Because sometimes, it's time.
The ship is small and smells strange; it's a transportation vessel, not a more expensive Clan one, and the engine room is not as well-insulated as most, making it bright, noisy, oddly scented, and always shaking slightly. There are three hallways off the section above the main ramp; usually, they're completely dark. Today, there's a blue-white glow
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"With his teeth," Christine promptly backs Spoon up. Masks swivel to her. "The blood ate through the vents and dropped them into the open; I saw. There is soft meat, and then there is soft meat. This one reforms his flesh quickly when injured and grows better weapons as he needs them. Claws. Teeth. It melted much of him; I flooded the area to dilute and he healed enough to survive.
"I was the only hunter who saw it; I respected my Blooding and gave him his with the mark of my leader. There was no way to find my leader, and the hunt was concluded. Since then, he wished to be a hunter following our ways; I have taught him, and we present ourselves now that we are called."
There's some minute shifting in body language; one cannot look sideways at one's fellow Elder, nor can one mutter something like "this is wierd, what do you think?" when you own the situation, the ship, and the Clan. The Elders present regret this.
"How is he hunting?" One may or may not have thrown this out to buy a little thinking room.
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This is what translates in the bar as follow the hunt; it carries almost spiritual connotations, understanding a connection to the way things have always been and always will be. And one's place.
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Unfortunately, that's the best he can do.
"Because I am a hunter. I was born with the will to hunt, I was given the tools to hunt, and I took the opportunity to seize the hunt."
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It always comes down to predator or prey, in the end.
". . . the thing on the spike. What is that?"
If all pyode amedha had teeth like that, they'd have been seeded on other worlds throughout the galaxy.
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Well, mostly silence. Unless an Elder is speaking, there's running commentary. The two presenting trophies speak the least; the weapons used to kill the creatures are listed, and everyone else has thoughts to share with their neighbor on that. Cre'hktdi ends by explaining that she'd like to keep her ship.
"Request your gear," she says, in an undertone, while someone explains to someone across the hall that her ship is a pile of junk and she should challenge someone for a better one. "Mask, weapons that you would like to try. Then we're done, and need to move for the next hunters. Then? There are two females to your right. One male is in front of him. Walk up to him, grab his shoulder, shove as hard as you can, and flash your claws."
If Ace were here, she wouldn't know who to clobber first.
Probably Christine.
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Spoon works, every day, on a farm. Spoon works out, every day, with Lan. Spoon carries partially grown Caucasian Ovcharkas when he runs, hauls goats around, and generally builds muscle constantly.
And he's a werewolf. The shove is hard, and the claws he flashes are long, sharp, and thick.
(He didn't have those when he shoved.)
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The male growls, low and rolling, and then snaps his mask towards the Elders, salutes them to acknowledge this is not the place, and starts away for the door, shifting aside as he passes the females, expecting by the slant of his head for Spoon to come beside him.
There's a shift in attendance, too. Some follow, although the bulk stay because you do not leave your Elders sitting in a mostly empty room unless you want next year's standards to be hell. Christine sets the trophy cases aside, evidently without fear someone will mess with them, and joins the smaller group.
There's a ring here. The male sheds his mask, placing it on a hook on the wall, and moves to his side of the ring, waiting and watching to see what the other Blooded does. There are two windows. Christine moves in front of the near one, back against it.
The noise level's risen. The smell in the air has changed; it's sharp in the throat and on the tongue.
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Then he lunges for the Blooded male with a cheerful howl/rumble. Hulij-Bpe fuzzy meat.
The male Pred is taller, heavier, and very good. Spoon is a sneaky bastard who has no problems with groin shots, biting everything, pulling hair...in general your typical Crystal Palace fan on a good brawling spree.
Crazy meat mostly holds his own, and then the male gets one good shot in to the stomach...which opens, bleeds, and then seals back up as the crazy, crazy fuzzy meat goes from being smaller than a male to the size of a smallish female and his claws and teeth become a lot more impressive.
So does his roar. Yup. Lots louder, there.
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Also, Spoon's fighting style is not expected. It's not that they don't know dirty fighting; it's more that Spoon's so fast about it.
There's advice, catcalls, jibes, and mockery from all sides. Nobody moves over the edge of the ring, nobody jostles anyone else in; it's simultaneously a seething crowd and an incredibly well-ordered one.
The other predator in the ring just froze up for an instant; he's gotten as far as he has through practice, persistence, and meeting expectations. He's not really a creative thinker, and this fight suddenly calls for some creative readjustments.
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He body-checks the male out of the circle and howls something that translates, roughly, as Come and have a go if you think you're hard enough. It is, in fact, possible to howl in a sing-song.
Really.
Even Spoon would admit that he wins the next fight because the challenging Predator was wounded fighting for the right to challenge him. He's alright with that; he won.
Pred number three kicks his fuzzy ass without having to work at it. (Honestly? Spoon's alright with that too.)
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Actually it doesn't take that long; she already had it out with a few other yautja who came with the team to check the alien ship, so many had an idea where she was in the order already. She goes down hard to a high-ranking female, and promptly goes after a slightly lower male to get her status back.
It is a very sore, bruised, and scraped-up yautja who fetches up on the floor outside the ring about an hour's worth of intermittent fighting later, and opts not to challenge anyone else. She gets up, shakes herself off, and looks around for Spoon.
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He's got one thing to give, really. "Right. So it's a...code, see, that opens a door. I don't know if it works for all mirrors, but there you go." he's saying, "If it works, it works. If it doesn't you haven't lost anything."
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"Visual spectrum trick. He looks in it and sees himself."
There's a laugh. "Hope there aren't many!"
"Let's go." Christine is trying very hard not to limp, and the hand she takes her case with is not the hand she dragged it here with. Trophy cases and alloted gear--some delivered by an Unblooded during all the fighting--have been untouched. "There are more of these to come, over time; there will not be a large one until half a year before mating season begins. You will not be expected to attend."
Seriously.
"Well done." She rather thinks she's summed up the day with that.
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Spoon is walking just fine. He heals better than the Preds do. He just drags his trophies with the opposite hand that he used as well. There's no reason not to follow her lead, right? Of course she's not doing it because she's hurt.
Oh, God, he can't wait to try some of this shite out.
Really.
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