"What good is the honor of a /Shadow L--"

[hazlogs]

It is currently 13:12 Pacific Time on Wed Apr 30 2003.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is partly sunny. The temperature is 60 degrees Fahrenheit (15 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from variable directions at 6 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.09 and steady, and the relative humidity is 61 percent. The dewpoint is 47 degrees Fahrenheit (8 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waning No Moon phase (5% full).

Red Mill Apartments #603

This smallish, two-bedroom apartment is somewhat sparcely furnished, but has a comfortable, homey look to it. A greenish-gray couch holds court in the main room, accompanied by a low, sturdy-looking coffee table. A squat black entertainment center is set up on the other side of the room, in perfect view of the couch; on it sits a rather large television and within the small cabinet area underneath is a VCR. There's bookcase set up along one wall, its shelves holding a stereo, a clock, various CDs and video tapes, but very few actual books -- most are nonfiction paperbacks, history books. The carpet's a neutral shade of tan and covers whatever floor doesn't belong to the kitchen or the bathroom; the walls and ceiling are a shade lighter and on them are a few Van Gogh prints; _Starry Night_ hangs over the couch in a position of prominence.

The kitchen's small and narrow, but it's clean and holds the basic conveniences of modern life, including (but not limited to) a microwave, a toaster oven, and little blue and white dish towels. A short length of hallway past the kitchen entrance leads to the bathroom and a pair of bedrooms.

Though the apartment is kept fairly clean, cockroaches are a constant presence and go about unmolested by traps, sprays, or other poisons. In fact, a small plate of fresh canned cat food sits in a corner at the far end of the kitchen, apparantly just for the benefit of these insects.

Several strong, sharp knocks sound on the door.

The door opens a moment's pause and the sound of a bolt sliding back. It reveals the Elder of the Glass Walkers, his expression quizzical but otherwise guarded. "This is a surprise," he remarks dryly, stepping aside to let the Fang enter.

Tobin steps inside, eyes carefully averted from the from the Walker Elder. "Indeed, Elder, an unusual visit." The Fang's voice seems to swim with different accents, never settling on one. "But I have an unusual problem, and only thee can help."

Salem's eyes narrow. "Oh?" He closes the door behind Tobin, then crosses to the coffee table, picks up a remote, and turns off CNN. "Do tell." He straightens up and faces the Fang, arms folded across his chest.

Tobin never meets Salem's eyes, in fact he avoids looking at the Walker at all and speaks mostly to the floor. "I am sure it is well known to the other tribes of the...affliction, my tribe suffers from, and the origins of it should be no mystery to those of a logical mind." He pauses, examining Salem's kitchen. "You know that of which I speak, Elder?" he asks over his shoulder.

Salem tilts his head slightly, and one eyebrow lifts. "Mental illness." He's blunt. "It's quite common in the Silver Fangs these days, or so it's said."

"It's true," Tobin says tightly. "It's all true. Inbreeding in our quest for 'royal blood' has lead us to this state." He pauses to take a deep breath, and his shifting accents disappear for the moment when he goes on, though it seems to be costing the Fang an effort of will to make it so. "I cannot tell past from present any more, and it is due to my sickness. I have not the strength of body nor the power of spirit to quest for a true cure, so I must turn to the Weaver for help. I need drugs. Medicine. And I need your help to get it."

Salem's expression remains solemn. Slowly, he takes a seat on the couch, setting the TV remote back on the coffee table as he does so. "What drugs, specifically, do you need?"

"Psychotropic drugs," Tobin says, voice tight with control. "Specifically for dealing with schizophrenia. I was on them before I came to St. Claire and ran out shortly after I got here. They didn't stop the memories or the dreams, but they held them back. Those parts of my mind are merging and going wild, I need them held in check if I am to be able to function at all." He takes a slip of paper from one pocket and holds it out to Salem, keeping his head turned the other way the whole time. "These are the names of some common drugs and the doses."

Salem gets up and crosses the room slowly to take the paper. Crossing back toward the couch, he scans it, eyes narrowing. "Hm. Prescription drugs. It won't be easy." He looks back toward the Fang. "Or cheap."

Tobin nods once. "I know. And I've no money. Nothing to offer except my skills as a Theurge and a son of Merlin. You do know that Alicia asked me to teach her the speech of the spirits? Having her know that would benefit your pack greatly. I will do that for free, without her having to teach me anything in return, if that will satisfy your price."

Salem folds the paper and slips it into a pocket of his jeans. "Let me see, first, how much trouble I have to go through to get this... before I tell you the price." His mouth twitches into a faint half-smile. "Don't worry, I'll be fair. On my Honor."

Tobin whips around suddenly, a snarl on his face. "What good is the honor of a /Shadow L--" he starts to roar, then cuts himself by biting down hard on the accusatory finger he was about to point at Salem. Eyes squeezed shut, he takes a few deep breaths and looks away again. "On your Honor, Walker Elder," he says tightly. "But please hurry. I am a danger to the sept, but I am not yet ready to die for the greater good."

Salem's face tightens, the dry, amiable humor vanishing. "Understood. Go. I'll see what I can do."

Tobin nods again. "Leave a message at the farmhouse, I'll be mostly on the bawn. Thank you, Elder." He leaves hastily.

"You're welcome," Salem replies, a touch aloof but polite for all that.

---

30 April 2003, night.

K. C. pages: *ringring* (assuming the phone gets answered) Mr. Salem? It's K. C.

You paged K. C. with 'Evening. What can I do for you?'.

K. C. pages: Hi. Ah, nothing to do, really, but grab a piece of paper and a pen. I've got some things you might want to write down.

You paged K. C. with 'Oh? One moment. (pause) ...All right. Go ahead.'.

K. C. pages: Okay. First things first, the prince of St. Claire -- if he's really a prince -- is a caitiff. I should've said something about that before, but it's not very helpful. Second thing, there's a vampire in town named Troy. A Ventrue, from what I hear. Don't know if he's done anything we'd know about, but if he's here, he's bound to be up to no good.

You paged K. C. with '(There's a pause. A _long_ one. Then Salem's voice, very flat and quiet.) ...Say that again.'.

From afar, K. C. hesitates before saying, "Um. Prince of St. Claire. Caitiff. Troy. Ventrue."

You paged K. C. with 'Another pause, much shorter this time. "Jesus Christ fucking a _stick_. ...Are you going to be able to make the meeting next week?"'.

From afar, K. C. sounds like she might be smiling a little. That, or she's nervous. "Assuming that I don't lose my head sometime between now and then, I should, yes."

Long distance to K. C.: Salem grunts. "Good. Be prepared to give details. Shit. I was hoping the little fuckers weren't organized."

From afar, K. C. hesitates again, then: "Son of a *bitch*! What? Oh, right. Details. Whatever I can get. I've got to go. Look ...there's another one. A guy, dressed like a businessman. Name's Orin or .. or Orion! Orion, that's it. I don't know what he is, or where he is now," she admits wryly. "He's the guy that's giving out the information, though. Damn! I have to find him."

Long distance to K. C.: Salem says curtly, "Do so. And good work."

K. C. pages: Thanks. *click*