Is She Ready?

[hazlogs]

It is currently 10:53 Pacific Time on Sun Sep 29 2002.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is mostly sunny today. The temperature is 53
degrees Fahrenheit (11 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in
from the southwest at 13 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.83 and
rising, and the relative humidity is 74 percent. The dewpoint is 45
degrees Fahrenheit (7 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waning Half Moon phase (49% full).

Location: Harbor Park -- The Meadow

The ex-Ronin's tall, saturnine form is seated on a park bench with a view
of the river. In dark glasses and trenchcoat, he puts forth an image of
intimidating calm; the other Sunday-morning park-goers leave him well
alone, and there's a wide space of isolation around him. A copy of the
Sunday paper sits on the bench next to him, all but the Classifies
section, which he's currently reading.

Luke has spoken with Salem before, albeit just once, so he'd have a face
to put with the name even if Salem _didn't_ carry around a reputation that
speaks almost as loudly as his breeding. The young man approaches the
bench, picking up the rest of the paper and taking a seat. "Borrowing the
boss's office, I take it?" he asks lightly.

Salem glances up sharply, small muscles tightening in his scarred face.
His eyes are invisible behind the dark lenses, and his expression is
unreadable. "Pardon?" His voice is cool, polite but chilly.

Luke shakes his head. "Nothing important. Like I told you on the phone, I
want to ask your opinion of a mutual acquaintance of ours." He leans back,
giving the area around them a scan, less than thrilled that the park has
other occupants, even if they aren't nearby.

Salem folds up the classifieds neatly and sets that section of the paper
down on the bench between them. "Alicia?" He folds his arms across his
chest, his voice pitched low enough to prevent casual eavesdropping.

Luke nods. "Alicia," he agrees, volume matching the Phildox's. "I want to
hear what you consider her strengths, what you consider her shortcomings,
and overall, how that influences her readiness to be Fostern." The rest of
the paper sits in his lap, the funnies page pulled to the top for easy
access.

"Hrm." Salem looks out toward the river, lips pursed. "She's got spirit,"
he says after a moment. "Energy. She's a dependable packmate. She's...
enthusiastic, for a certainty." He pauses, frowning, pensive. "Her
emotional state can be..." He's searching for the right word. "Extreme,
sometimes. But she is what she is, in regards to her moon, and being, mm,
passionate is not necessarily a shortcoming."

The Fostern's expression turns to one of mild amusement. "It isn't? Well,
that's good to know." Being passionate is one of the defining
characteristics of the Fianna tribe, after all. "I'll come back to that
question in a little bit. Tell me about the purpose of your pack, and
about Alicia's role in it."

One side of the Walker's mouth quirks upward, ever so slightly. "Our
heart?" He considers his answer for a moment before letting it stand. "She
and Tatt both make sure that the rest of us don't get too... serious. In
addition, Alicia acts as our healer. She's patched us up on more than one
occasion."

"Your heart." The Fianna seizes on that. "Tell me about that. How? What
does she do? Give me an example, if you need to."

Salem runs a thumb along the line of his jaw, over the short,
neatly-groomed black beard. "Hmm." He thinks for a moment. "She's young.
The rest of us... we've been in this war for years. We're all a bit
cynical, except for Alicia. She's not naive, mind you. Just... less
battered than the rest of us."

Luke frowns faintly. "Let me try another question now. Is she already
acting at the next level, doing what she can to take on the
responsiblities that will go with being Fostern?"

"Hmnh." Salem shifts his weight, stretching his legs out in front of him
and crossing them at the ankles. "In this... town, with as few elders as
we have, that's a loaded question. Other places, Fostern just means a
level of competence and experience beyond the freshly Rited. Here, that's
a position of responsibility."

"Yeah," the Theurge agrees. "I know."

Salem is quiet for a moment longer, pondering his answer gravely. "...If
you accept her challenge, it will have to be a good one. Something that
will test her. _Really_ test her. And teach her something if she fails."

Luke says "That's why I'm talking to the people who know her best. She was
my packmate, once, she's also my friend. But I only see one part of her.
And that's not enough for something like this. I have to be able to see
her as her pack sees her, as her tribe sees her, as her friends and her
rivals see her."

"She's ready," Salem says, firmly. "Ready to face the test, in any case."

The ghost of a smile plays about the Fianna's lips. "And that, I think, is
all I really need to hear you say." He slides the parts of the paper he
was holding from his lap back to the bench between them. "Looks like I
won't be borrowing this from you, after all."

Salem unfolds his arms and makes a waving gesture toward the paper. "Take
it. I'm done. Bring it down to the farmhouse, or something."

Luke shrugs as he gets to his feet. "Sure, why not. Some of the cubs might
like knowing what's going on in the world, since they don't always get to
see more than our slice of it. Most of 'em'll just read the funnies, but a
laugh can do people good."

"Indeed," the Glass Walker replies, perfectly deadpan. He uncrosses his
legs and pushes to his feet, brushing off his hands as he does so.