"Feeling morbid tonight, Lyra, or just violent?"

[hazlogs]

It is currently 18:52 Pacific Time on Wed May 7 2003.

Currently the moon is in the waxing Half Moon phase (44% full).

Harbor Park -- Fountain

Situated in the center of a large, open meadow is a clustering of six trees, a flower bed, a few steel-and-wood benches set firmly into concrete, and a flagstone courtyard that is dominated by a large fountain.

The fountain is a wide circular pool of water some fifty feet across and about five feet deep in most places. The sculpture in the center is a mix of old and new, traditional and modern: eight concrete-and-stainless-steel slabs about six feet high are set in a rough Stonehenge-like circle around the center of the fountain. Water flows from their tops, cascading in bright mesmerizing sheets to the pool below. Rising above the steel circle is a large marble statue of the Water Bearer, an androgynous figure draped in robes of flowing water. It bears a large jug carved with various Greek symbols, from which pours a seething torrent of water into the pool at its feet.

Cars on the nearby street have an excellent view of the park as do any residents of the tall buildings which line the waterfront.

The murky waters of the Columbia River flow swiftly along the east side of the park. Bracketing the park to the west is First Street and the city of St. Claire. Recent construction work is creating an earthen berm several feet high all along the borders of the park in all directions.

Its about half an hour before sunset and Renee is seated on one of the benches, a bag of bread crumbs in one hand. A small flock of pigions is infront of her greedily gobbling up the bread-bits, as the Gnawer scoops them out of the bag and tosses the cumbs onto the ground.

Salem prowls into the park, heading in the direction of the fountain, the usual cigarette hanging off his lips and the usual dark glasses obscuring his eyes.

Renee continues feeding the birds, humming softly under her breath.

"Afternoon, Renee," the Walker greets quietly, as he comes up behind her.

Renee jumps in response to the voice behind her, then turns her head to look at the Walker. "Hey," she rumbles, then turns back to the birds. Dumping thre remainder of the bag onto the ground.

Salem leans against the bench and takes a drag off his cigarette. "How's things?" he asks, tone neutral.

Renee's wrinkles her nose, as some of the smoke drifts in her direction. "S'well as can be expected," the gnawer rumbles, folding the bag and stuffing it into a pocket.

Salem grunts. "The kid?" It has the sound of an idle inquiry, no more.

That earns the Philodox a passing glance, before Renee goes back to watching the birds infront of her. "Doin' fine. Sittin' up on her own, every now an' again."

Salem takes another drag. "How long are you planning to keep her in town?"

Renee just shrugs, no other answer is forthcoming.

Salem glances sidelong at the Gnawer, then makes a low, noncommittal noise. His shoulders move in an echoing shrug, and he looks away from her to scan the park.

Renee looks over at Salem, studying her for a time. "Why the intrest?" She finally asks.

"Just curious," the Walker replies, his gaze focussed on a shambling, hunched figure skulking along close to the river.

Renee scratches at her cheek, then rubs at the back of her neck. "Not even gonna think 'bout givin' her up, till she doesn't need me ta feed her anymore. Doesn't even have teeth yet."

Salem glances briefly down at the Gnawer. "She have a name?"

"'Course she does," Renee mumbles. Sounding slightly offended that Salem would believe, she hadn't given her daughter a name.

Salem is unruffled. He regards her for a moment more and, when a name isn't immediately forthcoming, shrugs again and glances back toward the figure by the river.

Renee follows the Walker's gaze, then grunts softly. "Thats just the fisher-man. He likes ta wander by the river. Harmless, if a little nuts."

"No relation to the Fisher King?" Salem's voice holds a note of desert-dry humor as he takes another drag from his cigarette.

Renee snirks. "Not that I am aware of. Mostly, he is jus' lookin' fer tin cans. So he can turn'em in fer change." Once again, the Galliard's nose wrinkles up. "How can ya stand thos things? Yer constantly smokin' them."

Salem looks down at the cigarette -- filterless, handrolled, the usual -- and seems to consider it for a moment. "Only out of doors," he answers blandly.

Renee lays down on the bench and hooked a leg over the back, as she looks toward the darkening sky. "One goes an' a new habit is picked up. Green, black, red, an' blue. Life, death, blood, an' water. Earth turns, shifts and rumbles. Always the same, always diffrent."

"Hmm?" The Glass Walker looks down at the Bone Gnawer, mismatched eyes slightly narrowed behind the dark lenses.

Renee closes her eyes. "I'm a Galliard. I don't haveta make sense."

Salem snorts. "And here I thought that was the job of the Theurges." He taps ash off the end of his cigarette, then takes a drag.

Renee snerks. "Naw. Half'a poetry doesn't make any sense an' thats a Galliard's territory." Taking in a breath, the Galliard relases it slowly. "Ash an' fire, life an' death." This times, a soft humming underlines the Galliard's words. "Even to the proud an' tall, change comes a'callin'. Scortchin' away all its it path, leavin' nothin' behind but dust. Nothin' left but grey, non left ta come a'callin'. But, ya always gotta learn ta clook closer. Lookin' closer is always a must." The Galliard sounds absoultly nuts, as she continues strining words together.

Salem utters a neutral, noncommitting grunt and looks back over toward the river. The fisher-man is gone, and as the sun continues to sink, the park empties. Few people come during the day, and even fewer stay after dark.

Renee falls silent and sits up after a time. Rising from the bench, she starts walking out of the park. "Seeya Salem. I'm guessin' the squirt has left another 'preset' fer me ta clean up, by now."

Salem glances down and gives Renee a thin, crooked little half-smile. "How lovely for you," he deadpans. Then, in farewell, "Walk safe. Gaia watch you."

"Thanks," Renee raises her voice, to be heard as she gains some distance. "You too."

---

Lyra enters the glade in the middle of the open meadow.

Salem stands over by the fountain, smoking a handrolled cigarette and watching a park that's all but empty now that dark has fallen.

Lyra's heading back from Rhiannon's apartment, cutting through the park where there were less people. It was already late- no sense teasing the animals. She's learned her lessons in -that- department. She tugs her hat on more snugly, protecting ears against the cold, eyeing the tall figure by the fountain. Familiar, and probably...yes, yes it is. "Niminy niminy, come and be killed," she calls out cheerfully, smiling, her slow steps bringing her fountainwards.

Lyra

This girl is five foot three, thin and slender, on the small end for being seventeen. Almond-shaped, warm hazel eyes that change in the light are set above high cheek bones in a pale face. There's a tinge of yellow to her skin, her Chinese heritage obvious in the first glance. Long black hair falls halfway down her back, well-groomed and pulled back in pigtails. Lyra's pretty enough when she smiles, limbs long and muscles toned, if not very strong, flexible and acrobatic. Her voice is smooth, a gentle contralto, and peppered with an English accent.

She's got warm fuzzy yellow zip-up tossed over a red-and-white striped shirt, and only slightly-worn loose jeans. Her sneakers look on the verge of falling apart and one of them has duct tape around the toe. In lieu of the bunny-ear hood, Lyra tossed on one of those light blue beanie hats that were so popular over the winter, two tassels hanging down and bouncing about her shoulders.

Salem glances up at the hail, eyebrows lifting. "Feeling morbid tonight, Lyra, or just violent?"

Lyra laughs, which probably wouldn't be a comforting answer, and throws her arms out to spin in a happy circle. "No, it's from the last book of Narnia. C.S. Lewis. Very Christian-Judeo, but a fun read all the same. Some dwarfs don't believe the princes and..." She gives up and waves it away. "Nevermind, I suppose. Spending Luna's sunshine all by yourself?"

Salem squints a bit. "I _read_ that, a long time ago... Don't remember that bit, however." He shrugs, taps ash off his cigarette. "Just keeping an eye on things. How's your aunt?"

The Gnawer halfmoon nods. "Well enough, although- neh." She frowns. "She's good friends with the new chap in town, Raul. I still can't bring myself to like him, but he makes her happy and for that I'm grateful." It sounds as though she's reciting some well-worn verse. Lyra nudges at the ground with one of those ratty shoes. "I shouldn't stray, but, since I'm here. Are you coming along on 'Nee's little party?"

Salem nods, though his eyes narrow slightly and his lips thin. "Unless something I can't avoid keeps me away."

"Pip going to be in attendance as well?" the girl asks, voice light but from the glance she gives the Walker, she already knows the answer.

Salem grimaces faintly and takes the last drag off his cigarette. "'Pip' is a cub." He stubs the cigarette butt out on the back of the bench and flicks it expertly toward a nearby trash can. "He will remain a cub until he completes his Rite."

Lyra watches the cigarette fly, apparently impressed by his skill with such things. "No use letting good claws and a good head lie idle, when he can be of some use. Even if just to watch." She slips her hands into her sweater, watching Salem carefully. "He helped me take care of a vampire. He's fought a bane, and won. He's taught Karl. He's cliath in all but name. Couldn't he at least come on the raid, so he doesn't feel useless?"

Salem cocks an eye, the good one, at the young Gnawer. "Is that what he thinks?" Then he grunts, shakes his head firmly. "No. No cubs. None of _my_ tribe's cubs, anyway."

"Look, I don't -want- him to go," she adds bitterly. "Some days I want to put him in a glass box if it could keep him safe and sweet forever, but that's not possible. Don't push him away, rhya. He's frustrated, and...he thinks you've forgotten him." Lyra sighs and scuffs at the ground. "Don't tell him I came to you. He doesn't like the idea of me fighting his battles for him."

Salem's look is more than a little incredulous. "Push him away? _Push him away_? What the bloody fuck does he want me to do, hold his hand?" He grimaces, visibly reining in his temper. "I won't tell him. But _you_ can suggest to him that if he has a problem with me, he should, perhaps, _talk_ to me about said problem. Mind-reading's not a skill I've developed, sad to say." His tone is brittle, icy. "He has my number. He knows where I live. Hell, he came over not long after that little Strider bitch went ballistic in public. Didn't mention a damned thing."

Lyra just blinks, looking slightly confused but thankfully not angered or upset by the outburst. "Strider? Rhya. Let me be the first to testify that you're not Snuggles the Downy Bear, but even 'Nee makes a point of stopping by to see me every so often, not to mention Karl; and she has a temper nearly the equal of yours. Aiyah, I don't know, it just hurts me to see -him- hurting so much." A wan smile as she shakes her head and digs her hands deeper into her pockets, half-turning as if to go. "Your word is law then, he's your cub. I need to head home. Enjoy the sunshine."

Salem folds his hands into his coat pockets and replies with a grunt. "Walk safe," he says, his tone dour even if the words of his farewell are not. "Gaia watch you."

"Charm working still?" Lyra murmurs as she walks away, glancing one hazel eye over her shoulder.

"Sometimes," comes the reply; Salem's looking away now, toward the river.

Lyra doesn't reply to that, just keeps walking away at a brisk pace- she's late -mumbling "Niminy niminy, come and be killed," although perhaps too soft for anyone else to hear.