"No... not kin."

[hazlogs]

It is currently 09:57 Pacific Time on Sun Jul 20 2003.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is a cloudy day. The temperature is 66 degrees Fahrenheit (18 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the south at 8 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.20 and rising, and the relative humidity is 65 percent. The dewpoint is 54 degrees Fahrenheit (12 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waning Half Moon phase (58% full).

You make your way towards the fountain in the center of the large, open meadow.

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.

Renee makes her way though the park, just a quick run-though before heading home.

Salem is already there, loitering near the fountain with a cup of coffee. He's had a haircut since the Gnawer saw him last; the unbound black hair only comes to just above his shoulders now. It becomes clear, too, that he's been expecting her, because he heads her way once he spots her.

Renee comes to a stop, hands slipping into her pockets. "Yo. Salem," she rumbles, voice neutral.

"Renee." Salem nods slightly in greeting and gets right to business. "I have some news for you."

Renee tilts her head to one side. "Yea?"

Salem says, "Yes." He takes a sip of coffee. "Three things, in no particular order. One, there's a new Shadow Lord in town. Ragabash named Konstantin." His mouth thins. "A bit of a smarmy little bastard, just so you know. Alicia took charge of him last night so he could make a proper introduction, but you may want to watch out for him. He likes to sneak around."

Renee chuckles dryly. "Shadow Lords are known fer that. So are rats. But yea, I'll keep that name in mind."

Salem smiles thinly. "Yes. Now, the second. You remember Tatt, correct?"

Renee's lips thin as well. "I was hearin' murmurs 'bout that... Shiftin' in public?"

Salem grimaces. "Yes. She's been dealing drugs, too, and probably taking them. Her behavior was... dark, last night, even for her. She could simply be about to go lone wolf, or it could be something worse. Either way, you may want to watch out for her."

Renee scowls, a light growl echoing in the back of her throat. "I was told she went clean."

Salem shakes his head a bit and swallows another mouthful of coffee. "She did. Then John died and she fell apart and disappeared."

Renee shakes her head. "If if she is jus' goin' lone wolf, she is still riskin' the veil. Not somethin' we can put up with, ya know."

"I know." Salem's voice is quiet, his expression closed. He takes another sip of coffee and looks out toward the river for a moment. "Third and final thing," he says, looking back at her. "Synthesis is disbanding."

Renee nods, expression becoming more grim. "I see. Any particular reason why?"

"It mocks the name." Salem's smile is thin with bitterness. "It exists because of inertia... There's no cohesion." He shakes his head. "It was, in the end, John's pack, and its time was ended... months ago."

Renee nods, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet. The Gnawer is clearly thinking, although she remains silent for now.

Salem takes another swallow of coffee. "Yi, at least, would be better suited to Rough and Tumble in any case. And I know you could use her." He cocks his head, eyeing the Gnawer cannily.

Renee lifts one shoulder in a shrug. "Don't know if ya noticed, but Yi kinda comes with Alicia. Alicia ain't bad, although she has her moments." Still, the Galliard is thinking.

"I _did_ notice that, actually," he says, simply, and sips his coffee again while she thinks. His eye wanders back toward the river.

Renee hmms. "Honestly, Alicia was the only reason I couldn't get Yi ta leave Synthesis an' joing RAT. Much as you would have liked me for that," the Gnawer rumbles, a certain amount of sarcasm in her voice.

Salem turns a faint frown onto Renee. "You were recruiting her?" Considering that he'd been thinking about disbanding the pack since before RAT formed, though... The point is moot, and he isn't _that_ irritated. He grunts. "Well, you should have better luck now."

Renee shrugs. "I'll admit ta giving it shot. Told her ta make her own choices in the end an' she did. Girl needs a solid Family more then most. Lotsa confidence issues." Another loft of her shoulder and the Gnawer being to move away. "I'll keep an eye out for the new Shadow Lord an' Tatt. Rat watch."

Salem nods, lifting the heavy cardboard cup to her in a kind of salute. "Thank you. I'll leave you to your patrol, then."

Renee pauses for a second and looks over her shoulder, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "Yer welcome." With that, she is on her way again.

--------------------------------------

It is currently 23:26 Pacific Time on Sun Jul 20 2003.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is clear outside. The temperature is 74 degrees Fahrenheit (23 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the northwest at 7 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.13 and rising, and the relative humidity is 68 percent. The dewpoint is 63 degrees Fahrenheit (17 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waning Half Moon phase (54% full).

Temple

This building, obviously an ex-church of some kind, provides a slightly raw acoustic for the pounding music--muffled only by dusty velvet and tapestry hangings on the stone walls. Pillars march down the nave, which has become the main dance floor; a black-pipe grid about fifty feet overhead holds the fixtures and dark-colored lights that sweep the mass of dancers. It's evidently quite the nouveau-goth hangout of St. Claire--boasting more piercings per capita than the punkest of thrash clubs, and more decaying brocade than Anastasia's Antique Emporium downtown.

The sanctuary at the far end of the building is still cordoned off, often used for "entertainments" of varying type and quality. At other times, exhibitionists crowd the higher stepped platform of the sanctuary, or dance on the smaller raised areas around some of the pillars along the nave. A cube of chainlink fence to one side of the sanctuary houses the CD spinner and DJ of the evening. One side chapel holds the main bar of the club; the other chapels along the sides of the church serve as seating areas, filled with castoff furniture in dark colors and the occasional unlit candelabra or swath of dark fabric. Tattered, stained velvet sofas and settees, tucked into the little 'rooms', provide conversation areas somewhat shielded from the noise. The back chapels, arranged in an arc behind the sanctuary, provide dark places for the Nachtskinder to play, exchanging their money for sex, drugs, and other vices.

The arched double doors of the main church entrance lead back out to the street. The wood panels are tall and imposing; only one of them usually can be opened. A bouncer stands beside it at a tall podium.

In both corners, enclosed staircases lead up to the second-floor galleries--balconies from which those less inclined to dance can watch the writhing below.

In the midst of a crowd of black-dressed goths, it's difficult to fix on any one particular person. Rina is lost in the chaos of the floor, whirling herself into oblivion. The eloquence of her body is enough to draw more than one would-be partner--but she drives them away, either by ignoring or outright refusing them. Wrists crossed against oppression, she slams herself against the air, lets the drums drown her in their pulsing.

The moon's waning, but it's _his_ moon, and Salem -- dressed in utilitarian black-on-black, his new almost-shoulder-length hair hanging loose about his face -- is tense as he moves through the crowd. He almost didn't need the Stone to find Rina. He cruises the crowd aimlessly, avoiding the dance floor and only vaguely heading toward the bar. He doesn't spot Rina right away, but when he does, he pauses to watch her, his expression blandly thoughtful.

It's all there: the pain, the morbid grief, the violence and need... all the things she holds inside herself, behind that hollow-eyed mask she gives to the world these days. There are not many people who know this part of her, not many who have held her when she cried or woke screaming from nightmare; it's ironic, maybe, that her secrets should be displayed here for strangers to admire. Her hands weave upward, her body arches back at the waist, and for an instant fingertips strain toward the flashing lights in an agony of yearning; then the spots fly upward and shift, and a new, harder-driving beat comes over the sound system, pounding into the echo-vault. The crowd begins to pulse with it, gaining energy with the passing of midnight and the arrival of fresh blood. As the colored beams sweep over her and alternate with shadow, Rina dazedly finds her feet again, weaving her way unsteadily from the crowd to the side aisle of the old church. She catches herself against a pillar, pressing her face to the coolness of the stone.

Dazed or not, she likely senses his presence before he appears at her side... the way people nearby tense and conversations hesitate or falter. Salem rests a hand against the piller and above her head, leaning, his gaze intent and a lock of hair falling partially over his face. There's concern there -- when is there not? -- but no judgement, no anger. No words, either, not right away.

Rina looks to him wildly, as if he might be an apparition; she stares for a moment, and then relief floods her expression. She looks even more forlorn with her dark-smudged eyes, the gaunt-shadowed cheeks, her breathing ragged from exertion.

"Buy you a drink?" Salem asks, just loud enough to be heard by her; a touch of wryness flickers across his expression, mostly in his voice and the faint, thin smile.

Confusion flickers across her expression, and then she nods; a moment later he is the object of an impetuous embrace, her arms thrown around his waist and her face buried against his chest for a brief time.

Salem blinks, straightening from his lean; he returns the hug a moment later, then pulls back slightly, just enough to lift her face toward his and stare into it, frowning worriedly. "Something happen?"

Rina shakes her head minutely. "No..." A look over her shoulder, and then she returns those dark-shadowed eyes to him. "Can we-- can we-- just go? Walk or-- or something?"

Salem snorts. "Fine with me." Keeping an arm around her, he starts leading her toward the door -- likely the recipient of more jealous looks. He didn't even _dance_ with her and he gets to take her home? Bastard.

She walks with him down the side aisle--avoiding the crowd and stopping by the coat check to pick up her jacket. She doesn't even flirt with the coat check girl, retrieving her armor without a word.

He waits until they're outside, out in the warm summer night and under the combined light of streetlamps and halfmoon. Then he murmurs, "You're an artist, you know. When you dance."

Regan Avenue, Downtown

Tenements, small businesses, and tiny restaurants line the street. Heavy metal bars encase the glass fronts of the stores. Battered cars, almost falling apart with rust, are parked haphazardly here and there along the sidewalks. People travel in groups, here, wary of the small gangs of young boys at street corners. Several blocks have the same dull repetitiveness, from Fifth Street all the way to Twelfth. Only the graffiti marks a difference between the blocks, the occasional rudeness sometimes broken up by light colors and strange designs.

The mask is back, fragile and slipping. "Thanks," she whispers numbly. "I used to be... I used to feel that way." Her eyes are focused somewhere ahead, a vague empty distance. Both hands make a habitual gesture, fingertips passing under her eyes to wipe away some of the sweat-smeared stain of black eyeliner. She doesn't need makeup to look fashionably pale, these days. "Now it's just... I'm just tryin' to prove I'm still here."

Salem keeps his arm around her, albeit lightly, his hand on her far shoulder. He squeezes it lightly. "You are." He glances down at her. "More bad dreams?" he guesses.

Rina swallows, and studies the sidewalk ahead. "I went to see the baby," she says softly, her voice numb. "We should talk about it... sometime."

Salem is confused for only the briefest moment. He frowns minutely and looks at her again, more carefully. "Not tonight?"

"Friday," she whispers. "She's... have you seen her? Drew, I mean?"

Salem's mouth thins. "I've... kept tabs on her. I haven't visited." There's a flicker of guilt at this. "I understand that she's not... doing well."

Rina nods minutely. "Don't go to see her," she says quietly.

Salem's brow furrows, questioningly.

"She doesn't want anything to do with... you. With John's kind." Rina's voice is quiet, pained, coming from some faraway place past emotion. "I'll stay close--it seems like she'll let me help. Let me in. But I can't fuck it up. No baptism, at least not until he's older and she trusts me with him alone."

Salem's jaw tightens, his teeth clenching together in a flicker of pain. He nods slightly. "I don't know the rite anyway," he says quietly, his voice flat. "I was going to call Francisco and see if he'd visit, but... there's no rush, obviously."

Rina swallows. "There's nothing to be done," she says quietly. "I'm just-- glad she didn't slam the door on me along with everybody else."

Salem sighs rather wearily. "Well... it'll be years before the boy's old enough to even think of there being any... accidents. We have time. And..." He smiles humorlessly. "She deserves her freedom. So, fine. I won't bother her." He glances sidelong at Rina. "And I'll pass the word to the others."

Wetting her lips, Rina gives a small, shaky nod. "Thanks. No contact." She takes a careful breath. "Last thing I want is her leavin' town."

Salem grunts. "It's the last thing _any_ of us want." A sidelong glance at her. "How, ah... did she let you see him?"

Rina nods, her eyes lowered; the streetlights catch a sudden shine in them, the glimmer of unshed tears. "He's beautiful," she whispers. "Three months old now."

She presses her lips together hard, and walks a little faster. Southward, toward the slums.

Salem nods wordlessly, and keeps silent as he paces alongside her, heeling like a faithful dog. He pushes his hands into his pockets, his face closed and tight.

You paged Rina with 'No cigarette smell. Maybe he's definitely quit.'.

She walks, numb and cold despite the warm summer night. There are occasional calls from the prowling teenagers, but Salem keeps trouble away, a looming shadow and the subtle aura of rage serving to ward off even the more intrepid youths. "Thanks for putting the word out, about Tatt," she says quietly, after a block has passed in silence. She glances over to him, taking in the sight of him for the first time in a while.

Salem's shoulders move in a slight shrug. "It had to be done. Between our people and Renee's, she won't go missing for long."

Rina stops walking abruptly, turning to look at him, a hand catching at his arm. She tips her head a fraction, and steps closer, inhaling. "You quit?" she asks, curious.

Salem stops when she goes, one eyebrow lifting quizzically. When she asks her question, he gets an odd, almost self-conscious, look on his face and nods. "A week or so ago. Right before the moot."

Rina's expression shifts, going from a dubious furrowed brow to something measuring, thoughtful. He can almost hear the gears turning as she reaches up to touch his hair, tucking back a strand of it. She draws back a fraction, her face angling slightly as she regards him with what looks like incredulity. "*Jack*," she marvels, quietly. A genuine smile, mischievous, even teasing, has found its way past the mask; she looks quite amazed. "Is there something you'd like to share with the class?"

Salem

Tall and dark, he stands a few inches over six feet, a well-built and rather dangerous-looking man somewhere around thirty years old. Thick black hair, cut to just above his shoulders, frames a somber, hawkish face, the left side of which is twisted by scars. If not for this disfigurement, he could be considered handsome -- albeit in a dour, moody, saturnine kind of way. His face is one designed for brooding and cynicism, and the short black beard that lines his mouth and jaw makes him look all the more satanic. His left eye is dead white, lost within the tangled jungle of scar tissue covering that side of his face; his good eye, on the right, is dark brown, not quite black. Both are shadowed, as if from lack of sleep. In short, he has the look of the very devil about him, or of a Christ figure gone bad.

His attire is strictly monotone, black on black, plain t-shirt and BDU pants and combat boots that have been well broken-in. He wears no watch, but a thin brass chain goes from one belt-loop, where it's attached by a clasp, and into the left-side pocket of his pants. Something hangs from a cord around his neck but is tucked away under the shirt, out of view.

He doesn't blush. We're not kidding; he doesn't. What he _does_ is stare back at her, completely deadpan. "Come again?"

"Who is she?" Rina asks quietly, her eyes lighting. Both hands find Salem's, and she looks at him at arm's length. "Do I get t'meet her?"

Consternation seeps through cracks in the Walker's mask; his adam's apple rises and falls as he swallows. "It'd, ah... be better if you didn't." There's a subtle shift in his eyes and body language, a subtle taint of worry and tension. "And... I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell anyone."

Worry replaces the teasing, instantly, and Rina tips her head a fraction. "Not Kin, then?" she asks, her voice softening.

Salem shakes his head slightly. "No... not kin." He's not quite looking at her, and there's that flicker across his eyes that she's seen once or twice before. Now it becomes more clear -- guilt.

"It's okay, Jack," she murmurs, wrapping both arms around him in a fierce hug. "I'm so happy for you... so glad." And for just that long, she takes a simple joy in the fact that the perpetually lonely outcast has found someone.

Salem puts his arms around her and returns the embrace, and when she's not looking at his face, there's an edge of unhappy wistfulness there. He puts it away quickly, though, and manages a wan smile. "Thank you."

She looks up into his face again, earnestly, both hands clasping around his own. "Whatever it is, you'll get through it, Jack," she says softly. "I know you'll manage. You will." Hope is written clear and fragile on her face, as if his imagined love can somehow redeem the tragedy of her loss. "You'll get through it. I'm so happy for you--" She hugs him again, quickly, to hide the pathetic look in her eyes.

Salem swallows. "I, ah... hope so. Thank you." His hands close together behind her back, and she can hear his heart beating underneath his black t-shirt. "I should have... told you, but..." He hesitates. "I'm sorry. ...Nobody knows but you. Not even Mel."

"I won't say anything," she says softly, leaning against him. Secure, for once--and somehow it's easier to relax in his arms, knowing that he's taken. Knowing that nothing bad will come of taking simple comfort from a friend. "You're safe."

"Thank you," he says quietly. And yes, it _is_ easier... and, for him, almost a relief; she can feel him relaxing slowly, tension bleeding away. Not all of it... but some. After a few moments, he suggests, "Walk you home?"

Rina steps back, giving a quick nod and a smile laced with the barest hint of loss. "Yeah. I'd like that." As they have so many times before, they walk back to the studio in the Montrose District, the dour Garou's presence keeping her safe.