Tatt at the Temple

[hazlogs]

Date: 11/20/02, Wednesday, Night.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is foggy. The temperature is 46 degrees
Fahrenheit (7 degrees Celsius). The wind is calm today. The barometric
pressure reading is 30.13 and steady, and the relative humidity is 100
percent. The dewpoint is 46 degrees Fahrenheit (7 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waning Full Moon phase (93% full).

Temple

This building, obviously an ex-church of some kind, provides a slightly
raw acoustic for the pounding music--muffled only by dusty velvet and
tapestry hangings on the stone walls. Pillars march down the nave, which
has become the main dance floor; a black-pipe grid about fifty feet
overhead holds the fixtures and dark-colored lights that sweep the mass of
dancers. It's evidently quite the nouveau-goth hangout of St.
Claire--boasting more piercings per capita than the punkest of thrash
clubs, and more decaying brocade than Anastasia's Antique Emporium
downtown.

The sanctuary at the far end of the building is still cordoned off, often
used for "entertainments" of varying type and quality. At other times,
exhibitionists crowd the higher stepped platform of the sanctuary, or
dance on the smaller raised areas around some of the pillars along the
nave. A cube of chainlink fence to one side of the sanctuary houses the CD
spinner and DJ of the evening. One side chapel holds the main bar of the
club; the other chapels along the sides of the church serve as seating
areas, filled with castoff furniture in dark colors and the occasional
unlit candelabra or swath of dark fabric. Tattered, stained velvet sofas
and settees, tucked into the little 'rooms', provide conversation areas
somewhat shielded from the noise. The back chapels, arranged in an arc
behind the sanctuary, provide dark places for the Nachtskinder to play,
exchanging their money for sex, drugs, and other vices.

The arched double doors of the main church entrance lead back out to the
street. The wood panels are tall and imposing; only one of them usually
can be opened. A bouncer stands beside it at a tall podium.

In both corners, enclosed staircases lead up to the second-floor
galleries--balconies from which those less inclined to dance can watch the
writhing below.

Wednesday is Bondage and Fetish night at the Temple, and the DJ spins Goth
classics by Depeche Mode and Front 242, along with New Wave music from the
eighties. A significant part of the crowd is dressed for the occasion in
latex, rubber, leather and chrome, while a smaller faction staunchly
maintains the basic college student uniform of jeans, and t-shirt. The two
groups mix like oil and water on the dance floor, existing next to one
another but rarely mingling. Ensconced at his usual table above the dance
floor, Carter watches the crowd, nursing a gin and tonic.

At the bar, Tatt slouches against the polished wooden counter, smoking and
taking an occasional swig of cheap beer. The dark-skinned woman is a dark
and morose shadow of her former self, clad in black PVC and leather. She
scans the crowd with disinterest, exchanges a few words with the bartender
who has since taken her place at the Temple.

Salem pauses as he enters the Temple, the muscles in his jaw tightening as
he acclimates to the noise level, like a man stepping from dark to light,
he's letting his mental eyes adjust. Eventually, he moves through the
crowd toward the bar, his expression flat but for the distinct downward
twist at the corners of his mouth.

The corner of Carter's mouth quirks up, recognizing Tatt from her time
behind the counter here. His eyes come back to her occasionally, as he
keeps an eye on the crowd.

If Tatt notices Salem's entrance, she makes no sign of it. She seems to be
watching for someone, in the direction of the curtains shrouding one of
the isolated chapels.

The Walker certainly notices Tatt, though the sight of her gives him
pause; his frown deepens a note, and his eyes narrow. He heads toward her
and, upon reaching her end of the bar, leans against it next to her.
"Evening," he greets, flatly.

Carter nods to someone below, tilting his head toward end of the bar where
Tatt is sitting. The force of his attention may be palpable, given the
heightened awareness and general paranoia of Garou.

Tatt startles visibly, a sharp twitch of her lean-muscled frame as she
focuses on Salem in surprise. "_Mierde_," she mutters, barely meeting the
Walker's eyes. "The fuck did you come from?" She sucks back another
swallow of beer, grimacing slightly.

"'From going to and fro in the earth, and from walking up and down in
it,'" Salem quotes, without any trace of humor. His mismatched gaze is
heavy on Tatt's face, studying it minutely. "I haven't seen you around
much."

Carter's eyes unfocus a little watching the pair, but he recovers, smiling
thinly.

The Strider hunches over her half-empty bottle, shrugging nonchalantly.
"Been busy," she grunts. For the observant, her pupils are dilated to the
point that her irises appear black. She keeps her tattooed arms folded
close to her chest, sniffs dryly.

Salem grimaces. His eyes leave the Strider in order to scan the crowd; his
own rage is enough to keep people away, but he's still cautious. Finally,
he looks back at his packmate. "Busy," he echoes, dubiously. "Right." He
gives his head a slight shake and leans close, his voice lowering. "You've
given up on us, then?"

"The fuck d'you mean?" The Strider lifts her chin defiantly, frowning at
her packmate. "I'm just dealing with shit, aright?"

Salem stares at her a moment more, his gaze steady. Then he grunts an
acknowledgement and, without looking away, takes the recently-vacated
barstool next to her. "Fine. I was hoping I'd run into you anyway." He
reaches for an inside pocket and withdraws a sealed envelope which he sets
down on the bar and pushes toward her. Her name's written on it. John's
handwriting.

Tatt reaches out to take the envelope, but pauses with tattoomarked
fingers hovering above the offering. She scratches absently at her inner
fore-arm, which is lined with obviously fresh tracks. "I don't want it,"
she decides bluntly, pulling her hand away. An echo of anguish crosses her
features.

Salem's face tightens. "Fine." He lays a hand on the envelope and slides
it back toward him. "I'll keep it, then, until you do. There's no rush."
There is, under that tight, controlled coldness in his voice, a note of
sympathy, and maybe echoed anguish, but it's buried, buried deep.
"Sepdet's been asking after you," he notes, then, making the envelope
vanish back into his coat.

The lanky Galliard truly winces at the sound of that name. She drowns the
expression in the last of her beer, belches, and tries to sound
noncommittal as she asks: "Is she well?"

"Seems so." Salem takes the vacant stool next to her. "She'd like to see
you."

Tatt wipes the back of a hand across her mouth, turns to lean back against
the bar and eye the crowd. "Don't think that'd be a good idea right now,"
she mutters absently, voice slightly slurred.

Salem's eyes narrow. "Not right now, then. But soon." His tone takes on a
harsher note. "Have you been hiding in a needle all this time?"

"Get off the high horse, hombre," she grunts, eyes narrowing although she
won't look at him. "It don't suit you."

"Really?" The Walker's voice turns drippingly sardonic. "I suspect that
most would say I was _completely_ suited for it." His gaze is heavy on
her, brows lowered, scowling. "And I'd think you'd know that _that_," he
adds, nodding toward the marks on her arm, "doesn't help."

Tatt holds out the indicated arm, gazes down at the ugly mix of tattooes
and needle-tracks. She flexes her hand--which quivers slightly--with a
thoughtful noise. "Maybe it don't help," she mutters. "But it does what I
want."

Salem inhales a breath, nostrils flaring, and then looks away, his
expression pensive. He gives the bartender a glare, keeping the man well
at bay. "Oblivion. Yes, I know." The sarcasm's gone, leaving no trace.
"You can't run forever, though."

"..I'm not running," the Galliard counters quietly, sinking down into the
barstool with a boneless slouch. Erratic topaz eyes skip back to her
packmate. "This is home to me." She looks resigned, every heavy year of
her age suddenly apparent.

Salem mutters a short, Slavic-sounding curse, one hand coming up to rub
absently at his scars, tracing lines of keloid tissue with his fingertips.
"If you've decided that..." He doesn't finish the statement, just shakes
his head. His hand drops away from his face as he turns to look directly
at her again. "I'm taking park patrol next month. December. You should
join me." The last sounds stronger than a mere suggestion.

Tatt sniffs dryly again, scratches at her arm. "That's what /he/ would
say," she mutters. "Motherfucker."

Salem arches an eyebrow. "So? He'd be right."

She scowls darkly, lurching away from the bar. "That don't matter much
anymore, hey?" The Galliard's gaze drifts to the entryway of the nearest
chapel, where a pale hollow-eyed waif lounges, smoking a cigarette. Her
pupils are nearly as dilated as Tatt's. The Strider looks back to her
packmate, holds out her hands in a gesture of welcome with a thin smile.
"Join me, packie? Looks like you could use a little loosenin' up."

Salem's gaze follows Tatt's toward the waif, then turns back to the
Strider. He remains seated, his expression flat as a lizard's. "Thank you,
but no."

Tatt shrugs fluidly, running an unsteady hand through her hair. "Suit
y'self, hombre." She won't quite meet his eyes as she throws up an
abbreviated salute, and turns towards the chapel. The Strider disappears
quickly through the curtained entryway, and is gone.

Salem watches her go, then swears poisonously in Serbian and pushes to his
feet, drawing nervous looks from those nearby. Suddenly fuming, the Walker
stalks out of the Temple and back into the cold November night.