challenge.

Lukas
Sometime around the full moon, Lukas knocks on Curata's door.

The lesser Ahroun is dressed in loose drawstring pants, a plain t-shirt that looks like it might be an undershirt. Comfortable, nonrestrictive attire.

"I have a formal favor to ask, Rhya. Will you go to the Caern with me?"

Curata
The door to room three seems to always be open whenever Charlie is there. It remains firmly closed on the days or nights that Curata is alone. Lukas knocks on the door, the Fianna answers with a curious tilt of his eyebrows.

“Aye?” Lukas asks for a formal favor, which could mean a few things, “Sure, I’ll come tae the caern.”

Lukas
Lukas steps back, allowing the Fostern a clear path to the stairs. Falling in behind him, the pair of Ahrouns head for the Caern.

It's not a long walk. The Brotherhood is nearly at the edge of the bawn. It's a block down; a dash across Lake Shore Drive. Then Lukas is peeling back the broken chainlink fence and ducking through, raising a hand in mute greeting to the shadow of a Guardian watching from atop a pile of rubble.

Lukas doesn't explain what this is about. He heads directly for the Challenge Circle, though, crossing into the Umbra as he enters the abandoned hangar that houses it.

The Master of the Challenge is there. Lukas nods to him, then steps into area that, during a challenge, becomes the ring.

There, the Shadow Lord turns to face the two Fianna; both fosterns, one of his moon.

"Buried-Hatchet-rhya, thank you for coming here tonight. Grim-Heart-rhya, thank you as well. I assure you that I didn't ask Buried-Hatchet-rhya to be present tonight because I don't trust in your honor. The Master of the Challenge is here because I want to do this properly."

These are the last words Lukas speaks for some time that seem personally directed at Curata. The rest of what he says holds a sense of formalism and formality; of ritual and invocation.

"Look upon the Wyrmpole, brother of my moon. See the evidence of my glory. Speak to the Garou of this Sept. Hear the testament of my honor. Consult the spirits of this protectorate. Know the proof of my wisdom.

"Grim-Heart-rhya, my renown proves I am no longer Cliath. I challenge for the rank of Fostern. I ask of you a task, a demand or a quest to demonstrate my worth to the Nation."

Hatchet
The Master of the Challenge is indeed there. It doesn't matter that there's no moot tonight, and it doesn't even matter that Lukas asked him ahead of time to be there. He often is sitting down here by the sand, as though expecting grievances or contests of dominance to erupt at any moment. Or perhaps he just likes the area; it's solitary, on mootless nights. Or maybe he's trying to be professional, available to those who might seek him in territory far more neutral than his bedroom.

He's either here or at the Graves, most nights.

When Lukas and Curata arrive, he's expecting at least one of them. Who Lukas would go to for this was really limited to a handful of Garou: Evens the Odds, Silence, or the Fianna walking into the caern with him now. Hatchet lifts an eyebrow at his packmate, who is the only one present that hears Hatchet's mentally projected reaction:

Oh, this should be good.

Charlie hears it too, wherever he is, but it's nothing out of the ordinary to him. It has no context. It's just chatter.

He rises to his feet when the two Ahrouns get to the area where challenge circles are drawn and sand is regularly bloodied for the sake of settling disputes, earning positions, achieving rank. But he doesn't speak -- at least not aloud -- as he is here primarily to oversee, rather than interact. He folds his arms, patterned by scars, across his chest. His pale eyes are impassive to the point of being bored. His end of the totemlink is silent.

He's watching Lukas, rather than Curata.

Curata
Curata followed Lukas in silence, when they crossed through the chain link fence; he lifted a hand in salute to the Guardian watching them. He moves side ways into the Gauntlet, crossing over and following the Shadow Lord as they entered the Challenge Circle.

He was not surprised to see The Master of the Challenge, he expected Buried Hatchet to be there. It became very clear to the Fostern Ahroun what this was about the moment they had stepped foot into the circle.

He listens to Lukas, his arms stretching up to fold across his large barrel chest, hands curled over each bicep. A dark eyebrow arcs over his right eye in a curious tilt waiting until he was done. Blue eyes look past the cliath that challenges him, towards his pack mate as his reaction breached Curata’s thoughts.

Physically, he’s smirking; mentally: Should I just beat the crap o’ him here and now, or send him tae Malfeas tae fetch me a beer?

To Lukas, “Yer achievements surpass ye, Wyrmbreaker, I ‘ave seen the trophies that decorate the Wyrmpole. I ‘ave seen the honor ye display as leader o’ the Unbroken Circle and how ye strive tae hold it together, despite rumors o’ it appearing broken, and I am sure the spirits will tell me ye are wise in yer ways.”

Curata clears his voice, his eyes turning away from his the other Fianna of shared rank to focus solely on the Shadow Lord standing before him. “Ye ‘ave demonstrated yer prowess as a leader, as a warrior, but…” a beat, “How best should I test ye. Ye are calculating and careful to a fault, ye ‘ave grown domineering in yer association wi’ others o’ yer own kind, and ruthless towards those ye see as a threat.”

He grows silent, his head tilting to the side as he continues to study Lukas, “I want tae know wha’ else ye’re capable o’, Lukas Wyrmbreaker. Are ye merciful, can ye display compassion, and can ye extend restraint o’er yer own actions when ye desire tae beat someone down. Show me these acts, recount these stories to me.”

Hatchet
Curata's smirk seems mental, as well. Hatchet is still watching Lukas, but levelly growls back (and it's always a growl, really, over this link, always a rumbling, whuffling combination of sounds underwriting each word):

Is that how you earned your rank, Grim Heart?

Curata
No it wasn't... it was a rather eventful and uneasy. Fetching a beer from Malfeas would've been cake than the humiliation I went through. The corners of his mouth turn down, adam's apple bobbing up and down in his throat as he clears his throat and waits for Lukas.

Lukas
Restraint. Compassion. Mercy.

It takes a conscious instant of effort to keep his eyes from slicing toward Hatchet. Who was a firsthand, experiential witness to what was, if not quite an act of mercy or compassion, then at least the single most notable act of restraint that Lukas has performed in Chicago to date.

An act of pragmatism, too. Always that.

But Lukas doesn't look at Hatchet. And he doesn't mention what springs instantly to mind. He casts beyond that, trawls the waters of his memory; considers a moment.

"To my Tribe," Wyrmbreaker replies, "an act of mercy, of forfeiting just punishment or retribution in the name of compassion alone is tantamount to weakness. But I can relate cases in which I have refrained from seeking personal vindication or vengeance for the best interests of the Nation. Would that suffice, Rhya?"

Curata
“To yer tribe, aye, Wyrmbreaker, this is so,” his head dips in a brief nod, agreeing with him. “There are tribes that feel this way.”

“But is it the same point o’ view o’ yer tribe that ye share personally?” a beat, he folds his arms back across his chest, “Tell me these cases.”

Lukas
There's no hesitation:

"I do. Mercy for the sake of sentiment alone is ultimately a selfish act. When you spare someone out of pity, you spare them to assuage your own conscience. You save your conscience at the cost of the safety of yourself and those you protect. The one you spare today out of pity could be a knife at the throat of your Sept tomorrow. There are tales, certainly, of Garou heroes whose mercy was repaid a hundredfold when the spared eventually returned to repay the debt. But those are the exception that proves the rule. We cannot bet on the honor of criminals and wyrmlings.

"However, there's a difference between sentimental mercy and pragmatic leniency. I don't discount the worth of leniency when there's a greater cause at hand. The blind pursuit of vengeance is every bit as selfish as undeserved mercy.

"When the Unbroken Circle first came to Chicago, my late packmate White-Eyes and I came upon a Fostern of another tribe, whom I won't name because doing so defeats the purpose of the very leniency I speak of. Buried-Hatchet-rhya can confirm the truth of what I say if he wishes. This Fostern behaved poorly toward a kin of my Tribe. I faced him down, extracted from him a promise that it wouldn't happen again. The matter was concluded, but I could have taken it further. I could've rightfully sought compensation and retribution. I could've shamed this Fostern before the Sept, smeared his name, trod on his honor -- but for what? Vicious self-gratification, posturing, the sort of pleasure a bully takes in beating on another. I could have harmed him, and in doing so, harmed the Sept I'm sworn to protect. I didn't. The matter was done, and this Fostern is more useful to the Sept and to the war with his name intact.

"Another example. At one point, in combat, a Fostern refused to perform his auspice role. The mistake nearly cost us the battle. I could've dragged him before the Sept as well. Shamed him for failing his moon. Demanded reparations, punishment, recriminations. I could have harmed him; instead, I chose to speak to him, teach him his proper role in combat -- which is my role as an Ahroun. In exchange for his word that he would try to better perform his auspice role, I let the matter slide. Instead of bringing him down, I tried to make him a better warrior, more useful to the Sept and to the war.

"A third incident. A Cliath of another tribe laid hands on a kin of mine; startled her, but did not hurt her. His own honor drove him to come directly to me. He was ready to pay for his mistake. I could extracted my price in blood or favors; I could've plundered as much as I can. But that would've harmed intertribal relations, contributed to suspicion and hostility between the tribes, damaged Sept bonds, weakened the Sept. I didn't. I was lenient. I let him go in good faith that it wouldn't happen again, for the sake of the Sept and the war.

"A last example. The Sept knows Mjollnir's Heart and I were once brothers under the Talons of Horus. The Sept knows he was ejected for grievously dishonoring himself. The Sept knows of his crimes against his elders, his septmates, the honor of his pack and Tribe and Sept. What the Sept doesn't know is the extent and depths of his personal insults to me. To my honor and what is mine.

"I have my reasons for silence, and I won't break it now. But I have had every reason and every opportunity to kill his ass."

A beat. The moon is full. Wyrmbreaker's rage is alive, a refulgent glitter in his eyes, cold and bright as a star.

"He's still alive. Because whatever his faults, whatever crimes he's committed against me do not make him a lesser warrior. Mjollnir's Heart is a mighty Ahroun, battle-tested and battle-proven. I will not deny the Nation his claws unless I have no other choice. For the sake of the Sept and the war, I'll forfeit my own honor and vengeance.

"And that's the truth. I will not seek vengeance for the sake of vengeance. Nor will I give mercy for the sake of mercy. I will be lenient -- if I can be. If leniency will not endanger the greater cause. If leniency serves a greater purpose.

"I will be ruthless if I must."

Curata
Lukas has the Fianna’s ear; his attention is focused solely on the challenger as he listens to the telling of each case. The totem link is void of his thoughts and comments, keeping them to him. There is only the hard, angular lines of his features twisting and furrowing as his brows tilt down over intense blue eyes that scrutinize the Shadow Lord, weighing the truth of his words through his speech pattern and body language.

When Lukas is finished, he grunts softly under his breath, his left hand pulled up from his right bicep to rub at his chin. Eyebrows arc up over his eyes as he looks thoughtful.

“Ye intrigue me, Lukas Wyrmbreaker, ye ‘ave me showed me that yer capable o’ more than I am as one o’ our moon. That perhaps evens an old wolf like m’self can still learn from a young mind as yer own,”

He pauses, glancing up at Hatchet briefly, before returning his gaze to Lukas, “Ye are very bright and cunning, and very dangerous. Ye speak as if everything ye do is always for the Sept and to the war, is this true?”

Lukas
A muscle flexes at the corners of Lukas's jaw; he swallows. Then he squares his shoulders, boldly, as though he has nothing to be ashamed of.

"No. There are some things I do for myself alone."

Curata
No. There are some things I do for myself alone.

“A’ight.”

Curata drops his arms from his chest; he looks around at the challenge circle, and then once more at the Master of the Challenge. He gives a curt nod of his head in Lukas’ direction.

“Welcome tae the Nation as a Fostern, Wyrm-breaker-yuf.”

Hatchet
After that question, that answer, the Sentinels' totemlink is silent. The challenge begins, without a circle drawn or needed for what Curata requires of Lukas, and Hatchet slides fully into the closest thing to neutrality he ever achieves. For a time, Curata is a Fostern Ahroun and Hatchet is the Master of the Challenge, and they serve their roles without brotherly conversation, critical comment, or question.

He is watching the Shadow Lord unwaveringly even though Lukas has to fight not to look at him. The Fianna's eyes are bland to the point of disinterest, a poker face on otherwise highly expressive features.

When his name is mentioned, he does not voice confirmation of what Lukas says. His eyes flick towards Curata to see if the ranking Ahroun asks for it, but then simply looks back to Lukas. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up as Sam Modine is mentioned, not due to personal insult from the Fenrir -- though there was that, too -- but in recognition of the Rage coming off of Wyrmbreaker. The only sound he makes here, the first sound he's made in some time, is the crack of his neck as he rolls it on his shoulders.

Grim Heart does not ask him for insight. He doesn't give it. He does not ask for Hatchet to use the Truth of Gaia. He doesn't offer it. By all appearances he is here as nothing more than witness, an officer of the sept lending formality where it is sought and a third pair of eyes, ears, and claws should it be needed. There are only snapshots of reaction to what he sees and hears, though, such as the way he meets Curata's eyes and lifts one eyebrow in mute inquiry just after the Fiann says that he might have something to learn from a 'young mind', and just before the he calls Lukas bright, cunning, and very dangerous.

There's a line between his eyebrows there, as they draw tightly and suddenly together only to part a moment later, the line smoothing itself away. His face is once again a blank, for that last look between the two Fianna.

When Curata pronounces Lukas a Fostern, Hatchet glances drolly at Lukas, then back to his packmate. "Is that it?" he says, which seems to be a question about whether or not this is finished rather than an undermining of the challenge he's just overseen. Then again, Hatchet has seemed during this to be wholly uninvested, neutral, and without attachment to either of them.

Curata
"Aye 'tis done."

Curata does not offer any other response except to answer Buried Hatchet. His features furrowing slightly, a hand coming up to scratch blunt nails over the left side of his jaw, and then drops the hand to his side once more, watching the Shadow Lord.

Lukas
It's done.

As far as Ahroun rank challenges go, this one was remarkably bloodless. For all that, the air Wyrmbreaker pulls into his lungs smells like triumph. He's aware of a certain buzzing in his blood, a natural high not unlike that after a particularly well-executed battle. A rush of adrenaline not unlike that of a particularly vicious fight.

This is the first rank or position that Lukas has gained not by default but by challenge in a very long time. This is the first challenge he's won where he was not defender or incumbent but challenger since -- well. Since the night he and Milo went through the motions of a challenge of claim.

He's almost forgotten what it feels like. He's almost forgotten how good it feels.

Fostern and victory hum in every fiber of Wyrmbreaker's being. It's the way he stands. Something about the look in his eyes. He controls it, the urge to throw back his head and howl; the urge to gloat, brag, celebrate. He restrains himself.

His reaction is ultimately very slight: a nod to Curata, another to Hatchet.

"Thanks for honoring my challenge, yuf," he says. "And thank you for overseeing, rhya."

Hatchet
Whether Lukas opens his throat and howls his new rank or not, the spirits are already gossiping about what's happened here tonight. There are plenty of them that hang around the challenge area from night to night, waiting for blood, for riddles, for defeat, for the thrill of victory, the pure tension of struggle. Those descended from broods of Thunder scurry away on the winds to make it known that what was expected has come to pass. Those belonging to Luna try to remember to say something, forget, move on and light dark corners.

Ultimately the result is the same: in very little time at all, word of Wyrmbreaker's challenge is getting out. Bloodless, brief, the sort of challenge given when elders are essentially certain of the Cliath's worth. The sort of challenge given when it is very little more than a formality, necessary only for ritual and not to reiterate what's already been proven.

Hatchet tips his head to the side when Lukas thanks first Curata, now his equal in rank, then himself. There's a glimmer of reaction when Lukas refers to him still as rhya, though Hatchet is at best months and at worst years away from challenging for Adren. He doesn't correct Lukas, however, and it would be fair if anyone chose to see it as pride. The truth is, he thinks he understands perfectly well why Wyrmbreaker retains the honorific, at least in this case.

So he nods, in recognition, but there's a depth to the incline of his head that reads blatantly as more respect than he's given the Shadow Lord in the past. When his head lifts, he gives a brief nod to Curata, turns around, and walks to the water's edge to reclaim his seat.