Quentin's Rite of Passage

[hazlogs]

It is currently 12:39 Pacific Time on Wed Jan 8 2003.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is foggy. The temperature is 39 degrees
Fahrenheit (3 degrees Celsius). The wind is calm today. The barometric
pressure reading is 30.15 and rising, and the relative humidity is 100
percent. The dewpoint is 39 degrees Fahrenheit (3 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waxing Crescent Moon phase (36% full).

Salem's sharp, authoritive knock sounds on Rhiannon's door.

That sudden, clear knock brings Quentin's head upwards from where he's
been sprawled out on the couch watching television (America's Most Wanted,
at the moment) and he rolls to his feet in a single easy movement before
heading to answer the door. A glance out the peephole catches a glimpse of
the man on the other side, and he slides back the bolt before pulling it
open, "Hey.."

Andrea stands a few steps behind Salem, absently watching an empty spot in
the air. Though she seems slightly tired, she does not fail to give
Quentin a warm smile in greetings.

Salem slips off the black mirrored sunglasses and tucks them, one-handed,
into his coat. In his other hand, the Walker Elder carries a lockable
black briefcase. "Afternoon, Quentin. You've met Andrea, haven't you?" He
indicates the Child of Gaia.

Quentin's brows leap upwards in mild surprise at the sight of the alpha,
stepping back with a flick of his wrist to invite the pair in. "'Course,"
he allows, offering her over a warm but uncertain smile, "Come on in..
anything I can get you to drink?"

A shock of electric blue hair spills down just over this teenager's brow,
whispering at the nape of his neck as well; slightly long both in front
and in back, a razor's work having shaved the sides just above and behind
his ears into a buzz-cut haze of cerulean. The features of the night-pale
face shadowed by that hair are slightly angular in their lines, high
cheekbones leading down to a sharp chin matched by the straight line of
his nose, the eyes to either side of it a startlingly bright shade of
green that gleams almost emerald in the right light. He's a rather slender
young man, in height just a few inches shy of a full six feet, although a
touch of leanness to his limbs hints at the recent development of muscle
to strengthen his frame.

He's dressed in a rather casual fashion, with a few flares of
individuality to make him stand out. A hooded jacket of waterproof nylon
taffeta falls over his upper body, midnight black in sheen with streaks of
deepest blue to add a bit of colour to the garment, its large
velcro-closed pockets bulging slightly with a variety of hidden contents.
Beneath that can be seen, when the jacket's open or off, of a less glossy
black -- a sweatshirt of a warm cotton weave worn slightly loose against
his slender frame, but comfortable. His hands are gloved, black leather
and polyester mesh offering more of a stylish commentary than actually
protecting the fingers within from the elements. A pair of black jeans
cover his legs, the tough denim fabric scraped to a paler white at his
knees and a few spots near the cuffs where they brush over the edge of
hi-top sneakers crusted with mud and dirt from walking outdoors.

"Water," Andrea accepts graciously, after stepping into the room. "Thank
you."

Salem steps in, carefully making his way through the clutter toward a
relatively open space inside the living room. "None for me." He paces the
area of floor, then sets the briefcase down and turns to the young
Galliard. "Time for your final exam. Are you prepared?" As always, he's
direct and to the point.

The door's closed behind the pair, and Quentin turns on black-socked feet
to head along over towards the kitchen to fetch that glass of water--
Salem's words bring him to a halt just at the edge, though, and he pauses
to cast a slightly uncertain look back over his shoulder. Taken off-guard,
he hesitates a moment before offering a wan smile back to his elder,
allowing simply, "As prepared as I'll ever be, I think."

"Good," Salem says. He gestures the cub toward the kitchen. "Do what you
need to. This will take a few moments to set up." Carefully, the Walker
nudges a stray throw-pillow away with his foot, then sets the briefcase
down and unlocks it. The latches flick upward with soft clicks. As Quentin
goes to fetch Andrea's drink and take care of whatever else he decides to
do, Salem prepares for the rite, taking out several small, closed jars
from the padded interior of the briefcase.

Andrea, for her part, takes her water and finds a place to perch on the
plaid couch, moving aside a couple of pillows to do so. She sips and
watches Salem with a detatched air.

Quentin, after pouring the glass of water and delivering it to the sept's
alpha, eases up against the edge of the couch in an uneasy slouch to watch
the briefcase being opened.. and the jars from within being drawn out. He
folds both arms across his chest, briefly licking at his lips before
glancing over to ask with a quick smile, "So, uh. How've you been,
Andrea-rhya? I've never seen you in the city before.."

Andrea's grin widens slightly as she refocuses on Quentin. "Did you know I
used to work as a bookkeeper at one of the local hotels? After I had my
cubs, though, I found I'd broken most ties with my human life. I still
come into the city, but only infrequently."

"At least there's less paper-work involved in your new job, huh?"
Quentin's lips curve in a quick, nervous smile as he makes small-talk
thusly, one hand raising to brush back through the newly-dyed blue locks
of his hair before falling back down to his other bicep, noting, "I didn't
know you had kids."

Salem finishes setting out the three small jars. Uncapping them reveals
that each one contains a colored paste -- one dark red, one pale gray, and
one darker gray that glints faintly, metallic flicks within it catching
the light. He stands, then, picking up the jar of red, and turns to
Quentin expectantly. "Whenever you're ready," the Elder says, deadpan and
quiet.

Andrea nods again. "I'll tell you about them sometime," she offers, before
gesturing toward Salem and the waiting rite. "Later."

As the final distraction that Quentin has as an excuse is dismissed, he
takes a deep breath.. and then steps away from the couch, hands falling in
a spread to either side. "As ready as I'll ever be," he allows, offering a
quick, confident smile that's stronger than he feels, "Just tell me what
to do."

Salem nods to the bit of floor in front of him. "Come stand over here."

Quentin steps along over to stand in front of the elder, glancing down at
his feet and asking, "..should I put my shoes on?"

"That won't be necessary." The Walker Elder takes a breath, and if
anything -- if it's even possible -- turns more solemn, more formal. He
dips a finger into the red paste and, carefully, paints the Homid glyph on
Quentin's right cheek. "Red for birth and red for blood," the Philodox
intones. "As you were born into the homid breed, so you will be born, by
this rite, into adulthood."

There's no more distracting questions or nervous comments from Quentin, at
least not for the moment, as he straightens and falls silent as Salem
begins.. giving the elder his full attention, hands curling loosely by his
sides as the cool red paste is painted to the curve of his cheek.

Andrea nods slightly, almost imperceptably. Certainly the two Glass
Walkers aren't going to notice the faint movement.

Salem wipes his hand clean before taking up the next jar, the one with the
pale gray paste. "Grey for Luna's ever-changing face," he says, painting
the Galliard glyph on the cub's left cheek. "Grey for the gibbous moon.
Galliard, talesinger, lorekeeper, historian, remembering our past, and
inspiring us for the future."

Quentin almost nods, before realizing that it'd probably mess up the
design being traced onto his skin and growing still again.. his expression
growing serious as he pushes nervousness aside.

Salem again wipes his hands clean, then takes up the third jar. The
texture of the metallic-gray paste is harsher than that of the other two
colors, pricking the cub's skin bloodlessly as the Philodox marks
Quentin's forehead with the ladderlike glyph of the Glass Walkers. "Chrome
and concrete for Those Who Walk Among Glass, the Iron Riders, the Warders
of Man. City wolves, keeping the Wyld in the Weaver, caretakers of the
steel forests."

A slight twitch of Quentin's brow is silent answer to the grainy texture
of the paste etched upon his skin, though he stills soon after.. taking in
a deep breath, exhaling, and bringing both hands to clasp at the small of
his back.

Andrea again nods, that bare movement as Salem weaves the ritual around
Quentin.

Salem finishes with a touch of cool, pale cream to each of the cub's
eyelids. "May your eyes see truth. May your tongue speak true. May you
reach adulthood and grasp it firmly." Then he steps back, regarding his
handiwork critically for a second. Then, setting the jar down, he folds
his arms across his chest and speaks again. "Quentin Michaels. Will you
accept the task I lay upon you today?"

The apple of Quentin's throat rises and falls with a hard swallow, as with
a deep bow of his head back towards his elder he replies in quiet tones
forced calmer than he actually feels he replies, "I will, and do."

Andrea takes a sip of water, though her gaze betrays an intent interest on
the task to be given. She crosses her legs and waits silently.

Salem nods once. "Then, Galliard, I task you to bring honor to the late
John Smith in the manner of your auspice. You will learn his past, not
merely how he died, but how he lived and where he came from. You will
compose it into story or song. You will organize the telling of this tale,
and you will speak it to the Sept, at Moot or otherwise, to as many as
will hear." He pauses a beat. "So that everyone who hears your words, both
now and in future, will know why we honor Walks-Thin-Ice, and will honor
him in turn."

Quentin's eyes widen in surprise as the task's pronounced, certainly a far
cry from what the Galliard had expected it to be.. not that he had any
true idea, of course. A moment passes before he recovers his mental
footing, bowing his head once more and replying in quiet tones, "I'll do
my best, Salem-rhya."

One side of the halfmoon's mouth curves upward. "I'm certain that you
will." He takes a deep breath and glances over toward Andrea, one eyebrow
rising.

Andrea's thoughtful gaze continues to rest on the two men. As Salem looks
her way, she inclines her head in a simple nod of respect.

"I couldn't do anything less," he replies, with a slight curve of his lips
up at one corner, "Not for you, or for John-rhya."

"As I suspected," Salem murmurs, his expression solemn once more. He
begins gathering up the jars and other ritual supplies, setting each item
back into its space in the padded briefcase.

Quentin's hands slip away from one another, then, as he pauses for a
moment.. and then asks dubiously, "Do I have to keep this stuff on my face
until I'm done?"

Andrea coughs a restrained laugh.

Salem closes the briefcase, closing the latches and the lock with a series
of soft clicks. He glances up, mouth twisting wryly. "Just because you're
on your Rite of Passage doesn't mean you can disregard the Veil. So, no."