Aftermath

[hazlogs]

Date: Sometime within the next 48 hours after John and Salem's fight at
the bunker.

Location: Salem's apartment, Red Mill.

Moonphase: Between gibbous and half.  Waning.

======================

Wednesday night is notable by Salem's absense. Long hours pass as the
clock ticks well past the time that he usually stays out. Eventually --
well past Cat's usual bedtime -- the phone rings.

Cat's asleep on the couch, curled up in a tight little ball with his hat
clutched loosely in his fingers. The phone ringing pierces through his
dreams, and he stirs, waking slowly, but not understanding what's going
until half a dozen rings later. Then he falls off the couch in his
scramble for the phone. He's lucky he doesn't step on any roaches in the
dark. He drops the receiver in his haste, then mumbles, "Huh...hello?"

The halfmoon's voice comes raspily through the phone connection. "Cat.
Good. Did I wake you?"

His voice as bleary as his eyes, the cub nods...then remembers it's a
phone. "Yezzir, it's...um." A glance to the clock. "One fifteen..."

"Mnh." There's a brief pause. "Go back to bed, then. The real bed. I won't
be home tonight."

"You...you won't?" Cat's voice pitches with worry, despite himself.
"Um...are you at that Caern-place? 'Cause Miz Rina stopped by before, and
that's where I told her I thought you were."

There's another pause. Then Salem rasps, "No, I'm not. Pack business."
Maybe the connection's bad, but he really doesn't sound all that good.
"I'll be home tomorrow sometime."

"Oh." Cat's quiet for a second, trailing one finger on the countertop as
he peers into the kitchen, in the dark. "Okay. Um. Okay." Another pause.
"Are you okay, Mi- Salem?"

"I'm fine. More or less. Go back to sleep," Salem says. "I'll see you
tomorrow." The connection clicks off.

Cat blinks, then hangs up the phone and looks at the couch. What had that
been... He doesn't finish the thought, though. Troubled, he trots into the
bedroom softly and curls up on the bed, as if it was a third of the size
it actually is, and does his best to sleep there.

======================

Thursday dawns, and the hours pass slowly. But it's not until several
hours past noon that Cat gets to hear the sound of keys scraping in the
locks.

Cat's sound asleep in the bedroom, and the scraping of keys doesn't hit
him as hard as the ringing phone did.

The door opens, and Salem lets himself in. The halfmoon moves stiffly,
gingerly, and shifts up to Glabro form as soon as the door's shut and
locked behind him. His face is slashed across, scabbed lines from a Crinos
claw-swipe marking his face from one side to the other; he seems to have
narrowly avoided being completely blinded. A bandage covers his throat and
the side of his neck. Everything else is covered by his clothes. The
trenchcoat and the red flannel shirt are untouched, but the black t-shirt
and black jeans are stiff with dried bloodstains that, fortunately, don't
show up well against the dark cloth.

Salem frowns at the darkened apartment, then flicks on the front room
light. "Cat?" he rasps.

Light pours in from around the door and the thin slit of it falls right
across the cub's eyes. He grumbles, batting at the annoyance for a futile
moment before sitting up and rubbing at his eyes. No more naps, it makes
me tired, he thinks rather irrationally, before blinking at the bedroom
door. Did he leave the light on, or was someone-?

Salem doesn't call again. Wincing at each movement, he shrugs out of the
coat and flannel shirt, then pulls the necklace -- the one with the bird
charm on it; Cat's seen it plenty of times, even though the halfmoon
usually keeps it tucked out of view -- and drops it on the counter. Then
he heads for the bathroom, moving with the slow steps of an old man, his
face set into a grimace. The massive, hair-covered Glabro arms are marked
by claws as well.

Gingerly, the theurge cub slips off the bed and to the door, opening it
slowly and peering out. He catches a glimpse of the scarred cliath
disappearing into the bathroom. "Salem?" he calls out softly, quizzically.

Salem grunts, his back to the cub. "You're here. Good. Come here. You can
help me with this. Teeth gritted, he lowers himself to the edge of the tub
and pulls off the blood-stained t-shirt. His torso is wrapped in white
gauze that's been stained the dark reddish-brown of dried blood, most of
it centered over his back and side.

Cat blinks again, then follows after Salem into the bathroom, staring at
the blood with wide eyes. "Salem? You- oh- -wow-. Are...are you okay?" He
reaches out to touch the discarded shirt gingerly.

Salem's mouth twists into a grimace, the expression pulling at the
scabbing wounds across his face. "Fine," he rasps. "Had a... disagreement.
With John." He nods toward the sink cabinet. "A Theurge is also a healer.
As well as a spirit... person. So. Gauze. Should be a roll of it in there.
And a pair of small scissors." He drops the shirt into the tub.

The cub doesn't move for a few moments- then, wordlessly, he opens the
sink cabinet, gets the gauze, and searches for the scissors. Finally he
grasps both tightly, hands shaking slightly as he eyes Salem's face.
"What...what do I do?" he stammers.

Moving seems to cause the Philodox pain, that much is clear; he tries not
to do much of it. "Cut the bandages," Salem rasps, gesturing at a
relatively unblooded portion, mostly near the front of his chest.

Obediently the scissors snip through the top of the bandages, before Cat
tries tearing them off. That doesn't work, so he continues to slow process
of small snips, until the bandages fall away.

Not quite; the wounds underneath were messy, bloody ones, and the bandages
actually have to, in places, be pulled away, a task which makes the
halfmoon grit his teeth and stifle small growling noises. His sides look
to have been badly slashed; his back is little more than raw, torn meat.
Like the slash across his face, the wounds have scabbed over and though
far from healed, are further along toward that than would be on a human.
Still, blood flows as some of those scabs are ripped away with the stained
gauze.

Cat drops the scissors, which clatter on the tile floor. "You-" he chokes
out, the other hand clenching around the gauze tightly as he backs up a
step, the blood in his face draining. "You-"

Salem's upper lip pulls up from pointed teeth. "I'm wounded, yes. It
happens." His hoarse voice has an irritated snap to it. He reaches up,
face tight, and peels the bandage off his neck as well; the bitemarks
there aren't nearly so bad, especially compared to the mess of his back.
"Are you going to help me with is or not?" He glowers at the cub.


(Apparantly not;  Salem finally sends the cub off to get some things from
the corner convenience store and takes care of business himself.  
Displeased.  Later... a knock!)


The halfmoon answers the door after a minute or two, keeping out of sight
of the hallway. A still-battered hulk of a Glabro, the marks of John's
claws still visible across his face, still in the midst of healing; he
narrowly avoided being blinded completely by the other Walker. The bite
marks on his neck are also still healing, and look just as ugly. All other
wounds and bandages are hidden under dedicated clothing, black t-shirt and
jeans. He's barefoot, and the nightingale necklace hangs out in view for
once, rather than being tucked in.

The apartment itself is mostly dark, with a light shining from the
bedroom. Puccini's playing on the CD player -- _Madame Butterfly_.

Tatt looks up from her slow scan of the hallway, eyes shrouded by a dark
pair of wrap-around shades. The Galliard's got a guitar case slung across
her back, and a rumpled brown bag under one arm. With a wry twist of her
mouth, she doesn't wait for an invitation--she simply breezes by him. "You
look like shit warmed up," she observes lightly.

Salem's reply is a dour-sounding 'humf' type of noise; an eloquent
indicator of his current mood. Shutting the door behind the Strider, and
after resetting the locks and chain, he walks stiffly over toward the
couch and sets himself gingerly down on it. "Yes. Well." His voice is a
baritone rasp. "I feel about the same." He does not, she may note, sit
back against the couch cushions.

The Strider makes a beeline fro the kitchen, setting down the guitar case
en route. She seems unusually cheerful, despite her flare of temper in the
bunker. "Reap what y'sow, amigo," she points out in a low rasp, removing
the contents of the bag on the kitchen counter: two large-ish tupperware
cartons and an expensive-looking bottle of tequila.

Furry black eyebrows rise, and then the brutish face pulls into a scowl.
"What _I_ sow? I didn't even call him there to fight him." Deep-set eyes
watch her steadily like those of a sullen wolf.

"Naw," the Galliard agrees, shaded eyes on the task of finding a pair of
glasses. "But it was bound to happen--y'all are like two magnets.
Attraction, repulsion... it's all the same." Tatt lifts one inked shoulder
in a shrug. "Better sooner than later, I guess. We're at fucking /war/,
after all. And not with each other."

Salem's scowl remains as he leans back -- a move he immediately regrets,
judging by the twitch across his face, the tightening of his jaw. This
halts any quick reply; instead, he closes his eyes briefly and hisses a
long breath out through pointed teeth. Then, muttered, and sounding rather
half-hearted, he says, "He provoked me."

Tatt nods once. "He wanted you t'get yer ya-yas out," she observes lowly,
pouring a shot of tequila in each glass. "Dunno if it /worked/, but... I
think you both needed to blow off some steam." She seats herself on the
other end of the couch, sets down the glasses, and pulls a small paper
envelope from a back pocket. "..Candy that everybody wants, an' all that."

Salem shifts his weight, sitting forward again to take the pressure off
his mauled back. He eyes the glasses almost warily, then the Strider. The
prickly temper seems to have slunk off somewhere into the back of his
brain; now he just seems tired. Tired and bitter. "It isn't about Rina."

Her usually intense dark-gold gaze is hidden behind the shades as she
regards him, long and silent. "..So what's it about, amigo?" The
Galliard's harsh voice is quiet, and she reaches out to tap a portion of
dark brown powder from the envelope into each glass.

Salem doesn't answer right away. His attention's focussed on the power,
and he narrows his eyes slightly at Tatt. "Tell me what brand of poison
you're offering me, first. And why you feel the need to give Smith
_another_ reason to shit on me."

(Tatt)

She's no beauty, conventional or otherwise. Standing somewhere above
six-foot, she moves loose and easy in mahogany-colored skin. Her apparent
age shifts with her moods, but usually falls somewhere in the mid-30's.
Features are a study in sharpness: all prominent angles and time-weathered
planes, and her androgynous figure is no gentler. She has the rangy,
raw-boned build of a hungry dog, with a loping stride to match. Oddly
light amber eyes anchor her features, flashing topaz above a mouth given
to startling long-toothed grins.

	Hair is buzzed close to her scalp, the dark regrowth short enough
to reveal ghosts of spiralling antlers tattooed along her skull, leading
down to a stylized antelope head at the nape of her neck. The brown canvas
of her skin is etched with stories: some tattoos are faded, and others
inked in fresh, raw indigo. They cover every exposed limb like
milemarkers, measuring the distance she's travelled.

	There is no attempt to hide her obvious scars: a broad slash of
long-ago healed tissue across her throat, and little more than a stub
where the cartilage of her right ear should be. Scarred and calloused
hands bear letters inked across the knuckles: 'HARD LUCK'.

	Clothing is simple and clean: well-worn jeans and a buttoned-down
work shirt in dark blue, the cuffs rolled up to display full tattoo
'sleeves' on both arms. While in the city, she wears lug-soled boots. A
heavy brown toolbelt is usually slung around her hips, and both forearms
are bound in black medical tape from wrist to elbow.

        The missing shades also reveal an intricate new ink surrounding
her left eye--a feathered pattern, mimicking the plumage around a falcon's
eye.

"Chocolate," she rasps simply, pocketing the envelope. "And we're not
talkin' no Hershey's shit. This is the /real/ deal." The Galliard takes up
a glass, swirls the liquid around a little. "It's an old Mayan rememdy."
Tatt slides off her shades, revealing that frank topaz gaze. "I'm not
askin' you to jump off no wagons, hombre. Just something to warm up the
gut."

Salem considers her for a moment, then grunts and picks up the other
glass. "Hmnh." He swirls it around a bit, then tosses back a hefty swallow
of the mixture.

The drink is surprisingly smooth, with a bittersweet aftertaste that
lingers and goes down thick and warm. The chocolate flavor is intense, and
almost unrecognizable. Tatt echoes his motion, and downs the entire glass.
She closes her eyes, murmuring something under her breath in Spanish with
a satisfied smile. "Not bad, hey?" Wiping a hand across her mouth, she
rises to go back to the kitchenette.

Salem purses his lips, eyes squinting half-closed as he examines the
taste. "Interesting," he mutters, and drains the rest of it in another
gulp before setting the glass back down on the coffee table. Every
motion's a careful one, mindful of torn, healing flesh.

"They say chocolate's got healing properties," Tatt rasps, then grins
wryly. "I think the stuff's just addictive." She pops open one of the
tupperware containers, and notes, "Yer one fuckin' lucky dog, Jack. That
sweet little blonde piece is cookin' for ya."

Salem blinks, then furrows his brows. It's a fearsome expression in the
near-man form. "Come again?"

Tatt digs out a saucepan after some rummaging, and dumps the contents of
the tupperware into it. As the stove heats up, the scents of hearty stew
and beef begin to fill the apartment. "Drew Miller," the Galliard rasps,
those two words full of a world of appreciation.

Image of an astonished ex-Ronin. After a moment, Salem recovers his
composure, shaking his head slightly. "Drew Miller?" he echoes, in a
bemused tone. "Isn't she..." He pauses, frowns slightly, then rubs at his
mouth with one meaty, thick-nailed hand. "The Get no-moon's claimed her, I
thought. Chaser."

The Strider shrugs lightly, obviously amused as she stirs the stew. "It
don't stop her from bein' generous, I guess," she murmurs. "It's a shame a
nice piece like that fell to the fuckin' Nords, though." Slight, buried
bitterness in her tone.

Salem remains bemused as he watches the Strider cook. "Hmnh. What makes
you think she's..." He pauses to recall the phrase. "'Cooking' for me?"

Tatt takes a moment to lick the spoon, then points down at the pot.
"Cooking," she rasps. "This. And I believe there's a slice of chocolate
raspberry cake in the other box." The Galliard sniffs, eyes the stew
approvingly.

There's a tremulous knock on the door, a soft tapping of reluctant
knuckles. The newest Walker cub hasn't learned how to mimic
shave-and-a-haircut, although he has the haircut part.

Salem blinks again, and some of the puzzlement in his expression clears.
"Cooking," he mutters. "Right." A hand passes across his face, rubbing
lightly at his eyes. Thick fingers explore the scabbed claw-marks briefly
before he lets his hand drop. He flicks a glance toward the door, at the
knock. "Hmnh. Took him long enough."

Tatt glances up briefly towards the door, then goes back to tending the
stew.

Cat clutches the single plastic grocery bag tightly, waiting for someone
to let him in. Every moment that passes, strange ideas creep around his
shoulders and into his head. Maybe Salem passed out like Miz Rina had, and
couldn't open the door. Maybe a big spider had come through the Umbra
while Salem was too weak. Maybe...a dozen scenarios go through the blond
theurge's head.

Salem grimaces, then pushes himself to his feet and limps toward the door
to let the cub in. As with Tatt, he's careful to stay out of sight of the
hallway, so the first thing Cat gets to see, most likely, is the sight of
some strange tattooed woman in the kitchen, cooking stew.

Sepdet simply follows Cat in without a word or explanation or a sound to
announce her arrival, pocketing something as she steps across the
threshold.

Salem startles slightly at Sepdet's arrival, lips twitching away from
pointed teeth. The tall Walker is even taller in Glabro form, with fresh
claw-marks healing across his face, similarly new bite-marks around his
throat, and other marks on his arms that are visible past the short
sleeves of his black t-shirt. He's wearing the usual black jeans, but goes
barefoot in the roach-strewn apartment, and the nightingale charm is
visible hanging from the chain around his neck. And there's Tatt, in the
kitchen nook, warming up some stew while _Madame Butterfly_ sings out from
the CD player on the bookshelf.

Shaking his head slightly, the Walker halfmoon closes the door behind the
two Theurges and resets the locks, every ginger, pained motion speaking of
injuries hidden under his dedicated clothing. "Sepdet-rhya," he rasps.
"Welcome."

Cat blinks at the sight of the woman in the kitchen, then starts as a
stranger comes up beside him- but before he even has the chance to find a
corner to duck into, he's being swept inside the apartment and the door is
closed. With a confused and frightened glance to either side, he takes a
step closer to Salem. Women at every angle. Panic.

Sepdet glances up at Salem with a raised eyebrow at his condition, quickly
assessing the wounds and probable origin. "Pardon," she says simply. She
points her chin towards Tatt, but the gesture isn't too urgent, and the
panicked-horse body language of the boy in front of her draws her
attention. "I am shorter than you," she says matter-of-factly.

Tatt glances up from her post at the stove, breaking into a long-toothed
grin--at cub or elder, it's hard to tell. "Well, if it ain't a regular
party," the dark-skinned Strider rasps bemusedly. "Pull up a seat, _mis
amigos_." Her topaz gaze rakes across the blonde cub observantly before
returning her attention to the simmering pot. The apartment is full of the
hearty scents of beef stew.

Salem eyes the pale-haired cub with an expression that's half frustration,
half long-suffering. "Cat," he rasps. "Say hello to one of the foremost
Theurges of the Sept. And then go put away the groceries and see if Tatt
needs any help." That said, he heads back for the couch; the tequila glass
is still sitting on the coffee table.

Blue eyes blink again, and the expression on Cat's face mirrors Salem's
suffering look. His gaze follows the Walker, almost despairingly, before
he faces the 'foremost theurge'. The plastic big crinkles a bit more as he
holds it more tightly. "Hi," he mumbles softly, staring at her. A
heartbeat, and then the cub flees into the kitchen, coming to a second
halt as he gets up-close-and-personal with Tatt.

Sepdet removes the ugly knit cap and tucks it into her trenchcoat pocket,
then inclines her head and favors the cub with a thin smile. "Sepdet," she
states. She starts to follow him into the kitchen automatically, then
halts, covering an amused grin with her hand and glancing back at Salem.

Salem settles into the couch with the kind of pained stiffness usually
associated with the aged, being very careful not to lean back. One hand
passes over the thick mass of long black hair as his eyes meet Sepdet's;
his expression is rueful.

Tatt pauses in her oddly domestic task to look at the cub. Topaz eyes meet
blue, and she cracks a grin as a lazy hand reaches out to ruffle the cub's
blonde hair, making it stand on-end. "Hola, kid. Name's Cat? How's about
you go get the chocolate cake outta the tupperware, hey?" She gestures
over her shoulder with the spoon.

Sepdet finally glances around the room as if memorizing its features,
expression not missing a beat as she notes the bowl of cat food with its
unlikely "pets". She wanders over to the coffee table and settles
cross-legged on the floor, quiet gaze fixed on the pair on the far side of
the kitchcen counter. But it's Salem she addresses. "I trust you didn't
pick those up from Dancers?"

The boy takes a step back as Tatt's hand reaches out for his head, but
some urge of respect keeps him from bolting, so the Strider gets to ruffle
the cropped hair after all. Not that Cat looks too happy about it. "'Kay,"
he mumbles sullenly, still eyeing Tatt. He toddles over to the fridge,
opens it and starts unloading his groceries. Eggs. Milk. Antibacterial
cream- wait, that didn't go in the fridge.

Salem perches at the edge of the couch, elbows resting on his knees. He
watches his packmate and his cub for a moment before glancing sidelong at
Sepdet. "No," he rumbles hoarsely, giving his head a slight shake. "Bit of
a... disagreement with my elder and alpha." The corners of his mouth take
a downward turn.

The lanky Galliard may only have one ear intact, but it's sharp
nonetheless. She lifts her head to add to Salem's explanation: "/That/ is
the fuckin' understatement of the year, hombre. That was more'n just some
dick-waving contest." Her tone is matter-of-fact.

Sepdet purses her lips, although her eyes crinkle fondly at Tatt's coarse
outburst. "Resolved?" she queries neutrally.

Salem flashes a sharp look over at Tatt, jaw clenching as he grits his
teeth. When he does answer Sepdet, it's with a non-committal grunt.

Cat holds the tube of antibacterial cream in his mouth as he puts the
groceries away, then reaches for the tupperware as commanded." He starts
at Tatt's exclamation, giving her another strange glance as he holds the
chocolate cake.

Sepdet sighs at Salem. "Well, good luck," she offers, again with that odd
flat intonation that blares "Prime Directive" in sixty decibles. She
finally raises her head to call over the bar. "And how's the cook?"

"Resolved enough for them to look like they both had a bad date with a
blender," Tatt chimes in again. "Someone woulda bled their life out in
that bunker if I hadn't smacked some sense into 'em." She sounds vaguely
amused, then points at Cat. "You. Plates. Now." Glancing at her elder's
question, Tatt rasps, "The cook seems t'be the only sane Garou in the
city, these days."

Cat sighs then, still almost-glaring at the strange 'Garou' puttering
around in the kitchen. The tupperware'd cake gets set on the counter as he
reaches up into the shelves for plates. He gets out two, then starts
fishing for silverware before remembering the extra guests. Another soft,
resigned sigh, as he reaches for two more plates.

Sepdet bursts into a brief cascade of laughter. "These truly are the end
days," she intones, getting her breath under enough control to sound grave
again. "I think that was sign number six. Or was it seven?"

Salem inhales a breath, about to say something in response to Tatt, but
then seems to think better of it; brutish features set into a grim, closed
expression. He examines the palms of his hands instead, keeping silent.

Tatt takes the saucepan off the stove and fetches four bowls, as well as
another glass. Ladling out the stew, she answers cheerfully, "The world
just about ended the moment I turned on this stove and started playin'
housewife, anyhow." She takes a moment to savor the steam from the stew.
"..Thank Gaia for kinfolk who can cook."

Four plates stacked and in hand, with the silverware piled neatly on the
topmost plate, Cat faces Tatt with owlish, disapproving eyes, awaiting his
next orders. One of his yellow mittens is hanging by its thumb from his
pocket and ready to fall.

"Cat." Salem's voice rasps out in a deep, irritated growling tone. "You
can remove your coat, you know."

Tatt glances aside to the cub, with half a grin. "Serve out that cake,
hey, _Gatito_? Biggest slice for you." The Galliard brings two bowls into
the living room--one with silverware for Salem, and without for Sepdet.

Sepdet takes this opportunity to do the same, visibly relaxing as she gets
the strange garment off. As Tatt leans over to set the bowls down, the
Seer reaches up to touch the fresh tattoo under her eye with two
fingertips. "You must tell me what they all mean sometime,
/Shemayit-meryt/," she says lightly.

A sharp glance at Salem, one that seems to almost carry with it words-
This is your doing, isn't it. Cat rests the plates next to the
tupperware'd cake and removes his jacket, folding it carefully and
dropping it over the counter onto one of the chairs. With a plaintive,
mumbled "I don't understand," he goes about the mundane task of serving
cake...and does, by the barest smidgen, give himself the largest piece.

Salem accepts the bowl from Tatt with a wordless nod, but Sepdet's remark
distracts him from the stew. He arches an eyebrow quizzically. Because of
this, he completely misses the look Cat throws at him. Alas.

Sepdet clears her throat, reaching for the bowl. "Middle Finger of Thoth,"
she translates, without looking at Tatt.

Tatt freezes momentarily, probably due to the sharp pain of the
newly-inked design. "That's m'name," she rasps with dry humor, setting the
empty glass down in front of her elder before retreating to the kitchen
again.

Salem squints a bit at Sepdet, looking like he might smile if
circumstances were somewhat different tonight. The grim expression
lightens somewhat, though, as he turns his attention to the bowl of stew.
"Why Thoth? I'm afraid I'm not up on my Egyptian deities." He glances
toward the kitchen, keeping an eye on the cub.

Cat's puzzled by how to transport four plates of cake at once; then he
decides to take two at a time. His plate and what will probably be Tatt's
left on the counter, he heads into the living room, very nearly bumping
into Tatt. With far more luck than skill, he doesn't drop the plates,
although one fork skids off and to the floor.

Sepdet politely keeps her attention off the hapless cub as he scurries
about. "Trickster."

Tatt touches a fingertip to the cub's forehead as she passes him. "I want
you t'eat it real messy, hey? Kids should enjoy themselves." She fetches
the last two bowls of stew and the bottle of tequila, adding them all to
the assortment on the crowded coffee table. The Galliard takes a moment to
pour a shot of tequila for Sepdet, adding a bit of dark brown powder from
a small envelope.

"Ah," says Salem. "Of course." He concentrates on the meal, falling into
the mode of silent observer as he does so.

Sepdet gives Tatt an extremely wry look as the shot gets set in front of
her. "Do I /want/ to know?" she mutters, picking up the bowl of stew
neatly in her hands. She sniffs it over, savoring the scent.

Cat looks down at the fork on the floor for a moment, then back up at Tatt
ruefully. He doesn't head back into the kitchen though, just continues
into the living room and towards the couch, sitting himself on the floor
with plates of cake on either side. He looks at one, then the other, then
gets back up to put the fork away. Hopefully someone else will remember to
keep the questing roaches away.

The Galliard's grin turns a little sly as she explains, "Chocolate and
tequila, amiga. /True/ chocolate. It's an old, old delicacy." She follows
Cat's progress with vague interest.

Sepdet shoots the Galliard a suspicious smile, choosing to work on the
stew for now. She tips up the bowl and laps at the broth once or twice
before nibbling; if dogs had developed table manners it would probably
look like this. "Mmmm." She sets the bowl down. "Have you been with us
long, Cat?" she asks conversationally.

Tatt takes up her own bowl, choosing to use a fork. She takes a moment of
silence before digging in, keeping one ear on the conversation.

Cat picks up the fork, deposits it on the counter, grabs the two other
plates, and returns to the living room. Carefully, he nudges one hungry
roach away from the plates with his toe. Seemingly ignoring Sepdet's
question, he picks up all the plates and sets them down, carefully, on the
coffee table. Out of respect he takes the slice without the fork, but then
stares down at it blankly. How to eat it messily?

Sepdet sets to in earnest, mercifully letting the cub off the hook. At
least for a little while. Silence can be comfortable or awkard, depending
on the participant, but she at least seems content to nibble quietly. At
length she sets the bowl down and tries the drink. Her eyes round out a
bit, but the smile she gives the Galliard is genuine enough.

Salem is far from comfortable, at least physically, but any awkwardness
that shows in the Glass Walker is of the body, a stifled wince whenever he
shifts his weight in just the wrong way. "Mmn," he says at last, nearing
the end of his portion. It's an approving noise.

Tatt echoes Salem's noise, licking her lips appreciatively. "Not bad,
hey?" Then, after a moment of chewing: "/I/ saw her first. Dibs." She
grins toothily across the table at Salem.

It's Sepdet's turn to freeze. She gives Tatt a rather peculiar glance, and
addresses herself to her bowl again, lucking out the last bits.

Salem eyes his packmate for a moment, then says, perfectly deadpan, "Drew?
Fine. You just have to fight Chaser for her."

Two fingers reach out towards his cake, the cub finally deciding to just
use his hands- but at the strange comments floating about him, he glances
up, querying gaze falling on Sepdet.

Tatt snorts and shakes her head. "..I don't need a cook /that/ badly."

Sepdet clears her throat and sets the bowl down. Seeing the cub's eyes on
her, she gives an encouraging nod. "That's right. Honestly, fingers work
just fine, and there's less to clean up afterwards."

One corner of the halfmoon's mouth twitches upward at Tatt. Then he
concentrates on cleaning out his bowl.

Cat makes a small noise in the back of his throat, as if Sepdet had
misread whatever question he'd been trying to get across. Fingers still
hovering above his cake, he glances to Salem with a little more hope.
Explain what's going on, please, I left the house and you were in pain and
a mess and I come back and we're having a tea party.

This time, Salem catches the cub's look. He responds with an arched brow;
one would think that the pointed ears would make that particular gesture
more Spocklike, but no Vulcan was ever this bulky or hairy.

Tatt finishes off her bowl with clean efficiency, and lets out a rather
impressive belch before tossing back a swallow of the dark liquer. She
eyes the owlish cub for a long, considering moment, and then offers out
the glass. "Take a gulp'a that, Gatito," she rasps. "It'll put hair on yer
chest."

Sepdet takes charge for a moment, voice gentle. "Cub, these sorts of
disputes happen between Garou. We are rather like wolves, after all. We
/need/ the best one to lead, when times turn tough, and the only way to
determine who's best is to test our skills against each other. We heal
almost all wounds, and heal fast. It is not like a human breaking another
human's arm."

The blond boy looks from Salem to Tatt, staring at the Strider's strange
offer. Before he can get too worried about it, though, blue eyes flicker
to Sepdet, listening to her explanation. The quiet gaze goes to Salem,
looking him up and down. Finally, Cat pipes up, "You're okay then?"

Tatt purses her lips silently and simply places the glass near the cub,
then turns her attention to the chocolate raspberry cake, foregoing
silverware.

Salem sets his empty bowl down on the coffee table and, his insides warmed
by the stew, almost sits back against the couch. Almost. A frowning look
is turned Cat's way. "I explained about that," he says to the cub, rather
sternly. "Wounds from another Garou don't heal as _quickly_, but they
still heal faster than they would for a human... as long as we're in a
form that can regenerate." Massive shoulders move in a brief, abortive
shrug; another wince passes across his face. "In a week, it'll be gone.
Unless some of it decides to scar permanently."

Sepdet reaches for the cake too, poking Tatt's wrist as she snags a chunk
for herself.

Cat frowns too, although at what is hard to say. With a slight shrug, he
looks back down at his cake. He's hungry, but it's awfully unsettling with
two strange -women- around. Again, he reaches two fingers to hesitantly
break off a piece.

Salem rubs at the side of his neck, feeling tenderly around the bite
marks. Then he grunts and reaches for his portion of the cake. He's the
odd man out, and stubbornly uses a fork rather his fingers.

Tatt watches her elder as she downs a bite of cake, and licks her lips.
"How goes business on the other side of the bridge? Hopefully the forest
packs aren't turning in on themselves." She adds the latter comment with a
wry twist of her mouth.

Salem very studiously does not look at Tatt.

Sepdet nibbles neatly, taking time between each bite as is her custom.
"Quiet now. The peace after the storm. Rebuilding, considering the future,
savoring the victory as much as we dare. Some are away: Tobin is taking
his pack on Totemquest, Reforged goes to gain new spirits for the caern,
and Andrea asked me to look after the caern in her stead while Ouroboros
goes to Western Eye's aid." She sobers. "I'm not ashamed to say we still
need all of you out there as much as possible. But I know too much has
been neglected here, and the things beneath the city streets still
fester."

Cat, less studiously, glances up between Tatt and Sepdet with guarded
curiosity, his cheeks bulging slightly with half his slice in his mouth.

"Not to mention the hospital," Salem notes quietly, prodding his slice of
cake with his fork.

Tatt nods once, polishing the last few crumbs off her plate with a finger.
"I'll try to divide my time fairly, seein' as I still have a room in the
farmhouse." She tilts her head towards Salem in agreement. "I think I can
do more on this side, anyhow. Folks aren't as... put off by me here."

Sepdet grumbles, "The Guardians are not 'put off' by you, Meryt. But walk
where you will, so long as you wander back now and then." She seeks Tatt's
eyes intently for a moment before looking away towards the cub. "I guard
the caern. I look after a number of things. If you have any questions,
feel free to ask."

The foremost question in Cat's mind is something along the lines of 'what
are you doing here', but he's too polite to ask it and so just gives
Sepdet a jerky, wide-eyed nod, gulping down his cake. Even after his mouth
is free of food, though, he doesn't speak; he just wipes at the crumbs
around his mouth and takes another bite of cake. -Good- stuff. Even better
with Dr. Pepper.

Sepdet licks her fingers and observes to Salem, "Are you sure he's not one
of ours?" She draws a line across her lips with a fingertip.

"Too blonde," Tatt points out with a coyote's grin, watching the cub with
a hint of fondness.

Salem eyes the two Striders for a moment over his slice of cake. Again,
one eyebrow lifts. "He's a Walker. No one said a Walker had to be
talkative."

At the mention of hair color, Cat looks up at Tatt curiously, still wary.
One hand slips to his side for where his pocket (and thus his hat) should
be, but the jacket is on the other side of the room. His fingers flex
uselessly for a second, then he sighs softly and shifts a bit, crossing
his legs indian-style. "My name's Cat Hopkins, pleased to meet you," he
mumbles under his breath before taking another (and last) gigantic bite of
his cake.

Sepdet is quiet herself, merely observing the exchange and the grumbly
half-moon out of the corner of her eye.

"Hopkins," the Galliard echoes thoughtfully, leaning back on one arm. "A
good name. Yer stuck with _Gatito_, though." She takes another sip of her
drink.

Salem mutters, "Cute," as he spears the cake with his fork again. A sharp
rapping on the door interrupts whatever he was going to add to that; with
a frown, the halfmoon eyes the door, then the younger Glass Walker. "Go
answer that," he orders.

Sepdet heaves a faint sigh, staring down at the floor and apparently
collecting her thoughts before turning towards the door.

Still chewing and swallowing, Cat gets to his feet and trots to the door,
the shoelaces on his Keds trailing on the floor. He has to go tiptoe to
get a good view through the peephole in the door- and then he's flipping
open the locks, undoing the bolt. Quietly he opens the door and steps
back. John won't see him right away; instead he'll be greeted with a view
of Salem, Sepdet, and Tatt, and a very messy coffee table.

Tatt glances aside to the other Strider, then narrows her eyes at Salem.
"..How the fuck you expect him to grow a /spine/ when you treat him like
the house /bitch/, hey?" Her voice is pitched at a low hiss meant for
Salem's ears only.

Salem shoots Tatt a sharp, narrowed look, his jaw tightening angrily. Most
of what little good mood he had takes a sharp downturn, then vanishes
completely when he sees who it is at the door. Then his expression goes
stonily neutral.

The Walker Elder stands at the door, staring blankly at the gathering for
a few moments before appearing to decide upon a frown. He's in homid -
wrapped up in black from neck to foot, in greatcoat and scarf. There are
no wounds visible, on the Ahroun's part. "...People," he greets, before
stepping inside.

Sepdet exhales, watching the procedings. "Well," she says quietly. John
gets a hand raised in silent greeting. Absently, she starts gathering up
plates and bowls to ferry into the kitchen.

Tatt looks from one Walker to the next, mutters something exasperated in
Spanish, and joins Sepdet in the task of cleaning up.

Cat blinks, looking from John to Salem warily, as he locks the door behind
the Walker elder.

"Which reminds me... I need to step up the frequency of my Spanish
lessons." John moves further into the apartment, giving a nod and a murmur
- "Cat," - to the cub in acknowledgement, then looks over to Salem. "Hey."
The tone is neutral... with perhaps a concillatory edge?

Salem's expression is unreadable, but he returns the Ahroun's greeting
with a nod and a grunt that's more or less polite. "You just missed
dinner," he tells John in a baritone rasp. The halfmoon's portion of
dessert, only half-eaten, gets set down on the coffee table.

Sepdet, fussing around in the kitchenette and making a domestic dance with
her tribesmate, fails to monitor the tension in the main room for once.
There's a clank as one of Salem's bowls makes a break for freedom, and she
growls something at Tatt.

There's a brisk and no-nonsense knock at the door, announcing yet another
arrival.

The blond cub's head whips around at the door, frowning as he tiptoes to
peer out again. Blink. Blink. Cat looks over his shoulder at Salem
balefully. "It's Miss Mac."

Salem turns a wolfishly golden eye toward the cub. "Let her in then?" he
suggests, just a mere touch less brusque than earlier.

"Came by to see how you were doing." John looks over the table
thoughtfully, and frowns at the kitchen a moment. A shrug later, and the
Ahroun gestures towards the kitchen with a jerk of his thumb. "What're
they doing?" he pitches towards Salem, lowly.

Some awfully dry quote of the Mad Hatter's from /Alice in Wonderland/, and
Cat undoes all the locks and bolts again, opening the door for the Kin
with a very faint, very confused upward quirk of one corner of his mouth.
"Hi Miss Mac," he says softly.

Sepdet says drily from the other side of the counter, "Getting out of claw
range. You two should really watch where you put those things."

Rhiannon's clothing is a bit rumpled, but that's not the only indication
that it's been a few hectic days on the job--her eyes have telltale dark
circles, and there's that telltale hesitation to her voice. "Hey, Cat,
how's it going. Salem there?"

Salem shifts his weight on the couch and carefully -- very, very carefully
-- leans back. He spares only the slightest glimpse at the new arrival,
enough to note Rhiannon; most of his attention remains on John. "I'm fine.
You?" He gestures toward the empty half of the couch.

Tatt mutters something under her breath towards her elder by the kitchen
sink, relieves her of one of the bowls.

John rumbles darkly, "I only ever put mine where they need to be," towards
the kitchen, then half-turns to catch sight of the doorway. "Fine," he
murmurs to Salem. "I'll be in perfect shape in a day or two. Sides are a
little sore still." He moves over towards the empty half of the couch, and
- with infinite care and only a hint of reluctance - seats himself.

Cat wordlessly steps out of the way, pulling the door open wider as he
does so, to give Rhiannon a clearer view of the two Walker men sitting on
the couch. "There's two more in the kitchen," he mumbles darkly.

Salem studies John carefully. His tone perfectly neutral, he remarks, "I
suppose I should be grateful you didn't take out my _other_ eye."

Sepdet doesn't tease the Walker elder further. She presses a hand against
Tatt's back, leaving the more nimble-fingered Strider to finish up, then
slips back into the main room. "Is this a Walk meeting? Or pack? I was
just checking in with my tribesmate on something."

John sucks on a tooth for a while before replying, "And I guess I should
be grateful you weren't thinking while fighting." He looks up to study
Rhiannon thoughtfully. Apparently ignoring the Half-moon's gaze. "I was
just dropping by, Rhya," he notes to Sepdet.

In the kitchenette, Tatt glances back over her shoulder at the gathering
and catches sight of Rhiannon with a wink and grin. She turns her
attention back to the dishes, contentedly.

(Somewhere around here, Cat vanishes into the back bedroom and doesn't
return.)

Salem watches the Ahroun a moment more, then finally turns his gaze toward
the door. "Evening, Rhiannon," he rumbles. "Can I help you with
something?" He doesn't move to rise from the couch.

Sepdet leans against the counter, drumming a finger. "Actually, I think I
am going to steal your packmate for a bit," she tells John and Salem.
"Need to consult Tatt about something."

Tatt looks up from washing the dishes, wiping her hands off on her jeans
as she lifts an eyebrow curiously.

Salem glances over toward the two Striders. "I suppose," he says, "that
would be up to our alpha." Perfectly dry, perfectly deadpan. He doesn't
look at John.

John mutters to Sepdet, "Tribe supercedes pack." He shoots Salem a dark
look, but says nothing.

"Appreciate it." Sepdet raises a finger beckoning Tatt to follow, not
bothering to turn around. "I'm Sepdet, by the way," she tells Rhiannon,
her grave tones sufficing to give the name the weight she lacks. "Perhaps
later." With that she moves towards the door.

Bemused and slightly nonplussed, Tatt shoves both hands in her pockets and
follows in her tiny elder's wake--but not before throwing a rather
sheepish look to her packmates.

"Thank you for stopping by, Tatt," Salem says to the Strider in passing,
all grave courtesy. "Give Drew my thanks, if you see her?"

Tatt throws up an abbreviated salute to Salem. "Sure thing, amigo." To
John, she adds: "We gotta have some talks. Pack talks. You let me know
when y'all are healed up." With that, she goes back to following Sepdet.

"I'm fine /now/," John grumbles at the retreating Strider, but simply
waves a hand idly in the air and leans back into the couch wearily.

With the Striders gone, the cub vanished into the bedroom, and Rhiannon
departing as quickly as she came... the apartment is quiet. Except for
_Madame Butterfly_, that is, now quite audible with the lack of
conversation.

Salem lets his head rock backwards until it rests against the wall. He
inhales a deep breath and then lets it out. Slowly.

Next to him, on the couch, John just sits up and remains silent. After a
while, he murmurs, "Should probably shift, too, actually." But he doesn't.
"Bandages, though," he adds, in a murmur. Last time I got scraps all stuck
in my flesh. Had to pick 'em out." Idle trivia.

There is a knocking on the door from outside, followed by a loud voice.
"Yo!" That'd be Alicia. "Open up."

Salem grunts in reply, his gaze turned ceilingwards. It's a nice, plain
ceiling, not quite pure white. At the knocking, he closes his eyes
briefly. Just for a moment. Then he opens them, and with a jaw-tightening
grimace of pain, heaves himself to his feet and stalks, stiffly and
painfully, toward the door to let the Gaian in. As before, the shifted
Walker keeps out of sight of the hallway.

John just folds his arms, watching the doorway thoughtfully.

Striding in through the door is Alicia, making tsk'n noises in her throat.
"Word of the day is that you two killed each other." She says, turning
about face, glancing first to Salem, then to John.

"Hrnm," Salem replies, eloquently, as he shuts the door behind Alicia and
sets the locks and chain.

"I get killed a lot, these days," John murmurs mildly, looking up at the
ceiling for a moment. He takes a breath and eases back into the couch,
releasing it softly. "Moon was pretty full. Did us good to let it out."

"There's thumb wrestling, video games, monopoly. Who wants it first?"
Alicia says, sliding her gloves off, fingers flexing.

"Was that what it was," Salem murmurs, almost too quietly to hear. He
leans a hand against the wall near the door, looking at the two of them.
He nods Alicia toward the Ahroun. "He's alpha."

John shrugs, and eyes Alicia. "You got enough for two?"

"Baby, I got enough fo' three." Alicia says as she makes her way towards
John, placing her hands on his head. She begins to hum lightly in her
throat, a carefree tune, concentrating and tapping into the pool inside
herself.

Salem watches silently, Neanderthalish face set into a neutral mask, the
golden eye and pointed ears abruptly making his festures more animal than
human, though without the expressive body language of more wolfish forms.

After releasing John and getting a good look at him, Alicia makes her way
towards Salem, hinting a grin upon her face. Reaching out, she presses her
hands to his face, leaning forward to kiss him on the nose. Smooch. She
once again pulls forth the magic of Gaia and begins to heal her packie,
leaning her head back with a grin.

John closes his eyes, breathing deeply but slowly as his packmate works
her magic. He seems to relax, visibly. Then just watches blankly as she
moves over to Salem. There's a hint of a smile at the little kiss.

The moon's too fat, still, or too close to half. There's a flash of the
old, prickly temper as Alicia takes liberties, but he refrains from
jerking his head away; he doesn't even growl. Some of the tension eases
back as his wounds vanish, and as soon as the Gaian's finished, he shifts
back to human form.

Alicia lets Salem go and nods her head, then shifts her shoulders some.
"Anyone wanna talk about it?"

"Easy, bigfella," John murmurs faintly, closing his eyes again and resting
back in the couch. He shrugs slightly. "I provoked him. I was pretty good
at it."

Salem rakes his fingers back through his hair, roughly combing it back,
and then tucks the nightingale charm away under his t-shirt. He gives the
Ahroun a sharp glance, then looks away and leans back against the wall,
arms folded. He doesn't seem to have anything to add to John's
explanation, either to expound on it or refute it.

"Well, lets refrain from doing stupid things like that in the future,
especially on such a thick moon. Last thing we need is one of you killing
each other cuz' you can't hold back. So, I got the short, sweet version of
the story, what's the long one?" Alicia says, glancing between the two.

"Sorry, 'lish," John murmurs, opening his eyes and looking at Alicia with
a mild sympathy. "But that's between me and Jack. Not even for Pack."

Salem keeps the stone-face, his jaw tight, his expression tight and
closed. While he's not radiating the tension and anger of the previous
night, he's not relaxed. Control. Remember that control? It's in full
evidence now.

Furrowing her brows some, Alicia says pointedly. "That is such bullshit.
Complete bullshit."

John sighs slightly, and looks off to one side. "It's an Elder thing,
Alicia." He looks up at Salem, pointedly. "Gotta take care of your
people."

"By what? Kicking the shit outta 'em? So its an /Elder/ thing now? Do you
need me to get Andrea over here an ask you what happened? If you wanna
hide shit from me, fine. By all means, go off an kill each other. But
thats fucked up ya'ganna keep things from the pack like that." Alicia
says, growling under her breath, fingers clenching some.

Salem meets John's gaze, and some of the tightness in his jaw eases up. He
shifts his weight against the wall and studies the mingling of cockroaches
around the plate of cat food in the corner.

The corner of one of the Walker Elder's eyes twitches, and he scowls in
anger. "Alicia! Enough," he barks, rising smoothly, with his usual grace.
"I mean it. I'm grateful you healed us, and I'm happy to have you in the
pack, but this doesn't concern you, or your ability to depend on either of
us in battle. It won't be happening again."

The Gaian crosses her arms over her chest as she tilts her head to one
side, then rolls her shoulders in a shrug. "Fine, it doesn't concern me."
She says, heading for the door. "I'm going home, good night."

John sighs and barely keeps from rolling his eyes, as he grimaces. He
suffices for a pained look and murmuring, "Goodnight, Alicia. Thank you
for stopping by." He rubs at his temples briefly with thumb and
forefinger.

"I challenged Luke for Fostern by the way." Alicia says at the door,
opening it up. She glances over to John, then hitches a shoulder,
shrugging. "You'll probably be seeing him later. Wish me luck or
something." She heads out, letting the door close gently behind her.

"Oh crap," John murmurs softly, after the door closes. He looks over at
Salem, his mouth twisted wryly.

Salem inhales a deep breath, then lets it out, nice and slow. "Well." He
pushes off the wall and pads barefoot toward the kitchen. "Like a drink?"
asks the halfmoon, mildly. "I think Tatt left most of the tequila."

John has to consider that one for a while, in conflict. "I don't have
long... I was really hoping to come and talk, actually." He looks over
towards the kitchen sharply. "Minus the bullshitting and the sniping." He
rubs his temples again. "Fostern..." he mutters under his breath.

Salem pauses at the counter, fingers drumming briefly against the wood.
"On the fast track, obviously," he says, and then turns around, leaving
the half-empty bottle alone as he faces the Ahroun. "No posturing. No...
mn. No sniping. Right." He studies John's face as if attempting to
memorize every twist of scar.

John sucks on a tooth, and looks back over to Salem. "So." He leaves that
one hanging for a while, then adds, "How're you feeling, now?"

Salem considers the question, lips pursed, his tongue moving across his
teeth as though tasting the flavor of it. "Don't know," he says at last.
It's an honest answer, anyway. He leans back against the counter, hands
curled around the edge. His eyes narrow slightly, his gaze turning intent.
"How much of what you said was sincere, and how much of it was just...
ammunition to make sure the fight went quickly?" His voice is kept
perfectly neutral.

The Ahroun narrows his eyes slightly, as he considers. Being honest...
takes time. He wets his lips, chewing slightly on the upper before
gradually admitting, "Quite a bit, actually. I think you're fucked up,
Jack." He pauses a moment before tilting his head and adding, "Not /much/
more fucked up than me, but fucked up all the same."

That tightness shows up again in the line of the halfmoon's jaw. He takes
a moment to push the anger back down. He's not calm, but damned if he
isn't going to fake it. Even if it's obvious that he's faking it, and that
he knows it's obvious. "As it happens," he says, "I'm _not_ envious of you
and Rina. I wish you both the best. I always have."

John's eyebrows arch upwards slightly, and he reaches up to rub at his
face, wearily. "Figures," he mutters. "Fucking figures." He looks over at
Salem dully. "I said /most/ of it. Not all of it." He adds drily, "But
thanks."

Salem inclines his head slightly. "Welcome." Then he continues. "I've also
been an Ahroun almost half my life, and a Philodox for only a bit over a
year. Renouncing also doesn't make me any less of Luna's..." He stops,
grimaces faintly, and tries again. "Doesn't make me feel the moon's pull
any less."

"I don't believe in renouncing," John notes flatly. "I've heard the
stories, and I've seen one or two Garou who've done it. They're still
their birth-moons at heart. All it is is wanting to play a different role
in society. I don't think it's real enough to count. To /change/ anything
except your attitude. Or I would've done it years ago."

Salem's mouth twists sourly. He turns away to watch a cockroach climb up
the wall near the refrigerator. "We'll have to agree to disagree, then,"
he responds, with studied neutrality. "The spirits honor it. Our society
honors it, even if not all tribes look very highly on it. And I refuse to
go back." He returns his gaze to the Ahroun. A stubborn bastard. But John
already knew that, one presumes.

Which doesn't mean that the equally stubborn Ahroun won't try to meddle...
John sucks on a tooth again. "Why?" he asks, plainly.

And again, the narrowed eyes, the blind one turning to a mere sliver of
white within the shadowed socket. "Why'd I renounce?"

John says "Yeah. But also... and more importantly, why won't you go back?"
John studies Salem thoughtfully.

There is something within Salem which is, always, reluctant to share
things like this. It's the Shadow Lord upbringing, probably, the kind of
society where to reveal weakness is to be destroyed by it. So it takes him
a moment to answer, to drag the words out and lay them out on the table.
"Four years ago," he says, "I was losing myself to the beast. Fighting
frenzy when the moon was barely half. During full?" He grimaces. "I didn't
even go _out_ on the full. For anything. And I'd _still_ wake up in blood,
or worse." He pauses a moment, wiping a hand over his mouth as though
trying to rid himself of a bad taste. "Before that, you had a cocky,
arrogant, _stupid_ pure-bred bastard who was so busy covering his claws
with the enemy's blood that he forgot that he wasn't invulnerable, or
about the dagger poised at his own back. A Shadow Lord, and he forgot
this." He shifts his weight slightly, folding his arms across his chest.
"I Thralled on Malone once. Nearly killed a woman I _might_ have been
completely happy with... drove her away, in any case. Lost ability to a
battlescar from a _useless_ fight that I didn't even win, and then..." He
grimaces. "And eventually ended up the patsy for a pack of Wyrm-fetid
Garou who called themselves Glass Walkers."

John narrows his eyes, and wrinkles his nose. "Tough break," he grunts.
Then frowns slightly. "So... the renouncement... helped with the rage?"

"Different focus." Salem purses his lips, considering his answer and
studying a spot of air between the two of them. "Different path." He turns
his gaze back to the other Walker. "I saw where I was going, as an Ahroun.
I saw where that road was leading. And I didn't like it."

John looks to the side. "It's not the only road for an Ahroun," he grunts.
"Why not choose to live differently, but stay true to yourself?"

Salem doesn't answer that right away. He closes his eyes, his head
lowering as he rubs his thumb along the side of his nose. "True to myself.
Mnh."

John simply looks to the ceiling; staring into space while he waits for
the answer. Resisting the temptation to prod.

Salem finally sighs, wearily, and lets his hand drop away from his face as
he folds his arms again across his chest. Behind the mask -- which isn't
much of a one at the moment -- he looks as though gravity's dragging him
down with the force of Jupiter's pull. "Shit," he says quietly, and then
suddenly grimaces, baring his teeth in irritation. "Mother _fuck_."

John looks sideways with a mild curiosity at the vehemence in the
Tribesmate's curse. "Take your time?" he offers warily.

Salem shakes his head. "It's not that. I..." He rubs at the back of his
neck, his eye falling on the tequila bottle. He pulls his gaze away,
focussing back on the other Walker. "I don't know," he says, with a note
of bitter honesty in his voice. "I don't have the answers for that. Not
tonight. Not right now."

John doesn't look at Salem, but instead watches the ceiling again. "If you
can't get the right answers now, maybe the right answers don't exist
anymore," he murmurs. "Been drinking?" The last is added casually.

Salem grimaces at the question, irritation worming its way through the
weariness and self-doubt. "One glass of tequila with chocolate powder.
Tatt's idea of an old Mayan remedy or some such thing."

"Tatt's a marvel," John muses. "Let's try an easier question. Why'd you
renounce?"

Salem frowns slightly. Then pulls out one of the counter stools and takes
a seat. "After Vegas I was... feeling disconnected." He rests an arm along
the counter, not quite looking at the Ahroun. "Kept playing at anruth,
going Sept to Sept. Drifting. I don't think I knew _what_ the hell I was
doing, or planning." He grunts. "I almost decided to chuck the entire
thing, go Ronin again. Didn't have the energy for that, though, either."
He pauses, scratching absently at his jawline. "Spent the winter in
Boston, which I _don't_ recommend... either for the weather or the
political climate." His mouth twists into an expression of disgust. "I
finally went south around the first of the year, and stayed with some
tribemates at a Sept in South Carolina, and ended up having a long
discussion with another Walker there. Paula Stone, Speaks-Through-Pager."
One side of his mouth quirks upward at the deed-name, very briefly. He
solemn again a moment later. "She told me I was hanging on too close to
the ghosts of my past, who I was, and suggested that, perhaps, the last
thing I needed was to follow the full moon."

"Sounds... like it did the trick, maybe," John murmurs distractedly. His
eyes study Salem thoughtfully. "How'd you go about doing it?"

"There's a ritual," Salem says. "As I said, shifting one's auspice _is_
honored by the spirits. Otherwise there really _would_ be no point. It's
very solemn and very..." He drags fingers backwards through his hair.
"Ritualistic." A touch of dry humor, there, very faintly. "Pager even
taught it to me, afterward."

John sucks on a tooth awhile longer. "If you'd caught me two years ago,
you might've signed me up for the same treatment," he murmurs. "So. ...Why
Philodox?"

Salem taps his fingers absent-mindedly, and silently, against the
countertop. "It... seemed to fit. What I wanted. What I was... looking
for." His shoulders move in a mild shrug. "And none of the other auspices
quite fit. Galliard was too close to being an Ahroun. My connection to the
spirit world's too poor for me to make a decent Theurge. Ragabash?" He
snorts. "Can you _picture_ me as a no-moon?"

"My mentor of nearly ten years was a Ragabash," John notes mildly. "He
tended to be quite verbose on the versatile nature of the Auspice." He
pauses. "But no. Neither questioner nor trickster, nor scout, for you."
The Ahroun nods a few times. "What'd you learn from being a half-moon?"

A cockroach, drawn to the lure of cake crumbs, nears Salem's hand on its
way across the countertop, and the former Ronin lays his hand flat,
fingers spread, watching as the insect comes within feeler-distance of his
skin. "Temperance. Thought rather than action. Honor..." The roach
examines the Garou's skin for a moment, then scutters slowly around his
hand. "How to be a bit _less_ of a headstrong, overbearing asshole," he
adds, with a wry note of self-deprecation." He cants a sidelong glance at
John. "There's a _reason_ Jose called me the Devil. It wasn't just my
looks."

"I don't know anything about who called you what," John murmurs. "Only
that you had many names, at the Hidden Walk. And few of them flattering."
The Ahroun smiles slightly. "Well. Not any more, anyway." John stretches a
little, getting comfortable in his couch. "Tell me Jack... it may have
taken that catalyst for you to temper your own mettle... but those
properties of the halfmoon are only but a few. Have you considered their
place within the Warrior's own code?" A little more uncertainly, he adds,
"I try to incorporate them myself... do you think I manage it?"

"Well, I could take you to task for prematurely installing a sense of
fatalism in cubs..." Salem inserts enough dry humor into his voice to take
the challenge out of his words. He's not entirely joking, however. More
seriously, he says, "In general, though, I'd say yes."

John snorts faintly. "My mistake. He seemed so much like a Cliath already
I forgot that only Cliaths are meant to have it explained to them just how
crap our situation is - when they're already inducted." Also humour in his
tone... but not entirely joking. However... he returns his focus to the
answer. "Good. You think you could do it?"

Salem massages his forehead with the tips of his fingers, his eyes
squeezing closed in thought. "The mechanics are simple enough," he says
after a pause. "I'd have to find someone who knows the ritual, or teach
someone who doesn't. If I decided to do it... there's no question it could
be done." His eyes open as he lifts his head, fingers again combing back
through the long black hair. He regards the Ahroun somberly. "If. Because
this is not a decision I'd make lightly. I'd have to think about it.
And... unless Francisco decides to focus his attention again, it'll leave
the tribe without an involved Philodox."

"That's not what I meant," John grunts, watching Salem with an unwavering
gaze. "What I /meant/, Jack... is do you think you could uphold...
whatever it is you need to? Just... acknowledging yourself as an Ahroun,
instead? That's what's most important. I don't give a fuck about how well
you'll fight with us, or how dependable you'll be. Just forget about roles
for a moment, or fitting in /here/... That's not what I'm asking. This is
about..." He pauses, and rubs at his temples a moment. "Fitting in with
yourself, I guess. Don't really know how to put it."

"Hmnh." Salem leans back against the counter, arms folded across his
chest, his head slightly lowered. The corners of his mouth are drawn
downwards, pensive. "Possibly," he says eventually. His gaze is distant,
fixed on a spot somewhere between the two of them, a few feet from the
floor.

"I think... it's easier. You recognize /why/ you have your flaws. And
you... I don't know. Compensate. But you never lie. And you never have to
try to be anything other than what you are. It's very... straightforward."
John frowns, too. "Which doesn't mean you can't take on more roles... it's
just... yeah. Freedom, I guess."

"I'll..." Salem pauses to take in a breath and let it out. Inhale through
the nose, exhale through the mouth, air hissing between his teeth. He
meets the other's pale eyes. "I'll think about it."

John shrugs slightly, and nods a few times. "Consider it, yeah. I'm not
asking. Quite frankly, as long as you fight well, I'm not going to make
any more fuss. But just... I guess I feel obliged to make sure you're
turning out OK. In everything else. Just... as a Tribesmate." The Elder
idly cracks the knuckles on one hand, and considers the glove covering it.
"It'll always be up to you to decide whether you can face the
responsibility of returning to your the Auspice determined for you at
birth. And it'll always be your judgement that counts about whether you're
ready or not. Because honestly..." The eyes flick over to Salem. "You
don't let any of the rest of us know you well enough to judge for you."

"You, Rina, and Tatt have managed well enough despite that," Salem points
out, sardonically.

"I meant to make an accurate judgement." John wrinkles his nose, and lets
his head fall back for him to consider the ceiling. "Even though it's not
relevant..." the Elder murmurs absently, "It'd probably be better for
Francisco if he were the sole Halfmoon around here."

Salem grunts. "It doesn't do him any good if he's not willing to take the
opportunity offered." But then he shakes his head. "But no, it's not
relevant." His brow furrows. Considering.

"An experienced, powerful Garou who takes leadership where he can find it,
and is formidable enough to defeat the notion of a staredown? You're a
block in the path of timid young Frankie's progression, through no fault
of your own." John shrugs slightly. "One might even argue that he'd need
to overcome challenges like that, rather than back away... however. I
think Francisco and I need to have a chat at some point soon."

Salem arches a brow and, after a moment, nods once. "Haven't seen Leala
much, either," he remarks, rubbing at the back of his neck. The clock on
the bookshelf catches his eye, and he grimaces faintly at the time
displayed on it.

John looks up at the clock as well, and blinks once. Rubbing his eyes and
checking it again, then comparing to his watch, John mutters, "No wonder
Cat hasn't come out to interrupt. He's /sleeping/."

"_Now_," Salem mutters, sourly. "Before, he was probably too intimidated."

"Whatever. We'll fix it," John notes optimistically, pulling himself from
the couch. "In the meantime... early nights all round. Healing, as I
recall, usually tends to hit you like a sack of bricks in the stamina
department for a while."

Salem passes a hand across his eyes, then gets to his feet. "Yes. It
does." He laces his fingers together at the back of his neck and
stretches, teeth bared. "Nngh."

"Oh, and one thing before I go, Jack..." John's already making his way
towards the door, but pauses to turn, now. "The things I said to set you
off... the point I made about you being stiff, and a coward. Did that set
you off because it was the end of your tether... or did it really sting?"

Salem's arms drop back to his sides. He eyes the Ahroun for a moment,
almost warily, then grunts. "Little of both," he admits.

John nods quietly, reaching for the door. "Good. Because that stuff, I
meant." He opens the door and steps through. "Take care, Jack." The door
closes.

Salem grimaces, jaw tightening. "Fucker," he mutters at the closed door,
then goes to set the chain and turn the bolt before turning off the light
and collapsing on the couch. He even falls asleep.

Eventually.