Quentin Meets Tatt

[hazlogs]

It is currently 18:53 Pacific Time on Fri Sep 6 2002.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is mostly sunny today. The temperature is 67
degrees Fahrenheit (19 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in
from the southwest at 5 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.87 and
falling, and the relative humidity is 52 percent. The dewpoint is 49
degrees Fahrenheit (9 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waning No Moon phase (2% full).

Whispering Pines - Rhiannon's Apt.

Rhiannon appears to follow the tenet of 'order in chaos', as the apartment
is a complete and total mess, save for a few small corners of sanity. The
doorway opens to the living room, which is large and bright, with a
balcony and sliding glass doors on the left and a dining nook at the far
left corner. To the right of the living room is a short hall that allows
access to the bedrooms and bathrooms, and the kitchen is located across
the living room and to the right, with a bar allowing a view from the
dining nook into the kitchen. The apartment is still sparsely furished,
with only the basics covered: a low coffee table is covered with magazines
and papers, mostly catalogues from the looks of it, ranging from Coldwater
Creek to an NRA publication or two. Blankets and pillows litter the wide,
plaid couch, and the entertainment center has a mess of VHS tapes and DVDs
in front of it rather than stacked neatly in the available shelving.
Although the TV and VCR appear to be garden variety, the stereo system and
DVD player are anything but. Several different company logos are apparent
between the large speaker system and accompanying components, the main
speakers being almost 4' tall and flanking the entertainment system.
Reiterating a love of all things audio is the pair of CD cabinets on the
opposite wall, both holding a huge selection of CDs. Unlike the movies on
the floor, not a single CD is out of place, and a closer look reveals they
are all alphabetized--several hundred, if the height and width of the
cases are any indication. The apartment walls are barren except for a few
family and friend photos.


Salem arrives at Whispering Pines with the newest member of Synthesis in
tow. He raps knuckles against Rhiannon's door.

Tatt shoves both hands deep in her pockets, eyeing the length of the
hallway with vague interest as she waits beside Salem.

The sound system is on, with the current selection being 'Shelter' off the
Spider-Man soundtrack.. the volume up rather loud, since there's nobody
home but Quentin at the moment. He's on his back on the floor to try and
exercise, doing sit-ups with rather less difficulty than when he'd begun
doing them at Jeremy's place-- the sharp knocking on the door draws his
attention, though, and he rolls to his feet before heading over to answer.
A look through the peep-hole, and he undoes the bolt and pulls the door
open. "Hey. C'mon in.. Rhiannon's at work."

"Evening, Quentin," Salem greets smoothly, stepping inside the apartment.
He nods at the explanation of the kin's absense, giving it the briefest of
acknowledgements before indicating the woman he's brought with him. "Say
hello to the newest member of Synthesis. You share a moon with her."

The lanky, dark-skinned woman passes a hand along her tattooed scalp
before offering it to Quentin. There's a snarling wolf-head inked on her
palm. "So you're one'a the new shrimps, hey? _Encantada, amigo._" She
quirks a corner of her mouth, wet-gold gaze combing over Quentin in brief
assessment.

A single brow quirks upwards at the introduction, the leaf-green of
Quentin's eyes flickering over the tattooed and scarred woman for a moment
to take her in. The offered hand is accepted, after he pushes the door
closed, and he reaches out to clasp it briefly with his own slender
fingers. "Hi," he says with a brief grin, "I'm Q. Salem mentioned you the
other day."

While the two Galliards get acquainted, Salem shrugs out of his coat and
drapes it over the back of Rhiannon's couch. "Indeed," he says, taking a
seat at one end and stretching his legs out.

Tatt glances sidelong at the Philodox, her expression turning to a smirk.
"I'm sure had plenty'a real nice shit to say about me, too," she notes
dryly. Sticking both hands back in her pockets, she surveys the
apartment--and especially the sound system--with a low whistle. "_Mierde,_
kid. You got y'self a nice little bachelor pad..." Tatt saunters lazily
through the apartment, taking it all in, pausing at any framed photographs
and glancing at book titles. "..So this is senorita's apartment, hey?" She
sounds amused, re-emerging from Rhiannon's vacant bedroom with a lacy
undergarment dangling from her finger. The Strider grins, coyote-like.

Salem arches a brow at the Strider, and then his lips twitch into a thin,
wry little smirk. He's amused. Fear. "Quentin needs auspice instruction,
and the Walkers are, alas, lacking in that department. I mentioned _you_
as someone he could learn from. If you're willing, of course." He glances
from Tatt to the cub, gauging his reaction.

As she starts to wander about, Quentin walks along over to turn down the
stereo to a dull roar so they can actually talk with each other without
shouting. The appearance of the Strider from the bedroom with a lacy
underthing causes him to blink once.. twice.. and then smirks a bit. "Oh,
I did -not- need to see that.."

The Galliard's grin cracks wider, showing long white teeth. "I'm plenty
willing to show him the ropes, packie," she replies smoothly--and aiming
the undergarment at Salem's head slingshot-style with deadly accuracy, she
lets fly.

Being raised an Ahroun -- not to mention a Shadow Lord -- does not leave
one utterly lacking in the reflexes department. Salem wasn't expecting to
get underwear flung at his head, that much is certain, but he gets a hand
up in time to catch it in a more dignified way than with his face. He even
-- after the initial startlement -- manages to make it look smooth, almost
like he expected that all along. "'Respect the territory of another,'" he
quotes at the Strider, tossing the panties back at her. "I _believe_ that
includes the underwear drawer of kinfolk."

A shake of Quentin's head at the antics of the other galliard, a grin
curving his lips as he sinks down to rest against the arm of the couch and
watches the two. Amusement writ plain upon his features, both arms folding
across his chest as he observes towards Salem, "I like her. She's the
least-uptight person I've met all week."

Tatt's grin turns sly as Salem catches her ammunition. "Hey, man," she
rasps, feigning indignance. "I found those on the /floor/, aright?" She
glances towards the cub's comment, and snorts in a rather lupine fashion.
"You'd better believe it, pup," she grunts. "Stick up the ass not
included, for *this* elder." Tatt eyes the pair of panties for a moment as
though considering pocketing them, but then sighs and tosses them back
into the bedroom.

Salem gives the cluttered apartment a glance, then grunts, accepting
Tatt's explanation. There's still a subtle amusement around his eyes and
mouth; he'd still look dour to anyone who didn't know him fairly well. "It
was," he explains to Quentin, straight-faced, "an extra accessory, and
there simply wasn't any more room in the budget."

Quentin's train of thought is not only derailed, but in fact falls off the
trestle entirely and into the gorge. Green eyes blink in startlement
towards Salem, a grin spreading delighted across his expression as he
observes, "Salem-rhya, did you just make a joke at your own expense?
Where's my calendar, I need to mark today down as a red-letter day.."

The Strider purses her lips, watching the interplay of cub and Philodox
with a suppressed smirk. Examining her fingernails idly, she leans a
shoulder against the apartment wall and lounges.

Salem arches a brow at the cub. "_My_ expense?" The good humor seems to
vanish as he folds his arms across his chest. "Are you trying to imply
something, Mr. Michaels?"

Quentin raises a brow right back towards Salem.. and despite the lack of
amusement in the philodox's face, he can't help but keep a bit of that
smile. "Of course not, Salem-rhya," he replies with a slow shake of his
head, "I would never dream of implying anything involving your ass."

"Aw, _mierde_," the Strider interrupts gruffly, with a look towards Salem.
"Face it, y'big Rottweiler. You've got a frickin' /redwood/ stuck up
there, fer all the attitude you flash." Tatt arches a brow at the
Philodox, not unkindly.

Salem's eyes narrow slightly at Quentin, and then he flicks his gaze
sidelong over to Tatt. And then he casts his eyes up toward the ceiling,
putting on an expression of long-suffering. "Perhaps I should rethink
this," he says dryly, turning his attention back to the two Galliards.

Quentin's smile twitches a bit into a grin again as he's 'backed up' by
Tatt, so to speak, before casting over an amused glance back to the other
galliard. "So. What's your name, again? I haven't actually caught it just
yet.."

Still leaning against the wall, the Strider echoes Quentin's grin. "Y'can
call me Tatt."

Salem smooths a lock of hair back away from his face and shifts his weight
slightly on the couch. He actually doesn't seem _too_ ruffled by the humor
directed his way; as with the underwear-attack, he makes a damn good show
of having expected it.

"I should've guessed," Quentin says with a quiet chuckle, shoulders
shaking a bit as he nods back to her, "Nice tattoos. I wasn't actually
sure if we could get them, tell the truth.. I'm still not all that clear
on how the whole regeneration bit works."

Tatt lifts one shoulder shoulder in a shrug. "Gotta use a silver needle,
and make sure not to shift until it's scabbed over." She eyes the cub
thoughtfully, with a nod of her chin. "You thinkin' on getting an ink
done?"

Salem arches a brow at the cub, regarding him critically.

Quentin's brows knit together at that comment, raising one hand to scratch
under the line of his jaw. "Uh. Well, I can't legally get any done without
parental permission still, I don't think," he admits with a chuckle,
"Maybe at some point. Dunno. Never thought about it, really."

"Talk to Alicia," the Philodox says, leaning back against the couch
cushions and folding his arms across his chest again. "She fancies herself
a tattoo artist. I believe she did some work for Francisco."

At the mention of 'parental permission', the Strider's smirk turns sly
again. She holds out a forearm, revealing a rather complex feather
stretching from wrist to elbow--apparently a fresh piece of work. "I do
all my own. Wherever I can reach, that is."

"Oh?" A bit of a surprised look over towards the Philodox, as though
Quentin had never really thought of Alicia as the type, before leaning
over to take a look over the new ink painting Tatt's forearm. "You did
that?" A glance up to her face, and he grins a bit, "Cool. Tattooing
yourself.. that's gotta take a steady hand."

Tatt links her hands, cracks her knuckles loudly. "Ambidexterity, too,"
she notes. A glance wanders over to Salem, and she sobers her expression.
"So, pup. Tell me what you've learned so far, and what you'd /like/ to get
outta me, hey?"