"And yes, it is my right to ask, though you're not required to answer."

[hazlogs]

It is currently 20:00 Pacific Time on Sun Jun 22 2003.

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

Elisabeth pages: Your cel phone rings. :)

Long distance to Elisabeth: Salem answers it after the second ring. "Salem here."

Elisabeth pages: Hello Salem, this is Elisabeth. Jamethon's Fiancee. I was wondering if I could ask for a favor? (say 8pm)

You paged Elisabeth with 'I remember. What do you need?'.

Elisabeth pages: Kansas need to talk with you, something about her Rite of Passage. Could you give me your adress, so she can come to you?

Long distance to Elisabeth: Salem grunts. "Certainly." He recites the address, somewhere in the southern half of St. Claire, where the rent is cheap.

Elisabeth pages: There is a short silence, in which time the kinswoamn writes down the adress. "Thankyou. Have a good evening."

You paged Elisabeth with 'You as well. Give James my regards.'.

Elisabeth pages: I will." With that, the phone is hung up.

---

It is currently 23:10 Pacific Time on Sun Jun 22 2003.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is partially cloudy. The temperature is 52 degrees Fahrenheit (11 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the southwest at 7 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.01 and rising, and the relative humidity is 74 percent. The dewpoint is 44 degrees Fahrenheit (6 degrees Celsius.)

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

Jermantown Avenue, Industrial Sector

From warehouses a few blocks away from the river, across a chunk of city more than a dozen blocks wide, factories brood over the streets like dark dragons over their piles of treasure, greedy and all-encompassing. Huddling around the factories are smaller, less imposing buildings that are probably warehouses, or storage locations for trucks. The factories spill fumes into the air, darkening the area and blanketing it in a stench to mark humankind's domination over the world. Some of the warehouses stand empty, some are boarded over, and some, on the northern and western fringes of the area, have been converted to bars, with bizarre lighting, frequent brawls, and music that blares loudly at all hours of the night. There are no residences here for anyone to complain, and the factory workers populate the bars thickly. Throughout the area, trash and oil mingle together on alleyway streets, impeding the paths to the dumpsters at the ends of many of the alleys.

She is walking fast and purposeful, wrapped in a faded denim jacket against the late-night chill. Her hair is loose, the wind whipping it into tangles, long strands flying.

Salem detaches himself from the shadow of an alleyway and into the kinswoman's view, his long black hair unbound and the dark summer trenchcoat hanging open. For once, the nigh-omnipresent cigarette is missing. "Evening," he greets, his voice casual.

He takes her utterly by surprise; in a split second she is backing off, ready to turn and run. Recognition comes, then, and if she were white she'd turn red to the tips of her ears; luckily her skin is already coppery-warm, and the night is forgiving. She stops, of course, and tries to steady the rapid breathing. "Hi," she says. Embarassment does not ait somfortably on her solemn features.

The Walker looks at her curiously. "Out a little late?" He steps toward her, hands folded into the pockets of his coat. "Sorry if I startled you. Been keeping an eye on things."

Sarah's expression returns to its natural neutrality. "Just getting some air," she says quietly. "Have you seen anything?"

Salem shakes his head. "Just the usual shit. This is not exactly a safe area, madmen or no." His mouth twitches into a brief smile, just for a moment. "How is Quentin?"

It almost coaxes an answering smile from the dour Wendigo kin--almost. There is a decided softness in her eyes, as she looks away over her shoulder, toward the church. "Sleeping," she says softly.

You paged Sarah with 'Was she heading toward the church or away from it?'.
Sarah pages: Away.

Salem nods slightly and murmurs, "Walk with me a bit?" His expression's abstracted and difficult to read.

Sarah's brow furrows slightly, and she gives a solemn nod.

If nothing else, there isn't any danger of her being mugged; not with a scarred demon as her escort. He walks slowly, moving away from the church. "How'd you meet Sepdet?" he asks, after a moment or two, his tone low and conversational.

Sarah glances to him, perhaps a little surprised. Then she turns her attention dead ahead, her expression composed and settled. "I met her by the lake. Her pack's territory."

"Salmon's Leap," Salem says with a nod. "Met their totem once. Did Leonard introduce you?"

Sarah nods minutely, her jaw working for a mention at the thought of the rash, temperamental Wendigo.

Salem makes a thoughtful little 'mm' noise. "What made you come to St. Claire?" He tilts his head -- he's got his good side toward her -- and studies her face.

"School," she says quietly. "They gave me the most money, and with the -- old history here, it seemed... right, maybe."

"What're you studying?" He glances at her again as they walk.

"Whatever I can," she says quietly. "I haven't really decided."

The Walker utters another thoughtful 'mm', then says, dryly, "Hope you don't mind me being... inquisitive."

Sarah gives a small shake of her head, unruffled. "No. You have every right, sir."

You paged Sarah with 'How old is she?'.
Sarah pages: How old /is/ she, or how old does she look? :>
Long distance to Sarah: Salem aah. How old does she LOOK. :)
Sarah pages: Actually, pretty much the same. Late teens. Less than 20 anyway.
Sarah pages: She looks about right for a college freshman, really.

He snorts. "'Salem' is fine. And yes, it is my right to ask, though you're not required to answer." He glances sidelong at her again. "Understood?"

Her posture is, as always, arrow-straight. Her attention remains focused, somewhere ahead of them as they walk. "Yes, sir."

Salem shakes his head slightly. They reach the end of the block and turn the corner. "Does the city bother you?"

Sarah takes a careful breath, and lets it out. "A little. Not as much as I thought it would. I was fine, living on my own before-- this happened. I would just get out as much as I could. Go out to the park or the lake. Go hiking."

Salem nods, lips thinning. "What was it like, where you're from?"

"The reservations are... places of despair," she says quietly. "That is why the city does not seem so terrible, maybe."

Salem's expression flickers, sympathy perhaps, with maybe a touch of race-guilt. He nods once. "It... grows on you, after a while. When you get to know its rhythm, its heartbeat. The way it breathes." His voice drops into its own cadence, its own rhythm. "When you realize that the grime is just a facade, like shit on a diamond." He pauses a beat. "If you'll pardon my language."

Sarah swallows. "I think," she says quietly, "that your side is right, maybe. That much of the war is here. On this front, that so many think is already lost."

Salem grunts. "It's... harder here. More witnesses, more complications. Worth it, though, when you've seen what it _can_ be." His shoulders lift and fall as he looks around at the shadows and neon of the city night. "There's potential."

"I do not know," she says quietly. "But I think there is hope in the city, and in your tribe." She glances over to him, a slant of dark eyes, a tilt of that the chin that turns pride to slyness. "If you can leave off bickering with the other urrah, you will acomplish more, maybe."

Salem's mouth thins. "The damned mutt wouldn't have gotten kicked if it had had the sense to keep its distance," he says sourly.

"Leonard might use the same reasoning, about striking another tribe's kin," she says coolly. "Or cubs. Or me, for that matter, though he swears he would never do such a thing."

Her eyes return to the street ahead, all traces of jest gone, her expression returning to that implacable mask.

Salem stiffens, the line of his jaw getting tight. His hands vanish into the pockets of his coat. After a brief moment, he says, brusquely, "What do _you_ think I should have done, with some cur rushing at me?"

Sarah blinks, and glances over to him, startled for a moment; then her gaze returns to the street ahead. "I would not presume, sir."

"Presume," the Glass Walker retorts. He glances down at her.

"Our points of view are... different," Sarah says quietly. "Not knowing those dogs, I would not strike them--some might be full-blooded cubs, and there is danger in violence against them. Do you know them, at all? Which ones are merely kin?" Another look slants to him, but there is no slyness in it this time; she is sober, neutral.

Salem grimaces. "They're kin. I've been to the church a few times before. You'd think they'd learn, but there's always one that decides to get too close. A snarl's usually enough." He shakes his head. "Wolf hybrids I could understand. Wolves would be better, even zoo wolves, or even those poor scrawny bastards you see in Europe, with no real hunting ground. But I'll eat my damned rifle if there's more than an ounce of wolf blood left in those church mutts. They're only diluting their blood. And the result?" He glances at her. "You get dog-Garou, some of them with less sense than their animal parent. Like Clever-for-Food... that cub had no brains at all."

Sarah turns her attention to the sidewalk ahead. It is an odd sensation, to be a woman walking in the city at night, and yet feel this safe. "When the res dogs would get like that, I would let them come at me and then shake them off. Give them a whack on the nose. Less injury than kicking, but it makes things clear. I would think, though, that you would have some natural dominance over them..."

"As I said, usually a snarl's enough." Salem grunts and shrugs his shoulders. One hand reaches up and into his coat, then comes back empty and vanishes back into the side pocket.

You paged Sarah with 'Abortive reach for his cigarettes. Not that she'd know that, probably.'

Sarah nods. "The same as it is with one of us," she says pointedly. "Unless we're temperamental, or angry..."

Salem grunts again. "I see your point."

Sarah looks straight ahead, her jaw set at the usual stiff, proud angle, her posture taut as a bowstring. "It is not my place to teach the Urrah," she says quietly, "in their world."

"On the other hand," the Walker elder says dryly, "sometimes it's good to have a third-party view."

Sarah's attention remains focused ahead as they walk. She doesn't make any reply.

They make another turn, coming upon a knot of teenagers in gang attire clustered outside the entrance to a playground that hasn't seen children in it for years; beyond the rusted chain-link fence, there's activity around a drum-fire. If it's a party, it's not the kind to be gatecrashed.

The punks outside the park stop talking as Salem and Sarah come into view, and the Walker smoothly switches sides, putting himself between her and them. Conversation stops, but though one blond boy (who'd be handsome if not for his broken nose and the heartless look in his eyes) leers at the attractive kinswoman, nobody says anything or makes an attempt to approach.

Sarah gives only one cool glance to the strangers. She seems content to walk in silence, though a certain tension in her strides speaks of readiness.

The gang's talk doesn't resume until Garou and kin are well past them, almost out of earshot; there's a mumbled comment in Spanish and some laughter. Salem shakes his head, grimacing, then glances at his companion. "You all right?"

Sarah's expression turns thoughtful a slight furrow coming between the raven eyebrows. She doesn't quite frown. "I am," she says after a moment.

Salem nods. "Most of them aren't bad, really," he remarks, keeping an eagle eye on their surroundings. "Just bored and wanting someone to follow, something to do. The exceptions, though... mmf. Predators."

"Predators keep populations down," Sarah says quietly. "They serve a purpose, maybe."

Salem grunts. "There are better ways. Usually, these just add to the misery and feed the enemy. Not much one can do, though, except try to limit their activities."

Sarah nods minutely. "This place isn't exactly the wild." She relaxes a little, once they have gained some distance from the potential trouble.

Salem shakes his head. "No, it's not. Humans are not, after all, animals."

"Most of them are worse," Sarah says, deadly serious. A pause, and she asks, "You walked?"

Salem shrugs. "Animals don't have a choice but be what they are. Humans do." He gives her a quizzical look. "Walked?"

Sarah nods. "To the church."

Salem ahs and nods. "I usually patrol on foot."

Sarah nods minutely. "I did not know you... patrolled here."

Salem smiles thinly. "Not always, but sometimes. I'm usually closer to home."

Another turn takes them further around the block and closer back to the Gnawers' church.

"Thank you," she says quietly. A guarded look over to him, and she adds, "I hope we can... talk, again, sometime."

Salem inclines his head slightly. "I'd welcome that."

With a guarded nod, she steps into the church again, greeted by the scrabbling of paws and a few yips from the collection of strays.

Salem lingers outside the church for a few minutes, then turns away and heads off down the street, toward the park.