How Shit Went Down

[hazlogs]

It is currently 16:34 Pacific Time on Fri Nov 1 2002.

Currently in Saint Claire, it's a sunny day. The temperature is 70 degrees
Fahrenheit (21 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the
northeast at 6 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.15 and falling,
and the relative humidity is 25 percent. The dewpoint is 33 degrees
Fahrenheit (0 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waning Crescent Moon phase (23% full).

Wharf Street, Industrial Sector

An untidy sprawl of warehouses and the occasional factory, particularly the
power plant, spreads westwards, through several blocks around and west of
the wharves. The wharves themselves are decrepit, rotting from the river
inwards, though the landward ends are still maintained sporadically. Ash and
dirt and smoke cover everything in a dark film that dulls color and darkens
whiteness. Rainbows of small oil spills are nothing unusual in the warren of
streets and alleyways; nor is the presence of rust along metal eaves. In the
alleyways, huge trash bins are accompanied by oil drums, tires, and the
waste of decades of industrial carelessness. The smell of smoke from the
power plant overlays all; between smell and residue, all combines to lend an
air of desperation to the empty collapsing warehouses and one of depression
to those warehouses yet standing and in use.

This warehouse is as dark and dingy as any on this stretch of street, but
otherwise seems in remarkably good condition -- no danger of collapse in ITS
future. It's at the better end, as it were, of the area.

The Shadow Lord sits on a dark leather couch. The lights in Shadow's End are
dimmed almost to non-existence. Only a series of candles on the coffee table
light the area, undoubtely a meditation tool of some sort.

Salem, arriving on foot, pauses outside the converted warehouse to finish
and dispose of his cigarette before ringing the bell.

After a moment, a buzzing sounds and the door clicks open. Beyond it, a
single cargo elevator door opens into a spacious conveyance. In a corner, a
flashing red light indicates the presence of a camera.

The Walker doesn't even glance at the camera -- at least, he doesn't seem
to. The dark glasses make it difficult to tell. His body language is calm
and controlled as he steps in and toward the elevator, entering without the
slightest hesitation.

The door closes and after a few moments of movement, the elevator stops. The
door opens into Shadow's End. The Shadow Lord is standing nearby to greet
the visitor, though the lights are still rather dim.

Converted Warehouse - Shadow's End

Track lighting along the 30 foot skylighted ceiling in this spacious complex
accents the smaller sconces along the walls every 10 feet or so, keeping the
entire area adequately lit, even while allowing shadows to play in odd areas
during the night. Over all, the entire effect is dark and post-modern in
places, warm and inviting in others. On one side of the lower floor, a
spiral staircase leads up to a mezzanine that stretches along one entire
side of the place. Two suites with separate baths can be found there, nearly
a perfect match to the two downstairs. One of the downstairs suites is
larger than the rest, though all of them seem excellently appointed. The end
of the apartment nearest the entrance contains a large rec room with a
comfortable-looking sofa, several leather recliners and a high-end
entertainment system. The other end of the apartment contains an impressive
workout room, complete with free weights, and other assorted fitness
equipment. The center of the lower floor contains an open kitchen area. A
sprawling, dark-grey counter surrounds a set of expensive-looking burnished
appliances. Charcoal grey carpeting covers the floor and huge, vertical
blinds hang near the workout area, covering windows that stretch halfway to
the ceiling and overlook the river.

"Mr. Aerhardt," Salem greets, removing the sunglasses and tucking them into
an inside pocket of the massive black coat.

Jarred turns to return to the couch in the living room area, speaking as he
does. "Jarred, please. You say 'Mister Aerhardt' and I think of my
grandfather..."

Salem follows, folding his hands into his coat pockets. "Jarred, then. And
thank you for taking time out of your schedule." More of that perfect
courtesy, if rather flat. Then again, the former Ahroun hasn't had much to
be cheerful about recently.

Jarred says "Can I offer you something to drink?"

Salem shakes his head. "No, thank you." He approaches the couch but remains
standing, his eye roaming the interior of the warehouse for a moment.

Jarred gestures to a nearby leather arm chair. "Please, have a seat. I'll
tell you what you want to know. But first, I need to ask you a question.

Salem's gaze shifts back to the Shadow Lord, unreadable. Then he shrugs out
of his coat and takes a seat, stretching his legs out before him. "Ask."

Jarred says "At the farmhouse, I sensed accusation in your gaze, which is
why I mentioned the stare. I wasn't attempting to be hostile. You will hear
exactly how John and Chaser died, and the circumstances under which the rest
of us survived. But I would like you to be perfectly candid with me. I want
to know if you harbor any ill will toward me, or the others in the pack for
what has happened..."

Salem's eyebrows lift slightly at the word 'accusation'. "No," he answers,
with certainty. "Shit happens. Some survive, and some do not. I apologize if
my... curt manner earlier offended you. It wasn't my intention."

Jarred nods at the answer, seemingly satisfied, though he adds, "John
assisted in my own challenge for the rank of fostern. I owed him a debt for
that help, and I joined his challenge pack because I believed he had
greatness within him." He takes a long breath. "Very well, then. I'll
begin..."

Salem shifts his weight, folding his arms across his chest. He listens with
grave attentiveness.

The Galliard leans back into the relative comfort of the sofa, the light
from the candles making him seem older and more tired than before. "We spent
quite a few hours together in the van on the way to Seattle. Chaser drove,
to our emminent displeasure. Still, she would not take no for an answer. She
was, in some ways, a splendid Get -- stubborn, quick-tempered and proud. So
very proud. Just... not a particularly good driver. We made it, however,
after what seemed like an eternity. Chaser seemed to know exactly where to
go. For she was on the scent of her quarry and once set upon a course, she
was unstoppable..."

Salem nods once. His face remains solemn; his gaze has that intent fixedness
again. Not accusatory, but focused on every word.

Jarred continues. "Like a magnet, our prey drew us to herself. We wound our
way through successively worse parts of town, always making steady progress
towards the enemy. With every turn, our anticipation grew and Chaser became
more surly and focused. After a bit, she stopped talking altogether and we
rode in silence to what awaited us. At long last, Chaser brought the van to
a stop a short ways from a run-down looking apartment building. The air all
around was heavy with the stench of poverty and squallor... just the place
where a Dancer might make a comfy home. I remember as we all stepped out of
the van, the corruption of the place assailed our senses. Or perhaps it was
simply the nerves of one who expects to be fighting soon."

Salem makes a noise of acknowledgement, something of a grunt. Most likely,
he knows the kind of place Jarred's talking about.

Jarred says "John's role within the group was that of omega. If it has not
been, and he had led our group, I feel certain things would be different
today. He was not, however. That honor had fallen... had been claimed by
Chaser." The Shadow Lord grimaces here, with the memory of his general
dislike for Chaser and her heavy-handed tactics. "It was her decision to
enter the Apartment complex. At first she was going to do so alone, but John
asked to come with her and she allowed it. Seeker, Raeye and I, it was
assumed, would remain outside and guard the exits, in case someone tried to
escape." A dry chuckle escapes the Shadow Lord's throat, here. "I still
marvel at the arrogance. The same arrogance that didn't allow the Hidden
Walk to believe that they could ever be overthrown. A supreme confidence in
our moral authority and our own strength, as fostern garou... The two of
them went inside."

Salem utters another grunt of acknowledgement, this one less easy to
interpret. He continues to listen in silence.

Here the Shadow Lord pauses and takes a sip of a glass of dark wine that has
been sitting nearby, then he continues. "A few moments after they
disappeared from our sight, I experienced a strong sense that I needed to
enter after them, to look after John's safety. Though he is an accomplished
Ahroun, he was still cliath, following a Fostern Ragabash into what might be
mortal peril. I entered the building. And took the stairs that John and
Chaser had taken, descending into the lower levels of the structure. The
inside of the place was even worse than the outside. The filth of it made me
dizzy as I attempted to catch up with the two of them. I was almost to the
lower level when I heard John's voice, bellowing what sounded like an order
to Chaser... 'GET OUT'. Then I heard the sounds of fighting, snarling. I
broke into a run, emerging from the stairwell into a hallway. I remember
looking down and seeing John's machine pistol laying on the floor, unfired.
My heart filled with dread and I ran toward the sounds of combat at the
other end of the hall..."

Salem sits forward now, slowly, arms unfolding. He rests his elbows on his 
knees and clasps his hands together loosely.

Jarred gazes into the light of the candles as he continues. "The hall seemed
a mile long as I listened to the struggles coming from a darkened room
ahead. When I reached the doorway, my worst fears were realized. Chaser had
shifted to her war form. She was already ragged and bleeding as she attacked
a towering crinos that seemed to be unharmed. John was beside her, also in
crinos, though it was clear he had just engaged, for he was unharmed. The
crinos was unquestionably a Dancer. It was monstrous... clearly a female.
Her claws glinted with silver. She moved like lightning. caked upon her skin
was the lambent green of a second covering... a Wyrmskin, seething in the
half-light, no doubt lending her extra strength and endurance. Shadowy Armor
surounded her, coalescing and swirling with every strike of Chaser and
John's claws. In that instant, I knew that we were desperately outmatched.
Beyond the crinos, a shroud of inky black roiled, and other figures began to
emerge from it."

Salem is utterly motionless at this point; even his breathing is shallow and
subtle.

Jarred goes on. "I activated my own armor and called upon the anger within
me to shift to my own form of rage. I moved past them, taking on the Dancers
coming out of the shroud. The first one fell easily enough. I tore its
throat from its body and was preparing to move against a second, when I
looked back at my two packmates. John lay upon the floor in his homid form.
His chest was torn out, his eyes lifeless and barren. The claws of the
Dancer's left hand were buried deeply within Chaser's eye sockets, and her
mouth was wide open in a soundless scream. Both of them had been taken down
as though they were newborn cubs, within seconds.... SECONDS. Even during
the battle to retake our caern I had not seen the like. The other dancers
were envigorated by the success of their mistress. In that moment, I thought
of Seeker and Raeye. And I thought of my own life. I thought of the life of
my cub, safely back home in this safehouse. I thought of our entire pack
meeting an ignominious end at the claws of this monster, and I made the
decision to deny her that pleasure. For even had we all 5 attacked together,
we could not have taken down so great a foe. Not with all of her gifts
activated, all of her packmates standing by to come to her defense. We had
blundered into the very heart of her territory and attacked her brazonly in
a fontal assault. This was the price of our arrogance...of Chaser's
confidence. I summoned the rest of my rage and shifted to lupus. And I ran.
I fled as if the minions of hell were gnashing at my heals. In a sense, they
were. The dancer took a swipe at me as I passed, but I was too fast, too
determined to leave that place. I heard her roar of challenge thunder in my
ears as I ran along the hall. On the way out of the building, I passed
Seeker and Raeye, both caught up in their own battles. There was no time to
warn them of the demon pursuing us. My only thought was to salvage the
remainder of the pack and get us all back to the Hidden Walk, where we could
return to her lair armed with better knowledge and more firepower. Seeker
and Raeye followed me. We drove home in silence...."

Salem closes his eyes for a moment at the description of John's end, opening
them only as Jarred describes the drive back. One hand comes up and massages
his left temple, tracing scars.

Jarred says "I give you this promise, Salem. I will return to that place. I
will turn that neighborhood into a raging inferno, if I must. But John and
Chaser's murderess will suffer for this outrage. She and her entire pack
will perish at my hands, and at the hands of anyone else I can persuade to
come with me. Though it was a temporary association, they were my packmates,
and I will avenge them. I swear it."

"I appreciate the sentiment," says the Glass Walker, the hand dropping away
from his face. His voice is hollow. "And the Walk will certainly be able to
provide certain... resources, to that end."

Jarred nods. "That is my hope. As for my actions, they are both
indefensable, and understandable. Had I remained to fight, I would be dead.
It is very likely that Seeker and Raeye would also be dead. Still, even a
Shadow Lord cringes at the thought of deserting the fallen on the
battlefield. And though I would make the same decision again, I feel that I
owe the Glass Walkers and the Get of Fenris an apology. I wish there had
been some way for me to strike dead the foe that had it within her to do
this..."

"Your death would have been glorious, but not very wise," the Philodox
states in that same flat tone. He shakes his head, then pushes to his feet.
"It would have been unwise, and useless. And we don't need any more useless
deaths."

Jarred looks back down to the candles. "The Get value Glory above all else.
I fear they will not be as understanding. But I must tell them the story
nonetheless."

Salem grunts, a slight grimace touching his mouth. "Of course. I would
appreciate it, too, if you would give this tale to Quentin as well, if you
have the time or the opportunity. He's going to be the Walk's Galliard
and... it's a story he should know."

Jarred nods. "I will do so at my earliest convenience. When is the gathering
for my packmates, if you please?"

"This coming Tuesday, unless I'm mistaken." He bends down, taking up the
coat and shrugging into it. "On or near the Bawn, I imagine."

Jarred stands slowly. "Very well... He takes a final drink of his wine and
moves toward the door to let the Walker out. By way of a goodbye, the Shadow
Lord intones, with surprising sincerity, "May Thunder darken the paths of
your foes, Salem."

Salem regards the Lord for a moment, then dips his head. "May Cockroach
watch your steps. Be seeing you." With that, he departs.