Meeting

[hazlogs]

Date: Sept 17, 2002, Tuesday, around 9:00am.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is mostly sunny today. The temperature is 59
degrees Fahrenheit (15 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in
from the north at 7 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.95 and
rising, and the relative humidity is 75 percent. The dewpoint is 51
degrees Fahrenheit (10 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waxing Gibbous Moon phase (70% full).


Tenement Apartment

This small studio apartment is almost bare, as if the tenant hardly ever
lives here. One window, its limited view of the street blocked off by
dusty mini-blinds, breaks the monotony of dingy beige paint on the walls.
Tiles mark off a tiny kitchenette with a refrigerator, sink, and gas
stove.

A twin mattress occupies one corner, over by the window; near it, a
paint-splattered nightstand seems to stand guard over an army-surplus
duffle bag stocked with clothes.

Beside the apartment's front door, a fiber-board sliding door stands open,
revealing an empty coat closet; the bar inside holds two or three wire
hangers. Another wooden door, next to this closet, leads into the
hardly-larger bathroom.


The Ahroun called Jack down to a bad part of town, but it seems fairly
empty, right now. The simple order, "We need to have a little chat. You
know Bridge Street. There's an apartment building at 3311. Go up to 3B,"
allowed for no return on Salem's part before the rather final dial-tone
beeping away. The building's definitely a home to transients, by the looks
of it. Lack-lustre security gives way without effort, leading to an
interior unlit save by cost-effective daylight. Dust fills the air enough
that the beams of sunlight are visible in easily-defined geometric shapes.

Salem prowls through the bare studio, pacing the walls like a restless
jaguar, hands folded into the pockets of his coat. His hair's combed back,
still damp; there are shadows under his eyes but his gaze is unclouded. No
drinking binges last night. No chemical oblivions. Or at least, no sign of
them.

John arrives a little later, and shoots a glance at his watch. "Later than
I expected," he notes mildly, and heads to the kitchenette. The Ahroun's
movements are as gracefully controlled as ever, with only the barest edge
of tension to them. He moves to pick up a dust-stained glass from the
sink, and turns on the tap to fill it with water. The pipes groan and
shudder a few times - a few thumps on the top of the spout yields a sudden
flow of water... if the brown muck that appears could be called that.
Giving up on the venture with a shrug, John turns and folds his arms,
leaning back on the counter and watching Salem thoughtfully.

Salem's pacing halts almost immediately upon the Ahroun's arrival, placing
him near the window. His eye follows John across the room; his face is
unreadable.

Watching Salem patiently, somehow measuring something of the half-moon's
demeanour, John eventually states, "We've a lot to talk about. /You/ have
a lot to talk about. First things first. Rina. What exactly did you do to
set her off?"

"Macbeth." There's little hesitation in the answer; he's had plenty of
time to think things over, after all. Salem leans back against the wall,
arms folding across his chest. "She went into a fugue after I dropped a
quote." His voice is flat, utterly bland.

When the Ahroun sighs... the way his face looks, it's almost impossible to
conceive of him being only in his mid-twenties. Scars mingle with lines of
weariness, and he shakes his head slightly. "Don't, in future." He takes a
deep breath before elaborating, quiet and woodenly. "Years ago, Rina was
in a production of MacBeth that turned... Wyrmy. Things happened to her.
For a long time, before she was rescued. Bad things. She was later taken
to a mental hospital. One of the orderlies was Wyrmy. Bad things happened
there, too. For a very long time. Consequently, Rina is not to be exposed
to MacBeth unless neccessary, or hospitals." The words would almost be
humourous if it weren't for the grim, determined expression on the
Ahroun's face. A quiet fire burns in his eyes, banked for the time being.

Salem drops his eyes, giving the other Walker a single, faint nod. Still
unreadable. Wordlessly, he studies the motes of dust swirling through a
shaft of morning sunlight.

John closes his eyes as he looks down, now. Simply breathing for a time,
it's a long, empty space for words before he's going to speak, it seems.

After a long, long moment, Salem asks, "How is she?" His gaze is still on
the dancing motes.

"Fine." The Ahroun seems to dismiss the question and topic with a blaise,
"She gets better and better as time goes on, and I learn how to help her.
Now. ...Quentin."

Salem glances up at that, looking mildly quizzical, his eyes narrowed
behind the dark lenses. "What about him?"

John inclines his head as he shrugs, before meeting Salem's gaze. "Tell me
about his progress as you see it. More the emotional and personal
development and events than the Litany crap. What he's been doing, with
whom, and what he's been learning from it. About Garou society. About his
Tribe, and his role in it. About /life/. I've been meaning to get around
to talking to him about it, hearing it in the Galliard's own words, but
things get in our way. A Judge's estimation beforehand is, however, an
excellent preparation."

Salem arches a brow slightly at 'Litany crap', but listens to the rest
without interruption. When John's finished, he shifts his weight, frowning
thoughtfully. "Rhiannon's been teaching him to shoot, and I know he's been
working on improving himself physcially. He knows as much about being a
Garou, and about being a Glass Walker, as can be expected for the amount
of time since he was brought in, and he's learned it impressively fast.
He's shown some initiative in learning and has his own mind. I've
introduced him to Tatt, who seems to have taken a shine to him, and I've
heard that Alicia's been giving him some instruction as well." He tilts
his head back, resting it against the wall. "Just about the only thing he
doesn't have is real combat experience... but other than that, I'd judge
him ready."

John's lips thin in a near-smile. "Nice. But I already knew that. What
about... how's he turning out as a man? Responsibility - is he picking up
any? How's his wit turning out, or his comfort levels with the rest of us?
How's he developing as a /person/? ...In your estimation."

Salem doesn't smile back. "Mnh. Comfort levels? I haven't seen any problem
with that since the first days after he was kidnapped. In regards to
responsibility... as I said, he's already shown initiative in seeking out
his own teaching. Wit he's got plenty of, and he isn't afraid to use it."
He straightens slightly, lifting his head away from the wall. "He's
ready," the Philodox says again. "Emotionally and mentally, if not in
skill."

The Ahroun still has his arms folded, and he looks down at them, frowning.
"I have my reservations," he rumbles. "I suspect his perspective on us may
be slightly skewed, and it's the fine-tuning that's important in the last
stages. He needs to believe he's ready. /Really/ believe it. Like Sophia
did," John adds quietly. He looks up. "How's Cat?"

Salem's face goes flat again, walls shuttering down over his eyes. "Ask me
again, in a month."

John's eyes don't leave Salem's. "Maybe I should ask a better judge of
character... but I need to have an up-close estimation of how long, how
much effort, and how much manpower I'm going to be investing in this boy."
The tone's almost challenging.

Salem's jaw tightens. "Ask me again in a month," he repeats, stubbornly.
"I'm reserving judgement until then."

John frowns a little more deeply, at that. "Your terms, 'Judge', but it's
also going to be largely your decision. A decision that may be
substantially more difficult to make in a month's time. Give me your
/thoughts/, now."

Salem's feeling the moon; the signs are there in the tension in his neck
and jaw, the careful rhythm of controlled breathing. "My _thought_," he
says, "is that it's too early to tell. He's fifteen going on six, but I'm
not ready to decide that he's worthless, or that he can't learn to grow
up." A beat. "Yet." He shifts his weight slightly. "He still has trouble
handling confrontation, and he still folds under pressure. But you know
that. You've seen it. He won't be ready in a month. He may not be ready
for a year. But in a month I can better judge if he ever _will_ be ready."

John hitches a shoulder. "The month's not so important. Go nuts. Take two
if you want. But keep me posted."

The tension eases back in the halfmoon, though Salem still watches the
other Walker's face rather stonily. He makes a noise of assent and nods
curtly.

Unfolding his arms and pulling away from the counter to stand up straight,
John slips his hands into his pockets and notes lightly, "There. That
wasn't so bad, was it? We didn't even come to blows." The sarcasm is
heavy. He turns, and moves as if to leave, pausing a moment to add
curiously, "...Unless you had anything else to tell me? About what
/you've/ been doing?"

"Working," comes the flat, insular reply from the ex-Ronin. After the
flare of (paternal, perhaps) protective temper, he's shut himself off
again.

It doesn't seem to even register with the Ahroun... seem to, anyway. Only
that flash at the edge of vision and imagination that /may/ have been
careful filing away... Or just a typically brutish challenge as John nods
a few times and continues for the exit.