"Quitting's for the good times."

[hazlogs]

Date: 10/29/02

Currently in Saint Claire, it is partly sunny. The temperature is 52
degrees Fahrenheit (11 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in
from the north at 9 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.18 and
steady, and the relative humidity is 61 percent. The dewpoint is 39
degrees Fahrenheit (3 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waning Half Moon phase (44% full).

The Farmhouse.

In the late afternoon, Quentin's settled in on the swinging bench; one
knee drawn up to his chest, his other leg hanging free and shoe toeing the
bench back and forth in an easy shift back and forth. He looks out over
the lane and the yard with a slightly discontented expression, gaze
distant.

A rust-orange Yugo rattles up the gravel lane leading up to the farmhouse
and parks. Salem emerges from it a moment later, and at first glance, from
that distance, everything looks normal. It's only as the halfmoon gets
near, stalking up to the porch, that the Walker cub can see that not all's
right in the world. Salem's expression is grim, even for him, and there's
a vague, subtle unkemptness about his clothes and the way his hair's
pulled back. Most of all -- and this only noticeable as he climbs the
steps -- is the definite scent of cigarette smoke.

There's something wrong even beyond the philodox's usual mood during this
phase of the moon, and Quentin can see it-- drawing himself from his
contemplation, the scent of cigarette smoke brings a frown to his lips.
Brows knitting slightly, he sits up slowly and slides both feet down to
stop the bench's swing. "..Salem-rhya?" A question inherent in that name,
his gaze concerned as he watches the cliath come up the steps.

Salem's eyes are hidden behind the familiar sunglasses, and Quentin's
image is reflected dimly and distortedly in the dark lenses as the older
Glass Walker stalks toward the swing. "Quentin. Good. Settling in?" His
tone's crisp, curt.

Quentin's hands drop down to rest between his knees as he leans forwards,
fingers sliding together in a loose clasp. "Yeah," he replies, lips
quirking a bit up at one corner although there's still concern in his
manner, "There's no.. phone or anything here, but, y'know, I'll live.
What's up?"

Salem's mouth compresses into a thin grimace, the muscles in his jaw
tightening. "You haven't heard, then." He pushes his hands into the
pockets of his coat. "John's challenge pack returned from Seattle," he
says, his voice low. "The survivors, did, in any case. John... wasn't one
of them."

"No, I.." Quentin pauses in mid-sentence as the philodox's words finally
sink in.. fingers sliding apart loosely to brush over his knees as he sits
up, slowly, just staring at him in silent disbelief for a few long
moments. At last he manages to get out, "I.. couldn't have heard that
right. Right?"

It hardly seems possible that Salem could look _more_ dour, but he does.
"You did." He reaches into his coat and takes something slim and black
which turns out to be a cigarette case. He extracts one of the plain white
cylinders -- no filter -- and puts it between his lips in a gesture that's
far too practiced to be new to him. Even if it's new to the cub witnessing
it. "John's dead." The case vanishes back into his coat.

For a moment, Quentin's brow furrows as though he can't even comprehend
that concept.. his lips moving as though to say something, before they
purse in a tight, thin line. "How?" It's a quiet, very small question as
he blinks up towards Salem from the bench swing.

Salem lights the cigarette from a book of matches, the kind obtainable for
free at most gas stations. "Don't have all the details," he says, after a
few puffs. He leans against the porch railing. "Dancers, I imagine, since
the pack was hunting them. Chaser-Never-Rests was killed as well."

From around the side of the house from the direction of the barn comes
Tobin. He's minus his jacket, oddly enough, and has apparently exchanged
it for a leather belt that has a rapier and main gauche hanging from it.
His hair is plastered to his head with sweat and he wears black leather
gloves on his hands. He slows as he spots the pair of Glass Walkers and
catches the tail end of what Salem said. "Ah, what was that about Chaser?"
he asks, warily.

Salem glances up, turning his head to regard the Silver Fang from behind
darkened lenses. "She's dead," he tells Tobin, curtly. "Along with John
Smith."

Tobin slows to a stop and blinks, once, at Salem. For the space of several
heartbeats he stands like that, completely still, then bows his head and
whispers something under his breath. It sounds like a prayer. When he's
done he looks back up at Salem. "I know you've probably been answering
these questions a lot lately, but...how? And when?" he asks solemnly.

Salem's mouth tightens slightly, almost irritably, but he answers the
question with a tone of voice that, if not perfectly courteous and calm,
is at least even and controlled. Grimly so. "They went to Seattle to hunt
and kill two Dancers. John's rank challenge. I don't know the details of
how it went to shit, but apparantly it did."

As Salem and Tobin have been talking, Quentin's just been sitting there
watching them with a rather.. unreadable expression, half-way between
confused and shocked. A deep breath is taken, exhaled, and he asks
quietly, "Rina?"

Tobin nods thanks at Salem, looking apologetic for pestering him, but grim
at the same time because of the news.

"Alive," Salem says, turning back to Quentin. He takes a drag on his
cigarette, exhaling smoke from his nostrils like a bad-tempered dragon.
"Not _good_, but alive."

Down the lane leading to the farmhouse, a lanky figure walks in off the
main road. Boots scuffing gravel under the late-afternoon sun, the
unmistakable visage of Tatt shrugs her shoulders beneath a bulging
knapsack and whistles a nameless tune. Right on cue.

Quentin grimaces slightly, and jerks his head in a quick, curt nod.
"Okay." His fingers splay against the edge of the bench, and he slowly
pushes himself up to his feet.. wavering a bit, taking a deep breath and
exhaling it. "..so's someone going to go find who did it and kill them,
right?"

Salem glances up at the sound, and upon spotting his packmate, mutters,
"Shit," under his breath. He looks back at Quentin, his shoulders tight.
He grunts in reply to the cub, the sound neither yea nor nay, then says,
"If they can be found." His scowl deepens. "Don't even know if the fucking
bodies were recovered."

Tobin's hand tightens on the grip of his rapier, though he leaves it
sheathed. He looks down the Lane when he hears Tatt whistling and just
completely fails to manage a smile for the Galliard. He just nods at her,
looking grim.

Tatt takes her own sweet time to stroll down the lane, noting Salem's Yugo
parked nearby with a glance. Shadowing her eyes with a hand, she squints
up at the porch as she draws near.

Quentin nods again, a hand raising to brush the tips of his fingers back
through the dark strands of his hair; the heel of his hand briefly
pressing to his brow, eyes closing. "Okay." A moment's silence, and he
murmurs, "Let me.. know if they find out anything else?"

"Will do," says Salem, and then straightens up from his lean against the
railing, turning toward the Strider once more. "Welcome back." The
greeting is flat, his bootsteps heavy as he clumps down the porch steps to
meet her partway.

Tobin stands quietly in front of the porch, off to one side.

Tatt shrugs out of her knapsack with a grunt and a grin at the foot of the
steps. "Hola, hombres," she rasps amiably. "I must say, this town's a
helluva lot nicer than Portland." The Galliard eyes her packmate, taking
in Salem's rather haggard appearance. "Que pasa, Jack?"

"Hey Tatt." The greeting from Quentin is rather subdued, as his hand falls
back down and he slumps back onto the bench swing heavily-- just watching
the 'adults' so to speak, still looking rather stunned.

Salem glances back up at the two on the porch, then looks at Tatt. "John's
dead. We got word a few days ago. Killed in Seattle, during the challenge
hunt." He delivers the news in a monotone, with the air of one who's had
to give this news more than once -- when giving it once was already once
too many times.

Tatt pauses and blinks, with a twitch like a horse bothered by a fly.
"..What?"

Tobin adds quietly. "Chaser, too, apparently." He's looking down at the
ground, meeting no one's eyes.

Salem takes a drag on the cigarette, exhales, flicks ash onto the gravel,
all quick, sharp, habitual-type gestures. He grunts, nodding at the Fang's
addition, though he never stops looking at Tatt. "He's not coming back."

"Salem-rhya?" A quiet question, as Quentin looks over and murmurs, "Don't
suppose I could have one of those?"

Wordlessly, the ex-Ronin reaches into his coat, takes out the cigarette
case, and holds it out toward Quentin.

"Get in line, kid," Tatt grunts in Quentin's direction, nodding towards
the cigarette in Salem's hand. "Hook it up, amigo. Quitting's for the good
times."

Salem obligingly hands a smoke over to Tatt, and the book of matches, too.
The cigarettes are filterless, plain white and hand-rolled.

The cigarette is braced between two fingers, and Quentin offers it
silently over towards Tatt. Since she has the matches.

Tobin doesn't have it in him to complain about the cigarette smoke.
Instead, he mutters some apologies to Tatt and the Walkers and goes inside
the house.

Tatt clamps the cigarette between her teeth and lights the match with a
practiced hand. "Y'know what the Wendigo kin up in Canada say about
cigarettes," she murmurs, almost to herself as she takes a drag and holds
the burning match out to Quentin.

Quentin, unlike the other two, has actually never smoked a cigarette
before. He figures now's a good time as any to start, though. The tip's
lit (awkwardly) on that burning match, and he brings it back to his lips
to take a drag on it. Naturally, he promptly doubles over coughing.

Salem gives the cub a look; in other circumstances, that might prompt a
wry, sardonic little smile from the halfmoon, but now he simply remains
dour. "What's that?" he asks Tatt, turning back to her.

The Strider Galliard eyes Quentin's reaction briefly, then glances at
Salem. "Burning tobacco is like making an offering to the dead," she rasps
quietly, the usual flash of light gone from her dark-gold eyes. Releasing
a heavy stream of smoke, she folds herself into a slouch on the bottom
porch step.

At least nobody asked him if he was alright. Quentin manages to catch his
breath after a moment, and gives it another try.. this time he actually
manages not to cough. Well, not too much. A cloud of smoke sliding past
his lips and dispersing on the breeze as he leans back, a sigh mingling
with it.

Salem grunts. "Makes as much sense as anything," he says, in a tone of
voice that suggests that _nothing_ makes much sense. He stares gloomily
into the distance, down the lane.

Tatt simply sits and smokes for a long while, pulling the carcinogens as
deep into her lungs as possible. Finally focusing her eyes again, she
asks, "...Chaser too?"

"I never even met her, I don't think," Quentin murmurs, his tone a bit
wistful, "I don't even know who she was."

"Chaser, too," Salem says quietly. He takes another drag. "Hardly knew
her, either, except that she was around when the caern was first
discovered and opened. So I heard, anyway."

Tatt closes her eyes, sharp features twisting in the most pained
expression she's betrayed so far. "Drew Miller," she quietly, passing a
hand through her shorn hair. "She know yet?"

Quentin drops silent again, taking a slow drag off the cigarette and
coughing out another stream of smoke.. fingers absently waving through the
wisps, dispersing them in a scattering.

Salem's face tightens. He leans back against the railing, unrelaxed,
shoulders hunched. Vulturelike. "Rina and I broke the news to her
yesterday," he says, not looking at either of them.

"She's pregnant," the dark-skinned Galliard announces flatly, rubbing one
hand over the intricate tattoo encircling her eye. "By Smith. This is
gonna kill her." Tatt's gaze stares into some middle distance, unhappily.

A blink, and Quentin looks back up towards Tatt with a slight furrowing of
his brow. He doesn't say anything, though, just takes another drag off the
cigarette.

Salem halts in the midst of bringing the cigarette up for another inhale,
turning to stare at Tatt, his face frozen. Stunned. "He... what?"

"You heard me," the Galliard grunts, pulling in another lungful of smoke.
She seems rather nonchalant.

"Christ." The oath a quiet murmur from Quentin, and he raises his free
hand to rub at his face again.

Salem's brain seems to have become stuck, caught in a kind of mental
General Protection Fault, and it's a few seconds before he finds his voice
again. "Does... does Rina know?" The cigarette dangles loosely between two
fingers, smoldering, forgotten.

Tatt lifts one shoulder, taps ash into her cupped palm. "By now? Probably.
Drew ain't one to keep things under wraps when shit goes bad." She bows
her head sharply, rubbing at the stylized feather inked down her right
forearm. "Just goes to show ya, _amigos_. We never know the full story."

The door catches halfway open as Sepdet steps out onto the porch, her hand
still gripping the handle. There's only the briefest wince as she walks
smack into nicotene happy hour, then she moves to shut the door behind
her. "And those that do can't talk," she mutters under her breath. She
nods to the others, but her eyes immediately seek Tatt's face as
instinctively as a New Ager scanning for the daily horoscope.

Quentin's elbows drop to rest on his thighs, the bench swing rocking
slowly back and forth as he looks down at the burning end of the
cigarette. A slight tap of the ash scatters to the wind, glowing embers
fading as they drift through the air. As the door opens, he looks up with
a wan smile, "Hey Sepdet-rhya."

Salem lowers his head, pinching at the bridge of his nose with his free
hand, his eyes squeezed closed behind the dark glasses. "...Christ," he
mutters. "Jesus fucking Christ on a _crutch_." He straightens up sharply,
then, as Sepdet arrives, and sucks down another lungful of smoke.

Tatt twitches perceptibly at the sound of her tribesmate's voice, and
lifts her head. The hand without the cigarette gives a tiny gesture of
greeting. "..I'm back, _hermanita_," she murmurs, as if this weren't
obvious already. "And no news is good news."

Sepdet gives Salem and Quentin a measuring glance, but the rest of her
expression is more open than usual. Tired. Worried. Irritable. Without
ceremony, she drops down on the step beside her tribesmate and slips an
arm loosely behind her shoulders. "Well. Not when something like this
catches up with us."

Quentin just nods his silent agreement. With Salem's words, with Tatt's,
with Sepdet's. It's hard to say, really. The cigarette is brought to his
lips, a harder draw on it and an exhalation of billowing smoke from his
lips. A slight cough. He's starting to get used to this.

Tatt's expression twists sourly, but she doesn't seem to mind her elder's
proximity. A glance towards Salem, and then Quentin. "I'd suggest you not
spread this one around, hey?"

Salem makes a 'hnh' noise that could mean anything, but the curt nod he
gives her is answer enough. "Fine," he says, flatly.

"I think," Quentin says quietly, gazing down at the tip of the hand-rolled
cigarette as it slowly burns down, "I've figured out the hardest part of
this job." A deep breath is taken, exhaled, and he murmurs, "It's the
secrets."

Tatt falls silent again, the cigarette dangerously short between her
fingers. A glance is thrown back towards Quentin. "..Close, amigo, but no
cigar." She pauses a moment to stub out the smoke and stow the end in a
pocket. "It's never getting a chance to say _adios_."

Salem merely grunts. Nothing else.

Sepdet's face is quiet and still, other memories written there too. "If
you need me to wander, for the sake of secrets, I don't mind. I do,
however, know about Drew. And complications." She looks over at Salem. "I
offer Gathering. And as far as I'm concerned, kin are welcome."

Salem takes a deep drag on his cigarette, the last, then does as Tatt did,
stubbing the end out and pocketing it. He exhales smoke, pushing his hands
into his coat pockets and turning to Sepdet, his face grim but otherwise
unreadable. "Good. I was going to insist on that."

Tatt glances aside at her tribesmate, nodding wordlessly. She only seems
tobe halfway present, however, and a grim line has set permanently between
her brows.

Quentin tips his head a little to one side, lips pursed as he considers
something.. and then asks, quietly and almost shyly, "Gathering?"

"I'm going for a walk," Salem states, rather abruptly. He doesn't wait for
acknowledgement before stalking off toward the backyard and the woods
beyond.

Sepdet seems a little distracted herself. "A rite to honor the dead and
give them a good send-off to their next journey, cub," she says gently.