In Regards to Cubs

[hazlogs]

It is currently 19:14 Pacific Time on Tue Oct 1 2002.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is clear outside. The temperature is 61
degrees Fahrenheit (16 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in
from the east at 5 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.29 and
rising, and the relative humidity is 47 percent. The dewpoint is 41
degrees Fahrenheit (5 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waning Crescent Moon phase (33% full).

Whispering Pines - Rhiannon's Apt.

Salem raps sharply on the kinfolk's door, then takes the moment or two
before she answers to remove his sunglasses and slip them inside his coat.

Rhiannon starts from her lounging position on the couch and groans.
Please, Goddess, not someone from the courthouse. After she's dragged
herself to the door and confirmed that it is, in fact, someone far more
welcome, she opens the doors and rubs her eyes. "Hey. What's up." Her hair
is something of a mess, and her clothes are rumpled--it's possible she's
slept in them.

Salem's brow furrows slightly, a frown tugging at his mouth as he enters.
"I didn't wake you, did I?"

Rhiannon clears her throat, and gestures for Salem to come in after
realizing she's left him outside. "No. I mean, yeah, but it's okay. I need
to get up and...do something besides sleep." She shakes her head a little
as she opens the door wider and steps aside, her customary alertness
dulled.

Salem looks dubious, but takes the marshal at her word, shedding his coat
as he steps over toward the couch. "Problems at work?" He's watching her
carefully, his good eye intent.

On her way back to the couch, Rhiannon detours long enough to ditch her
jacket and guns, then turn on the apartment heat. She makes a sound of
annoyance, and explains, "Just too much work, really. I've been doing the
whole 'three hours sleep in the chair at work' thing for a few days." She
sniffs at her arm experimentally, and makes a face. "Renee would be so
proud," she murmurs absently.

One eyebrow lifts, but Salem makes no comment on that. "Hm. Yes, you did
look rather... stressed, when you stopped by the other night." He settles
himself at one end of the couch, stretching long legs.

Rhiannon stares at Salem blankly, then blinks. "Oh, right, the
other--yeah. Sorry about that. Stupid idiocy with new people
and--nevermind. You just reminded what I was going to ask you, though."
She disappears down the hall into the bathroom for a moment, then emerges,
a hairbrush being pulled through her hair with brisk, sharp motions. She's
apparently waking up. "Have you talked to Quentin lately?"

Salem's expression darkens. "I did, last week, after an, mnh, informative
chat with Lyra out near the caern. Is he still moping?"

Rhiannon raises an eyebrow. "Informative chat?" She looks tempted to ask,
but tries to stay on track. "Okay, maybe I don't have all the pieces to
the puzzle. He's been acting like--well like Jeremy." The tone of her
voice isn't disgust, but it's a close resemblence. "Has someone been
giving him gloom and doom speeches?"

"John." There's a host of ambiguously mixed emotions in the way Salem says
that name. He sounds irritated, more than a bit resigned, and the look on
his face is both rueful and a bit bitter. He exhales a breath sharply.
"Unintentionally, he gave Quentin the idea that we were all doomed within
twenty years, and nothing could be done about it."

Rhiannon stops brushing her hair--it's almost untangled--and sighs,
rubbing the bridge of her nose. "Madre." She thinks for a moment, then
shakes her head. "And I haven't been around to try and counteract even a
bit of that." Her face twists for a second and she seems ready to kick at
the end table, but thinks better of it. "...Fuck," is all she can mutter,
finally.

"Yes. Well." Salem hunches his shoulders in a shrug against the couch
cushions, letting his eye fall on the cover of the nearest gun magazine.
He's not really studying it, just using it as something to look at. "I
talked to him a bit, once I'd heard. Both of them." His mouth takes on a
wry, sour little twist that doesn't look at all encouraging.

Rhiannon makes no effort to hide her obvious inspection of Salem's health.
"Well you're still alive," she observes dryly. "And since there are no
blood stains, and cops aren't crawling all over, I'll assume Quentin
either survived, or you cleaned it all up really well." Her exhausted
demeanor makes it difficult to tell if she's joking, or thinks the later
scenario is actually plausible.

Salem tilts his head in order to regard the kinfolk with a dark brown eye.
He does indeed look perfectly healthy, with no visible scratches or scars.
No new ones, anyway. "Quentin survived, yes." He's not smiling at all. In
fact, he's very _particularly_ not smiling.

"That's something." Rhiannon finishes brushing her hair finally, and pulls
it into a simple bun. This makes her merely look tired and dishelved, and
not like she's spent the night on the couch in her clothes. "And John?"
Her voice is cautious--she wants to know, but doesn't want to pry.

Salem grunts and looks back at the magazine. "Ah. Well. The moon was
nearly full, but the bunker's absorbed blood before without problem, so I
don't think it minded taking on a bit more." His voice is very carefully
neutral.

Rhiannon hmphs, and doesn't bother asking more about that subject. She
instead moves on to a far more interesting one. "And the uh, illuminating
discussion in the Caern?" Obvious interest there, and she appears bent on
hearing this story.

Salem purses his lips, pausing a moment before answering. "You know how...
sensitive Lyra can be, and idealistic. I gather that Quentin's fatalism
didn't... mix well." He shakes his head slightly and pushes a hand back
through his hair, shifting some of it away from his face. "She was...
upset," he adds, with a certain air of someone making a massive
understatement.

Rhiannon grimaces, but there's relief in her expression. "Well, there's
one Garou who's less likely to succumb to the Artax Syndrome. Here I was
afraid you were oing to tell me they'd been smacking each other around, or
something." The Kin jerks her head in the direction of the kitchen. "Want
anything? Water, soda, tea..."

"Artax Syndrome?" Salem eyes Rhiannon a moment, taking in her still-weary
appearance, then gets up. "Water's fine, but I can help myself. Can I get
you something, as well?"

"I don't suppose you've seen The Neverending Story?" Rhiannon asks with a
laugh that's warm enough to hold some humor. "And you can serve your own
water, but I'm going to make some ass-kicking peppermint tea." She's
determined, and pulls the steeper and canister of tea from a cupboard,
then follows this with a jar labeled 'SUGAR'.

Salem pauses on his way to the cabinet with the glasses, looking
thoughtful. "That wasn't the one with David Bowie in it, was it?"

"Well, you're close," Rhiannon says, amused. "Same director. It's the one
with the big white oriental dragon and the kid and the book, and the
strange 80s music." She pauses, and adds thoughtfully, "And a
wolf-creature that looks a lot like a hispo Garou."

"Ah. Didn't see that one. Not all the way through." Salem has little
problem finding what he needs, once he's figured out where the glasses
are. The locations of ice and water are generally standardized, after all.
"So. What's Artax Syndrome?"

Rhiannon sets a tea pot with water to boil, and takes out a massive white
coffee mug, easily capable of holding 2-3 regular cups worth in it. Into
this she places the packed steeper, and now all she can do is lean against
the counter and wait for the water to boil. "Artax is a horse, in the
movie. He's the hero's trusty steed, if you will. If you want to get
really philosophical like my mom, he's representative of undying loyalty
and devotion." There's a bit of grimness about her as she continues, "In
the movie, they have to travel through a swamp, called the Swamp of
Sadness. Supposedly, if you ever let the 'gloom and doom' of the swamp
overcome you, you'll be so filled with despair that you sink to your
death."

Salem joins the kinswoman in leaning against the counter, sipping water as
he listens, grave and attentive. One brow lifts slightly at the
explanation of the horse's symbolic meaning. "Hm."

"You can probably guess where this is going. Artax just can't take it
anymore, and so with the hero screaming and crying and begging him to not
give up, he tragically sinks to his death." After a moment of
contemplative silence, Rhiannon adds, "It's pretty fucked up, as movie
angst goes."

"Not to mention a children's movie," Salem remarks, dryly. He swirls the
ice around in his glass. "I'll be keeping an eye on Quentin," he says,
after a moment. "Previous to this, I thought him all but ready for Riting.
But until he knows what he's fighting _for_... there's no point."

"You and me both, hermano." Rhiannon examines the kitchen floor, as if it
holds secret answers to the plight of despair, but gives up when the tea
kettle begins its low whistle. "Anyways. I'll see if I can get him to talk
to me. I can't believe, after all I've talked to him about, he'd end up
listening to that line of garbage."

Salem grunts. "Not that surprising. John can be... very persuasively
charismatic, at times." He pauses with the glass halfway to his lips, his
expression turning pensive for a moment, his eyes narrowing. Then the
moment passes, and he takes another sip of water.

Rhiannon doesn't seem satisfied with that explanation, but she occupies
herself with pouring the water and mixing in several helpings of sugar
before commenting. "Convincing or not, he needs to keep his brain
functional as well as his ears open. Stay focused, and not let anyone
convince him of anything." She's about to sip from her mug, and stops.
"Listen to me, wanting a teenager to be less impressionable."

One corner of the Garou's mouth quirks upward at that. "Mnh. Yes. It's
easy to forget that they're only fifteen."

"Fifteen, going on thirty," Rhiannon murmurs into her mug. It smells a lot
like liquid peppermint gum might, with all the sugar she's added, and the
Kin takes a healthy swig.

"Whereas Cat's fifteen going on six, some days," Salem responds, dryly.

Rhiannon raises an eyebrow. "Not making any forward progress?" She's
surprised, and a little disappointed. "I'd've thought the kid could maybe
toughen up just a bit at least."

There's an air about Salem of a person choosing their next words
carefully. "It's... slow. I've been pushing him to get out of the building
more, and Rina's planning to teach him how to shoot. But he's still...
mnh. Rather timid."

Rhiannon sighs, and drinks more of her tea. "Think he can hack it?" she
asks skeptically.

Salem's expression is studiously neutral. "I haven't decided yet," he says
evenly, swirling the ice cubes around in his glass again.

Rhiannon nods. "Well, here's hoping he can, eh?" She raises her mug
slightly, and takes another drink in a mock salute. The sugar is
apparently waking her up. "So, anything else exciting happen? Did Tatt get
into the rest of my clothes and throw them about willy nilly?" She still
seems amused over the whole incident.

Salem lifts his own glass, returning the salute, and then looks wry at the
change of subject. "Ah... no. Then again, I haven't brought her by since
then, so." He manages to remain almost perfectly deadpan while saying
this, and sips his water with an air of dignity.

"Which still leaves Quentin, of course. He got along with her, from what I
can tell." Rhiannon's expression doesn't indicate if this is a good thing,
or not.

Salem snorts. "Of course he did. She mocks his elders, and gets away with
it." In truth, though, the Walker does not seem all that upset. "The thing
about Tatt is that she might be a Galliard, but there's a good deal of the
Ragabash in her as well. Which is good, because the pack needed a
trickster." He pauses a beat. "No offense meant to Leala, of course."

Rhiannon makes a neutral sound. "Too much coyote, not enough levity, if
you ask me. But I don't have to pack with her, so it doesn't matter, I
guess."

Salem looks sidelong at her. "Next time," he promises, "I'll keep her out
of your underwear drawer."

Rhiannon waves her hand. "If that were the worst of it, I don't think I'd
care. We didn't meet on, uh, amicable terms, though." She's saved from any
immediate explanation of that incident when the phone rings.

Salem arches a brow quizzically, but holds whatever question he was going
to ask, and instead simply sips water while Rhiannon goes to answer the
phone.

Rhiannon's voice is a little harried as she picks up the phone and
answers, "This is Mac."

Salem lets his attention wander. He can't help but eavesdrop on Rhiannon's
side of the phone conversation, at least not unless she heads off to
another part of the apartment, but he does a tolerable job of pretending
not to listen.

Rhiannon frowns, puzzled, but her expression clears. It's not work,
apparently. After a moment, she says, "Still just Quentin. Why?" She puts
a hand over the receiver and tells Salem in a low voice, "It's John."

Salem's eyebrows lift slightly. He grunts, then nods. No further
commentary.

Rhiannon says into the handset, "Anyways. No sign of Jacob or Francisco
lately. Anyone you're looking for?" She's very clearly not revealing
Salem's presense unless asked.

Salem drains the last of the water from his glass and then falls to
studying the way the remaining, half-melted ice cubes slide back and forth
at the bottom.

More surprise from the Kin. "New family?" She pauses for a moment, then
says slowly, "Well, no one in *our* immediate group, but a...distant
relative. Yeah, things are fine."

Salem glances up at mention of 'family', one eyebrow on the rise.

Rhiannon looks over at Salem, and points at herself as she describes
someone. "Last time I saw him, his hair was green. I hear that's changed,
though. He's lanky, and got a tattoo on his neck and arm. A punk, really."
Her voice takes on a distinct edge as she suddenly says, "Tell me you're
not watching him shoot up."

Salem continues to look... interested. And he continues to keep quiet as
well. He ends up tipping one of the ice cubes into his mouth, letting it
melt there instead of at the bottom of the glass with its sibling.

"Not our responsibility," Rhiannon tells John flatly over the phone. She
relents almost immediately, and says, "Directly, anyways. He's a relation
of a good friend, our kind of relation. I helped him out at one point. But
he's also trouble, and has the world's biggest problem with authority of
any kind." There's definite dislike in her voice, whoever she's talking
about.

Rhiannon hmphs, and finally says something that makes sense. "Kin. Gnawer,
specifically."

Salem, for once, refrains from wrinkling his nose or looking distainful
when the G-word is mentioned. Instead he simply sucks on the ice cube, his
expression unreadable.

"Sure thing. See ya around." Rhiannon hangs up the phone, and scratches
her chin. "Well. Interesting, looks like a friend's cousin has meandered
up this way. Hopefully, I'll never see him."

Salem crunches the remainder of the ice cube between his teeth.
"Troublemaker?"

"To put it lightly," Rhiannon says bitterly. "More like, trouble
attractant. He's got zero respect for any laws not related to being Kin. I
can't *stand* him, and if he'd not been related to a friend, he'd be
sitting in Quentin. San Quentin, that is." She corrects herself after a
moment, looking amused at the joke.

Salem actually does blink slightly at the 'Quentin' bit, until she
elaborates. Then he grimaces. "Sounds lovely. What did he do to make John
call you?"

Rhiannon frowns slightly, and meanders back towards the kitchen, for more
tea. "He didn't say. Maybe nothing more than a name. I *hope* nothing. I
can't stick my neck out for him twice."

"Lovely," says the Glass Walker again. He straightens up from his lean
against the counter and deposits his glass in the sink. "Well, I'm sure if
it's more, John can take care of it."

"Your mouth, Gaia's ear." Rhiannon finishes off the first mug of tea, and
prepares the steeper for more. "In any case. He's a smart kid, generally
speaking, and I suppose worth the trouble when the shit hits the fan.
Which it has, many times." She dismisses the problems with a wave. "Kaz
can handle him, though, I'm sure. He doesn't fuck with Gnawer Elders, at
least."

Salem's eyes narrow. "When she gets back. _If_ she gets back." There's
doubt in his voice. "And Elan never comes out of the woods anymore."

Rhiannon stops in the middle of filling the mug with more water. "If? Has
nobody heard from her?" She's pretty concerned at this point.

"The last _I_ heard, she was planning to spend time at the Green, but that
was back around the time that Lyra had just returned from there." Salem
folds his arms across his chest, frowning slightly. "If she's in the city,
I haven't seen her. Of course, Yi or Renee, or even Lyra, may know
differently."

Slightly reassured that Salem's news doesn't use the words 'dead' or
'vanished', Rhiannon finishes filling the mug, and starts adding sugar.
"Hm. I'll have to ask one of them, next time I can."

Salem nods, his expression somewhat sour. "For their sakes, I hope she
does return. The tribe needs her." Then he shrugs, giving a glance down to
his watch. "Then again... in past, Kaz was a wanderer. She may have
decided to return to that."