Morning Cigarette, and Quentin

[hazlogs]

It is currently 08:39 Pacific Time on Sun Dec 8 2002.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is foggy. The temperature is 38 degrees
Fahrenheit (3 degrees Celsius). The wind is calm today. The barometric
pressure reading is 30.21 and steady, and the relative humidity is 100
percent. The dewpoint is 38 degrees Fahrenheit (3 degrees Celsius.)

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

Porch

A lathe-turned wooden railing runs the length of the porch save where the
steps are, well-worn with use. To the right of the stairs, a wide swing is
suspended from the overhang which shelters this area; to the left, a small
table is the centerpiece for several chairs pulled around it, all of which
face out to the front yard and the fields and trees beyond. The bright
colors of fall lend an atmosphere of wistful remembrance to this place, a
memory of the summer past, and the knowledge of winter to come. Fallen
flower petals dust the earth around the base of the low shrubs surrounding
the porch, their delicate brittleness testament to the closing of the
cycle.

An aging screen door newly refurbished stands between the heavy inner door
of the house and the outside air. Four steps lead down to the lane, a
number of pots with small flower seedling carefully arranged alongside
them.

Salem is seated on the porch swing, nursing a cigarette in the cold
morning, his eyes hidden behind dark lenses.

The sound of sneakers on gravel probably carries a fair distance in the
chill air of the morning, as Quentin makes his way along down the road
towards the farmhouse; hands tucked away into the pockets of his jacket,
gaze mostly on the road. As he hits the steps, he climbs up onto the
porch-- only then noticing his elder there, he offers over a wan smile.
"Hey."

Salem taps cigarette ash into the empty coffee mug that's placed on the
swing next to him. One eyebrow lifts. "Morning, Quentin," he greets,
sounding a touch bemused. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Quentin's lips curl up just a touch at one corner, shoulders raising in a
shrug before falling once more. "I was just out for a walk, really," he
admits, leaning against one of the posts of the railing, "Clear my head,
and all." Odd, given how eager he was to get back to civilization.

Salem's expression continues to hold a hint of bemusement. "I see. So." He
takes a drag on the cigarette. "What's new in the city?"

"Hell if I know." Quentin drops down to sit at the other end of the porch
swing, resting one elbow against its edge as he stretches out his legs,
raising the heels of his shoes from the porch's floor and watching them
for a moment. "Jer'n Eb are all buddy-buddy with Renee for some fuckin'
stupid reason, hell'f I know. Rhi's fine, I guess, she's been workin' a
lot lately."

Salem's mouth thins, his nose wrinkling. Then he sighs. "Jeremy will never
learn. Nevermind. Perhaps Ebony's eyes will be open the first time she
bites his hand." The Philodox snorts. "And how's Lyra?" He turns his head,
looking directly at the young Galliard.

Quentin's nostrils flare in a snort at the first comment, one shoulder
raising slightly before falling again at the second question-- he doesn't
look over, looking out into the yard. "Don't know," he says a touch
flatly, "Haven't seen her since she slept over Rhi's. Not my problem
anyway, I'm sure she's fine."

A frown tugs at the corners of Salem's mouth; behind the dark lenses, his
stare seems a little harder. "Not your problem? Isn't she your packmate?
Your _friend_?"

"Packmate?" Quentin shoots over a rather incredulous look, raising an
eyebrow and observing rather bluntly, "I think even /Lyra/ gave up on that
little experiment of hers. Hard to have a pack when most people in it
don't even know who's in it or ever see each other." A shrug, and he
glances back out across the field, "Not so sure about the last anymore,
either."

Salem sits up a bit, still staring intently at Quentin, the handrolled
cigarette burning between his fingers as if forgotten for the moment. "Did
she talk to you about what happened to her?"

Renee spent the night in the hayloft, judging by the bit of hay stuck in
her hair. She didn't sleep all that well by the looks of things, face pale
and deep circles under her eyes. The gnawer is holding half a buttered
bagel in one hand and the strong scent of coffee clings to her clothes, as
she steps out of the farmhouse. She does a double take, when she sees both
Walker's on the porch. Her eyes settle on Salem and she flinches, almost
drawing back into the farmhouse.

Quentin's just silent for long moments, as he gazes out into the yard and
the morning shadows beyond it. "Yeah," he says simply, flatly, "That is,
if you mean her getting drunk, wandering off and having a whole lot of
sex, she did. Like I said. Not my problem, not my business."

Salem hardly notices Renee coming out, his attention is focussed so
strongly on Quentin. For a moment, his expression goes completely rigid;
he speaks after a moment's pause, and his voice is an icy whip. "She was
drunk and _taken advantage of_. Do you think she _wanted_ to get laid?
Like _that_? That she _wanted_ some vile little bastard to carve things
into her _neck_?" His temper is rising, thin moon or no. "Open your damned
eyes. She was fucking _beside_ herself when she came over to Rhiannon's
that night. Whatever the details were, she was _raped_."

At that, Quentin's head snaps around to look towards Salem with a sharp,
angry, confused gaze-- shedding that brooding demeanor like a caterpillar
sheds its cocoon, straightening as though he'd just been slapped. "What
the fuck? Carved into her-- why the fuck did she tell me that-- what the
hell?" A hard curl of his fingers against the arm of the swing, as he
bites out, "She didn't tell me /any/ of that."

Renee's eyes turn hard as she listens to the conversation on the pourch
and she steps out of the doorway. "Probably embaressed. Hard ta figure out
what ta feel, or think, in that kinda situation. If ya ask me, she
probably feels fuckin' guilty 'bout the whole thing. Even if she
shouldn't."

Salem takes a long drag on the cigarette, turning his head slightly when
he exhales. He stares at Renee for a moment before giving her a curt nod
and shifting his attention back to Quentin. His ire subsides to a low
burn. "Precisely. She was ashamed."

"Christ." Quentin shakes his head slowly, glancing back across the floor
of the porch, "There's a lot less to feel guilty about.. than just saying
'I got drunk and went and fucked some guy'.." A brief gnaw of his teeth
over his lower lip, then he glances up with a frown, "How the hell could
she get raped? I mean, fuck, even /Cat/ could go crinos and turn some
asshole into hamburger that laid a fuckin' hand on him."

Salem takes in another lungful and once again exhales, twin streams of
smoke from his nostrils, dragonlike. "Not if her judgement was impaired by
drink. Not if she was pressured into it." His lips are thinned. "A woman
can be raped without being physically forced. Ask any Fury."

Renee briefly bares her teeth. "Believe me. Ya drink enough an' ya stop
thinkin'."

Quentin's gaze flickers back over to the two, eyes narrowed slightly.
"So," he asks then, quietly and coldly, "Who the fuck did this to her?"

Renee rolls her shoulders in a shrug. "Don't know. Haven't been able ta
catch up with her. Eveythin' I know, I've heard from one of you."

Salem shifts his weight, settling back against the swing, his legs
stretched out, bootheels against the wooden floor of the porch. "Said his
name was 'Fei', which is related to the character he carved into her.
Rhiannon copied it down, some Chinese letter."

"Carved /into/.." Quentin's eyes widen just a touch, before he shoves
himself up to his feet hard enough to make the swing.. swing somewhat, jaw
clenching slightly. "Alright. Fei? Fine. Shouldn't be too hard to find the
bastard."

Renee's teeth grind together and she reaches out to take the cub's arm.
"Wait. Don't go runnin' in blind. Last thing ya need is a Veil breech."

Salem grunts, though his own weight prevents the swing from moving too
much. He adjusts the position of the coffee-mug-turned-ashtray, setting it
further back along the swing's seat. "Better," he mutters at Quentin's
reaction, then nods sharply at Renee's words. "Agreed. Besides..." The
slightly reflective lenses turn toward the Gnawer. "I'm sure that Lyra's
family would be quite insistant on being in on this hunt." He lifts an
eyebrow. His face is utterly cold.

Renee bares her teeth at Salem's look. "No shit."

Quentin's stopped by the hand on his arm, looking down to it coldly for a
moment.. then tugging away, regarding her with a slightly narrowed gaze.
"I'm sick of people hurting everyone I love," he says quietly, flatly,
"And not being able to do anything about it."

"No one's saying you can't do anything," Salem says coolly, taking another
drag on the cigarette. "We're telling you to be wise about it. And to use
your resources."

Renee takes her hand back and crosses her arms. "Fuck that attitude." She
glances at Salem. "If you want ta be the one who takes this fucker out,
I'll be cheerin' for ya. Jus' don't want ya goin' off half-cocked and
fuckin' up."

"Fine," Quentin says with a curt shake of his head, "I don't have anywhere
to go off half-cocked anyway, don't even have anything 'sides a name.
Prob'ly need to talk to Lyra, find out where she met this asshole.."

"I think she mentioned a restaurant. But Rhiannon may know more, if Lyra
won't talk." Salem studies his cigarette.

Renee grunts and starts to walk away.

Quentin flickers a look after Renee, before shaking his head curtly. "I'll
find out what I can," he says flatly, "'Fore I do anything."

Salem taps ash into the coffee mug. "I expected nothing less." He changes
the subject, then. "I'm learning the Rite of Passage from Andrea. I'm sure
you can imagine what this will mean for you."

Quentin pauses for a moment.. and then glances over with a slight purse of
his lips, almost a frown. "You are, but..?" A lingering pause, "I mean,
most've the cubs around here've been cubs a /lot/ longer than I have.."

Salem arches a brow. "So?" He tilts his head slightly. "Do you think
you're not ready?"

"Mm." Quentin glances away, at that question, resting a hand against the
rail. "I don't know," he finally admits, shaking his head, "I wouldn't
know what 'ready' was anyway, probably."

Salem gives the cub a thin, humorless smile. "One generally doesn't. The
test is the thing. Pass the Rite, and you've proven yourself ready to be
considered an adult."

Quentin glances back wryly, "Fail, and I'm probably dead, from what I
understand.. speaking of.. weren't we going to go kill some spiders or
something?"

"We're Glass Walkers, not Get of Fenris," Salem says dourly, in response
to the first remark. As to the second, he shrugs. "I haven't been able to
get in touch with Luke again."

Quentin's head bobs slightly, as rather ruefully he admits, "I'd like to
actually get into a real fight or two before having to do or die on my
own.."

Salem considers this. "We'll figure something out. And let me know when
you're going to tell the safehouse story."

"Yeah, whenever everyone's ready to hear it I guess.." Quentin smiles a
touch wanly, "..I guess that'd really just me you and 'licia, now, huh?"

Salem's lips thin. "Hardly. I'm expecting you to tell it out there, in the
woods. At the farmhouse, perhaps. There are plenty of woods Garou who
should know the tale, and several new cubs." He takes a final drag on the
cigarette, then drops it in the coffee mug.

Quentin's brows raise in a sudden arch at that, "You.. but.. what,
/everyone/?"

Salem stands, picking the mug up as he does so. "Not everyone. A decent
little gathering would be nice, though." He arches a brow.

"Yeah, s'pose you're right.." A slight frown, before Quentin nods once,
"Well, whenever y'all are ready to hear it, I guess. I finished it awhile
back, just everything that's been going on distracted people.."

"As soon as possible," the older Glass Walker says. "In the meantime, I'm
due on patrol. Care to join me?" His lips twitch, not quite a smile. "It's
not mandatory."

"..sure," Quentin says with a slight shake of his head, pushing from the
post, "I was gonna take a walk anyway. Might as well learn the bawn a bit
better. I'll go back to the city and.. take care've stuff later."

"Excellent." Salem goes inside first to wash out his cup and dispose of
the cigarette butt, then leads Quentin into the woods out back, shifting
to wolf form for patrol and indicating that the cub do likewise. And
Quentin gets to see more trees... for however long he can stand it.