge. You say you actually damaged what trust you might have been building before you even left the sept. You say you failed to protect them, most of all Key of Heaven. You say you failed to lead Stormstrike, as well, when you found her -- failed to make her submit to you, failed to get through to her when you attempted giving counsel. You say your only success was in completing the exact terms of the challenge by finding and returning Stormstrike, all members of the pack alive and unbroken."

It's a tossup whether or not Iceriver knows that is the name of his pack back in Chicago. Regardless, she says the term without extra weight, meaning only: they are all sane. They are all, but for Key, unscarred. Their minds and spirits remain, their bodies intact.

She shifts her view to the Blackwings. "Each of you, his pack for tonight: tell him where he is wrong, and where he is correct."

Threnody is in homid now. Sunthief still in lupus. Wane alone has not changed, bearing her warform still, larger now than all the males flanking her where normally she is unquestionably the smallest, the weakest. They speak, not surprisingly, according to some subtle heirarchy of their own. First -- also not surprisingly -- is Threnody. He looks over at Wyrmbreaker.

"I loved my Alpha," he says simply. "I honored her, respected her, trusted her. If being buried alive was the cost for bringing her back safely I would have paid it without question or regret. But after tonight, no more." The words cut the air, ferocious with emotion, with betrayal. With anger. "You have no idea why she acted as she did -- you assign your own way of being an Alpha to her, and you're wrong. When we asked her why she never answered when we called to her, you heard her answer as well as we did, but now you stand here and say you think it's because she was protecting us?

"What kind of Alpha thinks their pack so weak and stupid that they could not gather together and subdue one of their own if the truth was told and he tried to run? What kind of Alpha is so hung up on the idea of protecting her pack that there is some hidden honor in lying to them? What kind of protection is that, Wyrmbreaker-rhya?" He exhales, rage making his shoulders quake slightly til he calms himself. "You're right: she did chase Key of Heaven out of the underground because she knew otherwise we would all die behind her. But if she cared so much for protecting us, if that was the deepest truth of her heart, then she would have been the last one out.

"Wyrmbreaker, you don't know her. If you had ordered her to give ground instead of 'asking', every wolf here can tell you she would not have submitted. She had no reason to submit to your leadership over her own pack, and she would not have, for the same bitter pride you carry. You think a true Adren would have been able to change her mind, make her act like the sort of Alpha you think you are and you think all Alphas should be?" Threnody shakes his head, huffs out a breath. "Ask the Adrens here, who know her pride, if any of them think they could have changed what sort of Alpha she is. She is not you. She is nothing like you. She broke the Litany, she shattered the trust of a pack that would have followed her to hell and back, and she does not deserve mercy because you wish her reasons were better than they are."

He swallows, hard, and it seems there might be more words, but they do not come. He looks away, nostrils flaring, his arms still at his sides, fists clenched.

Iceriver looks at Lukas, then. "I have heard the story from Stormstrike's mouth and from your own, Wyrmbreaker. I have watched her grow from cub to Fostern here. And where your interactions with Stormstrike are concerned, this is where I believe you truly failed: you neither led her nor submitted to her. One or the other: let her step back into the role of Alpha when she was reunited with her pack, or crush her and demand her submission. Both she and you apparently did not think that Eyes that Wax and Wane and Sunthief could dig Threnody for Gaia out of a few feet of dirt without your help."

She shakes her head. "A literally fatal mistake, a metis born of your comingled pride." There's a beat. "You may speak in answer, if you wish, before Sunthief and Wane have their say."

[Wyrmbreaker] Wyrmbreaker has no true answer to any of that. That does not mean he doesn't listen, though, because he does -- and that doesn't mean he doesn't think on it all.

Because he does. When Iceriver is finished, when Threnody is finished, and when Iceriver speaks again: each time, after the end, a pause. The last the longest, Wyrmbreaker's eyes lowering for a moment, head bowing in thought. After a moment or two his clear eyes lift again. He shakes his head mutely, and listens.

[entheogen] As though she didn't entirely expect him to say anything, Iceriver simply nods and turns to the two remaining Blackwings, leaving it to the packmates to decide who speaks next. It is Sunthief, barking, growling, and chuffing his words. He all but dances in place, too, the wags of his tail and the angle of his ears telling the listeners as much as his voice.

"Wrong about Key! Wanted Stormstrike-rhya dead. She not killed by bones because she strong. Nothing because of Key!" The Ragabash stretches, growling. "Took Alpha from pack but did not become Alpha! Weak. Not Shadow Lord. Not good Theurge. Bad brother. All from fear. All because of fear! Wyrmbreaker say he help. Say he not turn pack sour to him. Wyrmbreaker not know! Wyrmbreaker not hear Key thinking at us. He not let Wyrmbreaker talk to Crow. And we follow! We think we no trust. Key no trust, we no trust. Brother right: Wyrmbreaker think all lead like him! They not!" The lupus stamps his forepaws, keeping his anger in one place. "They not!"

Shaking his head and shaking out his fur, Sunthief straightens. "Wyrmbreaker think challenge words not matter like the rest. But challenge given: Stormstrike. Find, bring back. He did. We die if he not fight like did. Truth buried if he let Stormstrike kill Key. Truth maybe die if he let her do her want, come back cuddle-happy with pack. She might change mind then, might come back, tell more lies. Truth come out to pack first. Hurt bad. Wyrmbreaker act like --"

Sunthief spins suddenly, lifting his tailbone in the air, waggling his rear end at the listeners. Iceriver just squinches her eyes shut for a moment, but the message gets across, before Sunthief wheels back around and barks again.

"But truth out. Elders say bring back Stormstrike. Elders whisper find truth. Wyrmbreaker sadangry, think fail, think many things very stupid, things not matter. Wyrmbreaker not fail bring back Stormstrike. Wyrmbreaker not fail find truth. Pack better off now. Wyrmbreaker just proud and --"

He starts to spin around again, to reiterate his opinion of Lukas's personality, but Iceriver interjects: "We get it, Sunthief."

The No-Moon, looking faintly disappointed, turns around and sits on his haunches. He looks at Wyrmbreaker and his tongue lolls out in a grin. Iceriver, meanwhile, turns to the challenger, giving him another chance to answer.

[entheogen] [Correction in 5th paragraph: think many things very stupid. Those things not matter.]

[Wyrmbreaker] This time, same as the last: careful listening. Even when the Ragabash's antics makes the fur on the back of his neck bristle involuntarily; even when he very much wants to turn and plant his foot up that rear-end Sunthief keeps trying to present.

He listens. He does not return the lupine grin, but then -- he doesn't kick it off Sunthief's face either. He considers the Ragabash a moment, then gives him a small nod, meaning unclear. A moment later, Wyrmbreaker faces Iceriver again, ready for the final testimony.

[entheogen] Iceriver had no addition to Sunthief's comments, as she did with Threnody's. Perhaps that simply means that he said it clearly enough: according to the letter of the challenge, even the subtext of the challenge, Wyrmbreaker did not fail. Whatever other failures stacked on top of that, in his own mind or the minds of the Blackwings or even in the sept's, he fulfilled the terms that were given to him.

Finally it comes to the Philodox of the pack. She does not meet Iceriver's eyes but turns to look at Wyrmbreaker. "An Alpha of a battle leads it. Fights. Protects, as you say. It is why Ahrouns take leadership in war. They are strong enough to be both front line and rear guard. They are strong enough to rage back from death easier than their brethren. They are strong enough to accept death in battle, if it means the pack survives."

She is crouching now, and in that position is not quite eye-to-eye with Wyrmbreaker. "You are right. You looked at me as prey, not packmate. You failed us so utterly, so early. Key of Heaven stood in your way, subtly turning us against you, but your own distrust of us sealed it. We were already doubting him -- his lack of leadership, his lies. Crow demands our loyalty to one another, but --"

Wane pauses there, losing track of her thoughts. She is quiet for a few moments until she returns to what she truly wants to say. "An Alpha in battle leads it," she repeats. "But the Alpha of a pack guides it. Stormstrike never demanded more of us than obedience and trust, never required more than our obedience. I believe Threnody for Gaia would be Fostern now if she were a different kind of Alpha. She always fought, always protected -- the work of an Alpha, by your words. But she did not trust us. Believe in us. Not truly.

"Nor did you," Wane says, extending her handpaw, claws half-curled, palm upward, a gesture that is not quite meaningless but seems an offering and a question, both. "But I hear my brothers speak, and my elders. I hear your words, too. It becomes clear there are different ways of being an Alpha -- to fight and protect, to guide and teach, to trust and believe in. It becomes clear that the sin of pride remains a great weakness of our tribe. It becomes clear that wisdom in hindsight cannot erase the cost of foolishness in the moment. It becomes clear that you know this."

She quiets again, watching him, lowering her claws to the earth. Her enormous head swivels around, looking to Iceriver. "Is he worthy to be called Adren? The spirits carry his deeds on his shoulders and say yes, he has earned his place many times over. He challenges you for the rank of Adren as an Ahroun, not as an Alpha. The two are not always the same. He does not want to be a mindless fist -- I do not believe him mindless. Would I follow him as my Alpha? Would Threnody, or Sunthief? Did Stormstrike, did Key?"

Her enormous shoulders roll, shrugging once. "With respect and honor, Iceriver-rhya, I believe your challenge unfair. Maybe unwinnable. Wyrmbreaker has the strength of an Adren Ahroun. He has the will to die in battle if called to, to take the brunt of the fight. He has the honor deserving the gifts of the rank. He has the wisdom to see his own pride, his own failures, and admit them without defense or simpering. How he leads a pack that did not choose him and that he did not challenge for, whether or not he finds the truth necessary to judge sinners -- with deep respect, -rhya, success or failure in these things does not prove him fit or unfit of the rank he seeks in the auspice he was born to."

She bows her head, and slinks backward slightly, gestures of submission despite her form. She watches the Adren Ahroun, whose jaw is set hard -- though from anger or consideration, it's hard to tell.

Iceriver stares at Eyes that Wax and Wane for a time, and then looks at Wyrmbreaker. "If you would speak, do so now. You will not be given another chance before my judgement."

[entheogen] [ack. fourth paragraph, second instance of 'obedience' should be 'loyalty'.]

[Wyrmbreaker] This time, given the opportunity, Wyrmbreaker is silent longer. Thinking harder. At the end he lifts his head and speaks. No preamble. No explanation. Just direct answers, as stripped-bare and plain as possible.

First, to Iceriver:

"I could not have submitted to Stormstrike in the underground caverns. I did not know whether or not she was tainted. So, yes. In hindsight, knowing what I do now, I should have taken dominance then. Wrested control from her and held it. I didn't at the time because I didn't trust the Blackwings. I couldn't trust them to follow me rather than rally to their Alpha, and I didn't believe I had time to subdue them all before the caverns collapsed on us.

"That's not an excuse. It's simply an explanation, Rhya, if you want it."

And then to Threnody, very simply: "Your Alpha was proud to a fault. She was not a self-sacrificing hero. But I say to you again -- for whatever it may be worth now, and for what it may be worth in the future when your anger has dimmed into vigilance, and when this has become a lesson rather than a raw wound: her sin was hubris, not malice."

To -- Sunthief, perhaps, or perhaps simply to all the Blackwings: "It occurred to me that perhaps Key of Heaven acted out of his own twisted sense of loyalty to protect your Alpha. She was going to confess. He ambushed her, shut her away -- in his own way, kept her from destroying herself. This doesn't excuse him. This doesn't justify his actions. Perhaps in the end this is nothing but empty conjecture, meaning nothing, and ... "

-- for once, Wyrmbreaker falters there, frowning. The path his words laid has evaporated at his feet. He's silent a moment, and then he shrugs - a slight gesture, faintly helpless.

"Perhaps it's not even important now. They are not being judged here. I am."

He faces Iceriver again, then. When he speaks, his voice is clear once more, level and steady. "Rhya," he says, "I don't believe I am worthy of the rank I seek. Eyes that Wax and Wane speaks kindly, but she judges me as an Ahroun only. You judge me as a leader, and given the choice, that is how I would want to be judged.

"I am not, and would never wish to be, a mere weapon. I don't want the meteoric rise to power and might followed by the inevitable glorious death: a figure of awe and envy, but without any true weight in the balance of the war. I don't want to be an inspiring tale for the cubs. I don't want the final tally of my contribution to be a drop of water in a sea of sorrows. There is no time left for such tales, no strength left to waste on blazes of shortlived glory.

"I am glorious. I am honorable and wise. I am not so foolishly humble as to not see my own strengths. But I need to be able to lead. And with respect, Rhya, I believe I have not proven myself adequately in that respect."

[entheogen] Iceriver listens. She tips her head slightly to one side as he falters, and her shoulders round slightly as he goes on. She straightens when he nears the end, telling her that he has to be able to lead, that he believes he has failed.

Wordlessly, she looks to the Blackwings and gives them a small nod. Understanding, the three of them excuse themselves from the circle, walking away -- but they stay with the sept. They do not go to wherever Key and Stormstrike have been taken. They are, for better or worse, invested now in how this turns out.

Iceriver looks at Wyrmbreaker. "Eyes that Wax and Wane was not speaking out of kindness, Wyrmbreaker. She is honest, almost to a fault, despite the secrecy Crow enjoys so much. It is only the truth as she sees it, and the truth she sees is: I gave you an unfair challenge. That is my shame.

"Sunthief, too, though he mocks you and insults you, says you did not fail the exact terms of the challenge. That's also the truth." Iceriver pauses. "But you and I know better than that. You and I both know that the meat of this was never about such simple things, and that however often members of our auspice are seen as 'mindless fists', we do not live to seek the rank of Adren if that is all we are."

She says nothing of Threnody. Her voice is low. "By the actions of Stormstrike and Key of Heaven, a young pack with great potential has been thrown into disarray and bitterness. By your actions, they know the truth now. But they have no leader, nothing to look to but the failures of those who have been set before them as Alpha. You did not strike the original wound, but Stormstrike is too proud now to repair it. Key of Heaven had a week to take on the mantle of leadership truly, and failed. You are the only leader left to them with any remaining honor.

"You spoke of counseling Stormstrike, and how she ignored you." Iceriver glances over at the three Cliaths, then back to Wyrmbreaker.

"Say to them what you think she should have. Tell them what they should know, now that Stormstrike and Key of Heaven are gone. Give them what they will need, when you leave to return to your own pack."

[Wyrmbreaker] In some ways, perhaps this is the hardest task of all. It requires that Lukas muster himself from the mire of his own failure; reengage himself from the peace of some sort of acceptable of that failure. Everyone present can see him draw a breath, his ice-clear eyes flicking across the ground at his feet for a moment, as though searching the very body of gaia for some answer.

Then he faces the Cliaths.

"I cannot speak to you as I think Stormstrike should have. I cannot tap that bond she held with you; I cannot search years of memory and come up with the right words to strengthen you. But I can speak to you as your ... leader of a single night. As someone who failed beside you and uncovered a bitter truth beside you.

"I think ... you must feel angry right now. More angry than I can imagine. And that beneath the anger is hurt and betrayal. I think beneath that is guilt, and doubt. Somehow you will have to use those emotions. Somehow, you will have to forge them into strength and wisdom, and move forward. The only option is to be consumed by them, become weak, be left in the dust.

"Let me say this." He finds their eyes, each one in turn; pauses longest, perhaps, on Sunthief's. "It was not your fault that your Alpha first began to consume accursed flesh. The Wyrm itself took hold of her and dragged her under. There was nothing any of you could have done about that. Put aside that guilt. Put aside the notion that you failed your Alpha somehow, and that is why she first tasted of human flesh. You are innocent in this. She fell down that path of her own accord.

"But you do hold a share of responsibility in letting her be for so long. For letting her keep things from you like that." He pauses a moment, looks directly at Threnody. "Even when you began to suspect the truth -- or at least that there was some truth beyond what she told you, you did not act.

"You are all angry now that she lied to you, protected you like children, treated you like cubs unworthy of any share of the burden. But to some degree, she could only do that because you let her. Accept that blame. Take that guilt and make of it a lesson.

"It is as I told Stormstrike: the Alpha and the pack stand on a two-way street. You are a Philodox. You all know the Litany," he adds, though here his eyes find Wane's. "The leader must not be challenged in war; that much is obvious. Yet the corollary is also in the Litany, freestanding, its own Law: the leader can always be challenged in peace. There is a reason our forebears made the specific, deliberate point of laying that law into stone. I believe they are reminding us to always be vigilant. No -- not even vigilant. To be intelligent. To follow with faith, but not blind faith.

"The last time we as a people followed our leaders without question, we followed them into the pits of the north, and the Black Spiral Dancers were born. Remember that, and remember what you've learned tonight.

"As for doubt: you've all been betrayed by something -- someone -- you put utmost faith in. You might doubt now. Doubt your abilities, doubt your foresight, doubt that anyone could ever be trustworthy again.

"Don't. Do not make yourself so hardhearted, so embittered, so suspicious that you never trust again. If I had trusted the three of you from the beginning, perhaps it would not have been so easy for Key of Heaven to sway you against me in return. And if you cannot find a single Garou to trust in and believe in in all the world, if we are fractured so deeply that a single betrayal can destroy our trust in all our brethren, then we may as give up as a species."

Another long pause. He raises a hand to his face, scrubs vaguely at his jaw, his neck. For someone so easily eloquent -- or at least loquacious -- it's surprisingly difficult for Lukas to find the right words tonight. To get across what he's trying to say.

"What I'm trying to say," he starts there, "is that anger fades. Pain heals. Betrayal cuts deep, but you cannot let that wound fester. Don't bury it. Don't deny your guilt and your doubt; don't cover it up and refuse to look at it until it rots and infects and poisons everything you do. But be honest with yourselves. Let the wound breathe. Let it ... scar, so that you have a reminder, and so that you come through stronger.

"Consider what you did right, what you did wrong. And talk to one another. Listen to the judgment of your elders, but judge one another too -- fairly, not harshly. Communicate, because that's how you will find your new alpha.

"One of you will rise to the task. It's true: each of you also has qualities that make you a less-than-perfect leader. But no leader is perfect. Each of you also has qualities that make you worthy. Wane's insight. Sunthief's honor. Threnody's strength. That's why the Alpha and the pack cannot be separated. Whichever of you leads the Blackwings next: remember to share the strength of your packmates. Remember to heed their counsel, and to trust in them as they will trust in you.

"Remember, but move on. Move forward. There is no other path open to you."

[entheogen] It's cold outside.

Winter, still, though the days are getting longer. Sunrise comes earlier now that the solstice is long past. It comes now, the indigo color it bore when Iceriver had heard his testimony rising to a brighter blue that will, in a shorter amount of time than anyone ever expects, be a brilliantly pale sky shot through with the light of a celestial body that never waxes, and never wanes. It only burns.

Danicka was awake when he left her, though he'd made love to her and held her against his chest until she fell asleep. She'd had a long day. He'd waited for her respirations to steady, his face pressed against the back of one shoulder, tasting her sweat in his mouth and inhaling her scent every time he breathed. He'd kissed her there, though she was asleep and didn't know it, before he went to take a quick shower. But she was awake when he donned his sword and went towards the door of their motel room to head back to the sept, murmuring his childhood nickname before he reached for the doorknob.

No last kiss, though. Just a glance, and the way she smiled at him from the bed, drowsy, sleepy,

infinitely fond.

Chances are she's sleeping still. Went to bed early with him after arriving, went back to sleep after he left, and it's just now turning to dawn. It feels like this challenge started so long ago, but the actual hours could be counted on his hands. Yet it's really these last moments that seem to last the longest, as though time has slowed down in resistance to the blazing sunrise. Now just minutes. Now just seconds. Heartbeats and half-heartbeats.

Rise again, Iceriver tells him, from failure to an unfair, unwinnable challenge. Keep going, she says, and he turns to the Cliaths and says

very much the same thing.


All live. All must be judged.


The Blackwings are watching him as he says that he failed beside them. They are watching him as he says not your fault, and as he says you did not act. Threnody meets his eyes but his gaze falls away as his shame come back to him again, changed in shape: she did it because you let her. Because --

and perhaps Lukas sees this clearly now, as he is speaking: they were a unit and he was outside of it. They were a unit and so, too, was Stormstrike. It was what they knew.

-- they would not rise to stand beside her, or fall beside her, either.

Wane is steady, crouching in crinos. If he reads anything in her as he directs his words to her, it is agreement. Sunthief glances at Threnody when Lukas speaks of becoming embittered; Threnody frowns at him and regards Lukas with eyes more patient than they were in the circle. Sunthief looks a little surprised when Lukas points out his honor. He chuffs; it's laughter. Pleased laughter, but laughter still.

At the end, he says again: the Alpha and the pack cannot be separated.

At the end, he says: Move forward. There is no other path.

And at the end, Iceriver watches -- not Wyrmbreaker -- but the Blackwings for some time. She reads their faces. She does not ask them any questions. With their testimonies given, with nothing left to them but silence in the way of counsel, they watch her, too. She knows them better than Lukas does, by sheer benefit of time. She was one of the Ahrouns who joined in the training of their now-fallen Alpha. Iceriver considers their faces. Their failure. Her own. Lukas's.

Slowly, she turns back towards him and her arms gradually unfold from her chest wthere they have been locked this entire time.

"The last time I died," she says levelly, and there is a faint stirring in the Ahrouns watching this, "was when I challenged for Adren. When I returned to face Breaks the Mountain I believed I had failed." She reaches down, unzipping her coat and lifting her shirt to reveal a massive bite scar on her midsection. "To this day when I look at it," Iceriver goes on, dropping her shirt but leaving her coat undone, "I feel nothing but the sting of that failure. The shame of it."

Breaks the Mountain is there watching. Listening. He is one of the largest Garou in the sept, burly and hairy and looking quite capable of literally fulfilling his deedname.

"I did not set this challenge before you thinking: oh yes. This is what it will come down to, the recovery from failure. I did not know what Stormstrike and Key of Heaven were doing, only that they had some secret. I knew that the Blackwings were in crisis and unable to resolve it because they had no leader, but I did not know that in many ways it was because the leader they lost had trained them not to be able to cope without her. When this night began I knew I wanted to see true leadership from you. But I did not know how you would show me that."

Iceriver crosses her arms again. "I believe as you do, Wyrmbreaker: the role of an Alpha is to protect their pack. I believe, as you do, that when you let your pride interfere with that duty and Key of Heaven was killed, you all but put a nail in the lid of that coffin. But I did not know, when I heard this confession from you, that the Blackwings prove so wise. That the truth is, an Alpha is more than a guardian, and your worth as an Adren could not be judged on how well you protected your pack.

"I did not fail my challenge," she goes on, though this is obvious, "because of my death, regardless of my return from it. I succeeded because Breaks the Mountain said I died for something -- I died fighting the beast that killed Dry Morning, Cave in the Ice, Angel of the Rock, and so many others, and I crippled it before my last breath. I killed it when I returned. And while that sounds very sweet and convenient, that dying for a cause makes any difference, it does change things.

"Moreover, what I did after my failure made a difference, too." She looks at the Blackwings after that, then back to Lukas. "Time will tell if your words have enough impact to strengthen the Blackwings, Wyrmbreaker. But even before them, they spoke to your weaknesses and your strengths, and I hope you carry those words with you as you leave. Threnody asks what kind of Alpha fixates so much on protecting the pack that she lies to them, and he refuses your words that it makes any difference whether Stormstrike was motivated by hubris or malice: the sins committed and the damage done is much the same.

"Wane calls you worthy of your rank by the deeds of your auspice. Calls you worthy despite being faced with an unfair challenge. She says you have learned from your failures, and hopes you see the role of an Alpha broader than you did when you came. I hope so, too. I hope we all do.

"Sunthief tells the sept they would not be alive now if not for you. But he says, most importantly: the pack is better of now. Because of your actions. And if you can leave that behind, no matter your other failures as a leader, then you have already greatly surpassed the Alpha they knew for much longer than a single night, the Beta who could not lead them even for a week."

The mood of the challenge circle is impossible to read. What emotions there are, what the various Garou are hoping for. No one seems to know how it will end: it is not as though he was told bring back the head of the creature and lo, there he is carrying it by its hair, wearing its teeth as a necklace. He was not told lead us to war and is not standing there before the graves of those he led straight to their deaths. The sun peeks over the horizon, its light hidden by and yet filtering through the trees that surround them.

Iceriver exhales a breath. "I told you before why I gave you the challenge I did: to prove yourself a true leader." Her eyes are dark. "We can not win every battle. We do not always walk away unscathed. These days our failures are bitter and our victories seem pale. Tonight even the return of a lost Garou and the discovering of the truth of abominations in our midst... they bring no cause for celebration. But I hear your words to the Cliaths I gave to you to lead and I see hope in their eyes. I hear new wisdom in their words. I sense they will never be the same pack they were, a unit separate from their Alpha, as they were when you first went to them."

She is silent for a time, watching him. It is not an attempt to drag out the process, to agonize him. She looks at him as though she is on equal footing with him, having failed tonight as well, having come to understand words she knows she would have rejected just twelve hours ago. Less. Her lips are pressed together, her thoughts a crushing gravity.

"In your eyes I see something else. In your words, I hear a different sort of wisdom. And, I hope, a change. So if you will accept it -- if you can bear it -- then when you leave the challenge circle, I will greet you as Wyrmbreaker, Cold Victory-yuf."

[Wyrmbreaker] Through it all, Wyrmbreaker stands solid, his tension and turmoil leashed inside him. He did not watch Iceriver as he spoke to the Cliaths. He watched them, and spoke to them with the sort of naked trust, naked earnestness, he did not show them at all until every last shred of truth had been revealed.

That was a failure. There have been so many that he does not think he deserves -- does not truly want -- to pass this challenge.

Now he watches Iceriver, though. His eyes go to her scar when she bares it. Rise again when she speaks of recovery from failure -- and it's then that something stirs in his eyes, some chord deep in him plucked hard. Because what is the plight of their people, their tribe, their race, if not the struggle to recover, again and again, from failure? The War of Rage; the Impergium; the unchecked growth of Man; the end of days. Again and again, battered down to their knees, stripped to the bone, but gifted with that bitter, merciless gift of resilience. Of regeneration, body and soul. Reincarnation -- only to fight again, fail again, die again, rise again.

He takes a deep breath then. He lets it out, and by the time she speaks of true leadership, of the role of the alpha, of what one does after failure and how that defines, differentiates: by then, he is steady again, listening, the screen of his own briefly overwhelming emotion set aside.


The truth is, long before the end he knows Iceriver's decision. It was there when she began to speak of her own challenge. It was there when she spoke of her own failures; began to draw parallel after parallel, cord after cord slung across what space remained between them, their relative standings, to pull him even with her. A peer.

The truth is, he doesn't want to hear her come to the end. He doesn't want to hear her say it:

Yuf.


When Iceriver does, Lukas seems to at last lose whatever strength it is that keeps him standing like that. Straight and tall and -- proud. He shrugs the longsword from his shoulder, and something in that gesture is pure reflex, something engrained in him from countless adolescent disasters when he tried to sit with the too-long sword on his back. He plants the tip of the sword in the earth. There is no sheath; the naked blade gleams in uncertain morning light as he goes to one knee. It is not fealty, or ritual acceptance, or --

any of that. He grips the hilt in hand, puts his brow against his fingers, closes his eyes.


His lineage traces back very far. One of the first truly great heroes of his blood was given this sword upon the death of her father. She was younger than he was when the blade came into his possession; it was years before she could wield it as it was meant to be wielded. Her name was Fells the Bloodless, and that is what she did -- cut through the undead like a scythe through wheat. Like a sword through flesh.

Over the years, this sword passed from hand to hand. Enemies fell to it, and sometimes allies. Friends. Spirits were bound to it, and spirits were set free from it. It was lost for a time; it was found again after a time. Eventually, it was passed to him. He was too young to understand how old it was, then; what bloody history it held.

He understands now. And what Wyrmbreaker thinks of now is the hot blood, the living blood, the corrupt, tainted blood that poured from her packmates as she slew them with this blade. He thinks of what a harsh, cold victory that was.


Crystalline, his eyes open. He faces Iceriver and he rises, sword left where it is, hand loose on its pommel.

"I do not want to accept what you offer, Rhya," he says, "though I challenged for it of my own free will. This was not the sort of victory I envisioned. This was not the sort of deed I imagined defining the end of my Fosternhood and the beginning of my Adrenship. A moment ago, Rhya, I was very, very close to rejecting the honor and the burden you would bestow upon me.

"But I have had the renown of an Adren for a year or more. I have been running from this for a year or more. I've given myself excuse after excuse for not stepping up. Perhaps the truth is I've been afraid of what lay on the other side of the line.

"When I was a Cliath, everything was easy. Simple. Direct. I thought I was involved in such intricate plots, such plans for the ultimate and shining victory of our race. I thought I would change the course of the war with my pack. But I was a child. Silly. Idealistic.

"When I was Fostern, I thought I knew the naked truth of the world now; every last jagged edge of it. I thought I understood that no victory comes without cost. I spoke often of that cost, of body and mind and soul. I spoke often of sacrifice. Noble, willing sacrifice.

"I did not understand that sometimes the cost is paid whether or not we will it. I did not want to understand. I did not want that burden. But I do understand that now, and there is no un-learning that lesson.

"There are no more excuses."

A small pause there. He lowers his head a moment. A strange, aching little smile crosses his lips, and then he raises his head again.

"I have a packmate. She's a Galliard. She knows my renown and she knows my deeds. Has it all in digits, in ones and zeros out on GW.net somewhere. She came to me not too long ago and she told me, I don't get to choose whether or not I accept. If we can carry the burden, it will be given to us whether we will it or no. Rank is not a choice, but a duty.

"What is a choice is whether I'll bear my duty honorably, or whether I'll run from it like a coward."

Another pause. He pulls the sword from the earth, wipes the dirt from the blade in two economical motions, and slings it back behind his shoulders. Another man, another wolf, and this would be theatrical: a symbolic gesture. It's not for Wyrmbreaker.

"I will not shirk my duty, Iceriver-yuf."

[entheogen] There is no applause when he accepts his rank. There is no packmate rushing towards him tonight to tackle him in a hug. And he knows that neither Sinclair nor Asha would do so if they were beside him tonight, hearing this. He knows Katherine would understand. He knows that Brutal Revelation would understand. He knows Asha would learn from this.

And there is Danicka, not in the sept, not near the caern, but tucked away in a motel room bed. The last time he failed a challenge she asked only: did you do well?

One wonders what he would say tonight, if she asked the same question, even after he comes back an Adren.


Dawn crests, rising upward like a wave that will soon crash across the entire sky. Still: it's winter. They are far north and out in the middle of nowhere, and even his rage cannot dispell the chill in the air. After this many hours, it touches him. It has become part of his skin.

Iceriver listens. And she says nothing, for all that needs to be said -- perhaps all that can be said -- is done now. She steps foward, sweeps a foot through the circle drawn with a claw through the near-frozen earth, and enters the circle to face Lukas. The dent in the ground where his sword was set for a moment remains between them, but she extends her arm to him, meeting his eyes.

"Cold Victory-yuf," she says when they clasp arms, in answer.

[Wyrmbreaker] That armclasp is brief, but solid; solid, but somber. No applause. No packmates rushing to congratulate. No palpable sense of joy or even accomplishment; just the weight of duty.

That he's ready for. That he accepts, because there is no other choice.


Originally, Lukas had planned to speak to Istok again after the challenge. Originally -- truth be told -- Lukas had not really expected to fail. Or to want to fail. He wanted to ask after Miloslav the younger; wanted to see how the boy was doing. If he'd Firsted. If he'd been brought here. On his way to the Sept, he reminded himself to look for him amongst the gathered, but then adrenaline gripped him, and then cataclysm -- it's only now, as the circle breaks and the last onlookers drift away, that he even thinks to search the gathered.

He doesn't talk to his mentor after all. He meets his eyes for a moment if Istok is still there; gives him a nod, deliberate, eyes closing for a beat, respectful. Conversation will have to wait for later. For now, he has two loose ends to attend to.

The Blackwings, first. He approaches them. He looks at them; he apologizes simply, and without further explanation: I'm sorry. He tells them: I'll look for you the next time I come to Stark Falls.

Then -- perhaps with them, and perhaps without -- he goes to find the Philodoxes that took Stormstrike and Key of Heaven away. He does not interfere. He does not try to testify again. He is not part of this Sept, no matter what his ties to it, and they would have asked him if they wanted his input. Lukas understands this much.

He watches, though. Out of some sense of responsibility or duty, he bears witness.


When he finally leaves the Sept of Stark Falls, the sun is high enough that the day is stark and white-bright. Too long without sleep, amped on adrenaline, with eyes used to night-darkness, leaves every edge in the world too sharp, too defined. The snow is blinding; the sky too blue. When he gets back to the rental, he slides the sword into the backseat, puts his head back for a moment and closes his eyes. His exhaustion comes down on him like a tidal wave, neither physical nor mental but ...

exhaustion of the spirit, almost. Emotional. Soul-deep.


The town where his mate waits is really a village. It's tiny, and quiet; not entirely kin, but certainly not devoid of kin either. Parking his car and walking into the little lobby of their little inn, he wonders if the receptionist knows who he is. What he is. He decides he doesn't care.

It's a little before nine in the morning. He finds Danicka in the lobby. He's too tired to be surprised. He sits down across from her, studies her breakfast, and then steals a bite of fruit.

"Hi," he says quietly. And he thinks for a minute. "I'm called Cold Victory now."

[entheogen] Of course,

it's not about joy. It's not about accomplishment. Tightening her hold on his forearm, Iceriver looks at him, knowing this and sharing it with him. For the moment, however much longer she's been an Adren, they are peers in this.


Istok did not stay and watch his challenge. Well: they are no longer mentor and cub. They have not been for so very long. But when he thought to look for Milos, he looked amongst ranked and older individuals, thinks he never saw the boy there. Perhaps if Milos had been brought here, or if he'd Firsted, Danicka would know. Danicka would tell him, like she told him when she heard about the Theurge who came to her half-sister's house. That afternoon was one of the more recent times she's gone to his bedroom at the Brotherhood, crawling into bed beside him and murmuring as he drowsed, telling him, again

thank you. Kissing his face, holding him as he slipped back into sleep.


The Blackwings, each of them, grip his arm. He can feel Threnody's strength. Sunthief bats at his hand til he catches it, shakes, and does so without some doglike approximation of a trick. Wane could wrap her hand twice around his arm in this shape; he can feel her restraint, and her respect. They go with him to find the Philodoxes, to learn the fate of their -- well. They are Alpha and Beta no more. They are former packmates.

Stormstrike, Starfall and Key of Heaven have already been tested, and they have already been judged. For breaking the Litany. For concealing it from their pack and sept. For betraying their pack to the point that they went into a situation where all of them could have been killed. The Ahroun is given the Voice of the Jackal. She is stripped down to Cliath rank. The Rite of Ostracism is performed, and the Blackwings do not look at her as she slinks away, tail between her legs. She tries to snarl at Wyrmbreaker, but it comes out of her throat in a shrill, grating squeal that even she cannot stand to hear from herself, so she falls silent. Then she leaves, shunned by Garou who do not even acknowledge her as she disappears.

And when Key of Heaven is killed, he dies promising he'll do better, swearing he was misled, and

screaming.

When his body falls this time, it does not stir again.


Back in town, he can see Danicka through the windows. The lobby is essentially the same as the reception area, as small as this place is. He could go straight to the room, likely was headed that way, but something tugged at him. Her. Always her. Near enough to hear him if he howled for her, but near enough he would not need to. For a few seconds he can just see her, sitting at a table with her laptop and a cup of coffee and a bowl that once contained cereal and a little makeshift fruit salad of sliced bananas and grapes.

Her hair is down, in natural waves that she didn't straighten or curl when she woke up -- alone, whenever that was. She's wearing jeans and a v-necked green sweater that seems to make the simple, small gold necklace she has on glimmer in contrast. Her mood seems serious, though not entirely focused. She doesn't look up and see him through the window.

She does look up when he walks into the lobby, the way he can imagine she looked up every time the door opened. He can see her phone out beside her laptop now, as though she didn't want to miss it vibrating or chiming or lighting up. Just in case.

Lukas doesn't make it to the chair across from her, and doesn't have the time necessary due to her surprise or her patience to casually sit with her, eat her fruit, mention his new name. She doesn't even type an afk sorry! at her guildies before she gets up out of her chair and meets him, throwing her arms around his neck, squeezing him. Tight.

It isn't that she doesn't hear him. It isn't that the tone of the name or the tone of his voice are lost on her. It's just...

with her, that isn't what matters.

[Wyrmbreaker] So --

he doesn't get around to telling her his new name. Not at first, at least. Hi, is as far as he gets, and then she's coming up out of the chair and throwing her arms around his neck and he's wrapping his arms around her waist and lifting her up with the sudden, aching force of his embrace.

There's something so raw, so intimate about that embrace that the only other occupants of the lobby -- a pair of travelers crashing here for the night before driving on, startled into looking up by his rage and her movement -- avert their eyes. It's not that they're being obscene, or vulgar, or kissing each other like they were alone, or ... any of that.

It's just the way he holds her. And holds on to her. It's the way she holds on to him.

After a long time, he loosens his arms and lets her heels touch the ground again. He cups the back of her neck in his hand and he kisses her, a gentle kiss but long. As they part, he looks at her a moment. He looks tired; this goes without saying. He looks glad to see her, quietly happy for the first time since ...

sometime before he left her last night.

"Hi," he says again, softer. "Can we go back to our room?"


Which is what they do. Lukas stops just long enough to pick up some eggs and sausage, some milk, some protein, from the little motel's breakfast buffet. Then, carrying his laden plate in one hand, the other arm wrapped around his mate, he goes slowly, quietly, thoughtfully down the short hall to the elevator; from the elevator to their room at the end of the third-story hallway.

The door closes gently behind them. Their voices do not penetrate the walls.