"Mr. Aerhardt."

[hazlogs]

It is currently 11:42 Pacific Time on Fri Nov 1 2002.

Currently in Saint Claire, it's a sunny day. The temperature is 51 degrees
Fahrenheit (10 degrees Celsius). The wind is calm today. The barometric
pressure reading is 30.25 and falling, and the relative humidity is 48
percent. The dewpoint is 32 degrees Fahrenheit (0 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waning Crescent Moon phase (25% full).

Location: The Farmhouse

[Salem]

Tall and dark, he stands a few inches over six feet, a well-built and rather
dangerous-looking man somewhere around thirty years old. A mane of thick
black hair, usually gathered into a loose ponytail that hangs nearly to the
middle of his back, frames a somber, hawkish face, the left side of which is
twisted by scars. If not for this disfigurement, he could be considered
handsome -- albeit in a dour, moody, saturnine kind of way. His face is one
designed for brooding and cynicism, and the short black beard that lines his
mouth and jaw makes him look all the more satanic. The dark sunglasses don't
help, either. In short, he has the look of the very devil about him, or of a
Christ figure gone bad.

His attire is strictly monotone, black on black, plain t-shirt and BDU pants
and combat boots that have been well broken-in. Something hangs from a cord
around his neck but is tucked away under the shirt, out of view. The tails
of his long black winter coat hang just past his knees, thick and
voluminous, cloaklike, with a hood that's usually down.


In the back of the house, Luke says "Would be if I were the _only_ one
helping you. But so long as you get a few others, too, then one of the
bodies can be mine, I figure. If you'd rather I didn't, though, I'll just
ask you for the stories after you're done."

Salem lets the front door slam shut behind him, pausing just within the
farmhouse to remove the dark glasses and tuck them into an inner pocket of
his new winter coat.

In the back of the house, A slight blink, then, and Quentin looks at her for
a moment. "..but.. well.. you mean, like, right now?" He looks a bit
deer-in-headlights now.

In the back of the house, "No, when you are ready." Alicia says, giving
Quentin a pat on the head. Glancing over, she spies Salem. "Speak of the
devil."

Salem follows the sound of voices toward the back of the house. His eyes are
shadowed, his mood still rather dour.

Luke's expression is amused as Quentin is put in the spotlight and squirms.
He's been there before. As Salem enters, the Walker elder gets a nod of
greeting.

Quentin clears his throat, glaring briefly at Alicia as she pats his head. A
hand lifts, fingers raking back through his hair to get it back in order
even as he looks up towards the arrival of Salem.

"Ey' Salem." Alicia greets from the table as she swivels herself about in
the chair to face him. "Whats the haps?"

"Morning," Salem greets curtly, shrugging out of the big black coat. His eye
lingers on Quentin for a moment, and then he turns to Alicia. "Nothing new,"
he tells the Gaian, dumping the coat over the back of a chair. "Came by to
see how Quentin was doing."

A brow quirks upwards at the reason for Salem's arrival, before Quentin just
lifts one shoulder in a shrug to respond. "I'm alright. Just got back from
the morning jog with 'licia a little while ago.." He leans both elbows down
on the table, chin resting on folded hands as he asks, "..how're you holdin'
up?"

The front door opens, and the sound of footfalls approaching the kitchen can
be heard. A moment later, Jarred appears in the entrance way, his face its
normal mask of impassivity. He glances around the room before grimacing.
"Has anyone seen Raven? I swear, that cub is better at hiding than almost
anything else..." His eyes light on Salem and he nods once, a gesture that
conveys respect as well as condolences. To Luke, then to Alicia, he also
offers polite nods.

Salem rests a hand on the back of the coat-draped chair, his eye going back
to Quentin. He looks somewhat less haggard than he did a few days ago, but
there's still no humor in him, and he still smells like cigarettes. "Fine."
He's about to say more when the Shadow Lord arrives; Salem straightens, his
eye lingering on Jarred for a moment before he inclines his head, greeting
with a polite, "Mr. Aerhardt."

A handsome young man of 25 years, Jarred's coal black, shoulder-length hair
frames a swarthy, clean-shaven face. His dark eyes seem to appraise his
surroundings with a carefully architected aire of carelessness. A pair of
jeans taper down the lower half of his 6'2" form, meeting a pair of
matte-black boots. An expensive-looking black crew neck sweater shrouds his
upper body. While he cuts quite an appearance of physical strength, he is
not overly large. He carries his frame and musculature with fluid grace and
ease. His every move suggests careful planning and execution, making him
seem at once relaxed and ready to fight. Upon his right hand a large emerald
glitters, set in a ring of lustrous gold. (Appearance 3, Pure Breed 3)

"Haven't seen her Jarred." Alicia says, taking a sip of her water bottle,
then glances about at the assembled party before her.

Luke stays quiet, munching on his sandwich. A tribesmate or a packmate has
every right to ask that question, but Luke's just an aquaintance, so he
stays clear of it. To the Shadow Lord, he replies, "Saw her the other day.
Sparred with her some. More goofing around, really. Have an exercise plan
written up for her, if you want to deliver it when you find her."

"Mm. Neither've I," Quentin admits with a tip of his chin up towards Jarred;
his head tilting further to one side then as his identity becomes apparent,
and the cub falls silent to study the man curiously.

Jarred smiles darkly. Actually, this may not be a dark smile, per se, but
Jarred has never been able to manage anything else. He walks forward a few
steps and regards Luke. "I'd be happy to deliver it to her. /If/ I find her
before the next Sept Moot, that is. Then, as if he can feel Quentin's gaze
upon his back, he turns slightly to regard the young man, though he says
nothing.

"Hey Jarred, nice story ya told me the other day." Alicia comments off hand
as she drifts her gaze over towards him. "Mind if I use it for my Fostern
challenge?"

Luke pulls a folded up piece of notebook paper out of his pocket and offers
it to the other Fostern with a chuckle. "From what I've seen of her, she's
probably worn herself out somewhere on the bawn and just decided to nap
right where she was at."

Kaz heads in the front door and flops onto the couch, before hearing voices,
raising her head to peer at them, and then ratcheting herself off the couch
again and making a beeline for the kitchen.

Jarred glances over to Alicia. "Your challenge is to tell a story? If so,
you might want to dress the tale up a bit. I spoke it to you mostly for
informational purposes. I wasn't much of a story, as such. John and Chaser,
however, deserve to have their story told. I have no objection if Salem
doesn't." He takes the paper from Luke quietly, sliding it into his own
pocket with a nod. "Salem. It is fortunate that you are here. I wanted to
extend an offer to you to sing the death songs of John and Chaser, if you
have not made other arrangements. I apologize for taking so long to seek you
out, but I have been... indisposed."

Salem nods toward Kaz as she arrives, then looks back at the Shadow Lord.
His mouth tightens slightly, but his answer, given as he pulls out and
settles into the chair he draped his coat over, his smoothly polite, if a
touch passionless. "I've been rather busy as well. Thank you, but Sepdet has
already made the same offer, which I've accepted."

Jarred cocks his head slightly, but simply answers, "As you wish."

Alicia wets her lips some with a faint grin, then rolls her shoulders slowly
back a bit. She ponders for a few moments, then goes back to sipping her
water.

Quentin's gaze slips away as the others speak with one another, and he nods
his chin upwards towards Kaz at her arrival. "Hey," he greets, with a quick
and faint smile.

"I would, of course, appreciate knowing the exact details of the mission,
and how it... went wrong." Salem folds his arms across his chest, still
looking at Jarred, his face unreadable.

Luke says, "Don't forget, you need to get a story about the tribe from a
member of that tribe, 'Lish." His voice is fairly soft. That _is_ an
important story, after all, but the terms of the challenge have to be met.

Kaz shoots Quentin a smile, and nods generally before heading to the fridge
to get a Coke.

The Gaian glances over to Luke and then furrows her brows a bit. She opens
her mouth to say something, but decides against it, wisely. That was
obviously frustrating.

Jarred returns the Glass Walker's gaze levelly. "I'll tell you whatever you
want to know, naturally. When the time is more appropriate. Has Alicia told
you what I realted to her some days ago? Or will I be starting from
scratch?"

Kaz asks, as she's closing the fridge, "Why ain't it appropriate now?"

Salem breaks the mutual gaze in order to tilt a look at his packmate, then
returns his eye to Jarred. "We haven't had much chance to talk," he says.

Alicia dips her head forward. "This is actually the first time I've seen
Salem since everything went down." She admits.

Jarred doesn't look at Kaz as he answers her. "It just isn't. I'm not here
to perform for anyone. Salem, understandably enough, isn't asking for a
fireside story. He simply wants to know the details of what happened."
Again, the Shadow Lord inclines his head, looking deep into the Glass
Walker's eyes. "Is there some reason you will not avert your gaze? Are you
trying to initiate a staredown with me?" It's not an accusation. Merely a
question.

Luke offers Alicia a faint, apologetic smile as she looks his way. His
attention turns Kaz's way at the question, and he answers, "Some things
should get told to pack and tribe, first, too." He might be agreeing with
Jarred, but the Shadow Lord's response -- to both Kaz and Salem -- earns him
an irritated look from the Fianna.

Kaz shrugs. "I dunno, sometimes I can tell people shit without it becoming a
performance. Then again, you prolly think I'm far too casual about most
shit, so I'll leave you to your pissing contest, instead."

Quentin just shakes his head, leaning back in his chair with a sigh and
stretching both arms back to fold behind his head. He watches the two, Salem
and Jarred, with a half-resigned, half-curious expression.

A faint groan is heard from the Gaian's lips.

There's a beat. Then the Walker Philodox tugs his mouth into a thin smile,
his expression wry. He passes a hand across his eyes. "My apologies. I
wasn't aware I was being rude." The smile's gone almost as soon as it
appeared, and in a smooth motion, he pushes his chair back and stands.
"Quentin, will you join me in the barn, please?" It isn't a request.

Jarred ignores the Gnawer, as is his usual tack. "Do contact me when you are
ready to hear what I have to say, Salem. Again, my sincerest condolences the
loss to you, your pack and your tribe."

Kaz pops her Coke open and finds a chair. "Y'right, though, Luke. Shoulda
thought of that. Guess I'm just... well, nosy."

It's with a slight grimace that Quentin lets his arms drop back down again,
and with both hands on the table's edge he pushes himself up to his feet.
"'Course, Salem-rhya," he acknowledges with a tip of his head over towards
the philodox, stepping aside to push the chair back in with his foot.

Kaz murmurs, "Catch you later," to the Walkers.

After finishing off the bottle, Alicia slides out of the chair and heads for
the sink, opening up the cupboard beneath it and drumps the finished plastic
container inside.

Luke chuckles a bit at Kaz. "Goes with the territory, I figure. Proper time
and place, though, and all that. How've you been, anyway? Haven't seen you
in a while, though I caught up with Yi a little while back. And ran into
Julie, who I hadn't seen since I was a cub."

Kaz pauses. "You want the real answer, or the polite one?"

Salem retrieves the massive black coat from the back of the chair and dons
it again. He inclines his head to Jarred in acknowledgement, then stalks out
the back door without further word.

Big Red Barn

The barn is built in the old style, a vast three level structure that is
greater in height than a mere three stories, actually closer to five. Great
wooden posts support the weight of the upper levels and roof, sunk into the
hard-packed dirt floor of the first level like a sparse forest of regularly
spaced, naked trees. The stalls and flagstones which once were here have
been torn out to leave a rather open area where even crinos Garou may roam
freely without fear of running into anything but the supports or the walls
or the ladder at the back which allows access to the other two levels.

The first two levels are relatively open to each other, the second being
only little wider than a catwalk going around all the walls but the front
one, which has massive, twenty foot tall doors set into it. The third level
is a true second floor except for a place cut out that allowed hay to be
tossed down to the ground floor when the farm was actually worked. Now, it
is a hayloft where Garou can sleep outside of the house.

Salem has already removed his coat again by the time Quentin arrives and is
in the process of unstrapping his watch. "Has Luke spoken to you about the
Pattern Spiders at all?" he asks. His voice and expression are flat, all
business.

"No," Quentin replies with a slight shake of his head as he walks along into
the barn, glancing over to consider the philodox a moment before admitting,
"I haven't seen him since we talked, until just this morning.. and he was
mostly talking with 'licia about her challenge."

Salem grunts. "We'll take care of that in due time. For right now... I was
planning to leave your combat training in John's hands, but for obvious
reasons..." His mouth tightens. "That's not going to be possible. And unless
I'm mistaken, you still haven't had much in the way of hand-to-hand
training."

Quentin grimaces slightly, "He'd mentioned it, but.. yeah." A shake of his
head then, as he agrees in quiet tones, "Not really, no. I'm a decent shot
with a gun, but that doesn't do much to one of us."

Salem faces the cub in short sleeves, massaging his knuckles. "No, it
doesn't. All right. We'll begin with the basics, then."

It's a much less harsh lesson than that time in the abandoned warehouse, the
night that ended up with the bullets and a near-frenzy. Simple stuff -- how
to fall without breaking his neck. How to block a punch. How to throw one.
Et cetera. He's a patient teacher, showing no irritation whenever it's
necessary to repeat an instruction or demonstration, but there's no warmth
in it.

The cub's inexperience in such things is evident, as more than once he ends
up flat on his back or swearing under his breath after accidentally hurting
himself; too, though, is his determination. Every time, he picks himself
back up and applies himself to try and learn what he did wrong, and do it
right this time. If nothing else.. the news about John has reinforced that
this is serious business. And he'll be damned if he doesn't treat it
seriously.

'Sides. He'd rather not end up dead in his first fight. Lyra'd kill him.

Salem finally breaks off. He's hardly winded, and barely seems more ruffled
at the end of the lesson than he did at the beginning. Then again, the
usually tightly-wound halfmoon is more ragged around the edges these days.
"Take a few minutes," he says. "Sit down. And tell me what else you've been
up to while you've been living here."

Quentin, on the other hand, takes a deep breath and lets himself fall back
onto the ground-- leaning back against one of the wooden posts, the back of
his skull thunking against its structure. A knee drawn up towards his chest
as he reaches down to massage his ankle where a bad fall twisted it a bit,
he replies, "Mm. Mostly I've been workin' on Roger's story. 'Licia's been
taking me out running every morning like Rhi used to.."

Salem bends down, fishing into an inside pocket of the discarded coat,
taking out the cigarette case and cardboard book of matches. "Mm. How close
are you to finishing?" he asks, while lighting up.

"Just putting on the last few touches," Quentin replies, raking one hand
back through sweat-dampened strands of hair and admitting quietly, "The
last.. part was a little hard, it was mostly notes from my talk with
John-rhya."

Salem nods, letting the case and matches drop on top of the thick coat.
"Think you'll be ready to tell it next week, perhaps?" He regards the cub
levelly.

Quentin's hand drops back down to his knee, glancing after the cigarettes
briefly before tearing his gaze back up to Salem's face and offering a wan
smile. "Yeah, I will."

Salem sets the cigarette between his lips and takes up his things again.
Repockets the case and matches and shrugs into the big black coat. "Make
sure you take the opportunity to get really comfortable in the other forms,
too. You've got a better chance to do that out here, after all." He speaks
with the smoke dangling from his mouth, without undue difficulty. "You
should be back to the city fairly soon, if not at Whispering Pines. We'll
see. In the meantime, make the best of things, and so forth."

"I'm decently comfortable in lupus," Quentin admits, pushing himself slowly
up to his feet with a slight wince at the bruises, "I guess I should get
more used to crinos.." A lingering pause, "Ah. Don't suppose I could steal a
cigarette? 'Licia won't get me any."

Salem takes the dark glasses out, but pauses before putting them on, fixing
the cub with eyes that seem set deeper into his skull than before. "Don't
tell me," he says, drawing the words out, his voice skeptical, "that after
one cigarette you've developed a habit."

"..well, no." Quentin coughs a bit, straightening and glancing over
sheepishly, "Though, uh. Matt gave me a few."

Salem's eyes vanish behind darkened lenses. "Consider it something to look
forward to when you get back to civilization," says the halfmoon, and heads
for the exit. No smokes for the cub, it seems.

Quentin shakes his head a bit ruefully, moving to follow with the slightest
of limps out towards the yard. He could change and heal easily enough, but
he's not going to just now. "'Kay."