"People you can talk to who _don't_, ah, have a tendency to turn into frothing killing machines."

[hazlogs]

It is currently 20:31 Pacific Time on Tue Jul 22 2003.

Currently in Saint Claire, it's a sunny day. The temperature is 83 degrees Fahrenheit (28 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the northwest at 9 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.98 and falling, and the relative humidity is 47 percent. The dewpoint is 61 degrees Fahrenheit (16 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waning Half Moon phase (41% full).

Kingston Arms - Apartment 22

This apartment consists of one room, maybe 900 square feet or so; a bathroom is tucked into one corner, with a small kitchen beside it. The only other feature is a louvered set of closet doors on the left wall, across from the small tiled kitchen alcove. The apartment is sparsely furnished, with a twin-sized futon made up as a bed by the windows, and a crate with a cloth thrown over it serving as nightstand. The only table is a well-beaten desk, usually strewn with books and papers; a dilapidated office chair that has seen better days sits nearby, and often holds a pile of laundry or books. Boxes of books are opened, but sit along the walls and in corners waiting to be unpacked.

It's mid-evening, past dinner but not yet late, when Salem's knock comes on the Wendigo kin's door.

There's sound beyond, music that is just past hearing with the door closed. A flurry of movement, and then she opens it, and tribal Dead Can Dance drifts out: Spiritchaser. Voices chanting above drums, ya na hey o, ya na hey o. Very well suited to her somehow, right down to the skirl of very American electric guitar. Sarah looks well, if a bit worried; the glow of health has returned, at least. Her hands are stained a dark brown in places, from something liquid and inky. She gives a nod and gestures him inside.

Salem smiles politely at her as he enters, his gaze wandering the interior of the apartment curiously; he hasn't been here since he helped her move in. "I'm not disturbing anything, am I?"

Sarah shakes her head minutely. "No..."

A slightly bitter scent fills the apartment, along with sage-tinged incense. She was evidently working at the small table in the kitchen: a mortar and pestle, a pile of what look like nuts or seeds. "I was making dye." She has unpacked a little, but not a great deal.

Salem's nostrils flare slightly at the scent; he 'ah's quiet and nods. "I came by to see how you were," he says, his gaze turning from the kitchen table to her. His manner is serious. "Did Quentin tell you about what happened at the Moot, with Leonard?"

Sarah does not watch him, as he speaks; she is busy closing the door and bolting it, and then she walks toward the small kitchen with a nod. "He did." No emotion is displayed; he would be hard pressed to tell whether she is disappointed or satisfied.

Salem cocks his head, regarding her curiously. Hands clasped behind his back, he says, "Good." There's a pause as he considers his next words.

Sarah is not uncomfortable with silence; a long moment of it passes as she gets down a couple of glasses. "Would you like something to drink? Ginger beer?"

"Please." Salem folds his arms across his chest and, characteristically, comes right out with it. "Are you and Quentin planning to continue your, ah, relationship?"

Her hand is on the freezer door when he says it, and she freezes, the way animals will when they scent danger on the wind. Her face is turned away, but he sees her head lift slightly, her body straightening, a change to a more assertive, strong posture. "I do not know if we have one," she says quietly. "Have you spoken with him about it?" There is nothing on the outside to betray the anxious pounding of her heart, as she opens the freezer and fills the glasses with ice.

Salem shakes his head. "Not particularly," he says. His voice is mild. "I know the potential is there, and I don't disapprove of it, even." He smiles faintly, just for the next sentence. "I even think you two would make a good couple. But... I also don't want any further trouble from your tribe, or, rather, I don't want any more of their enmity than is expected between Glass Walkers and Wendigo."

She stands unmoving for a moment, her back turned to him. "Nothing will come of it, if that is... what you wish." She swallows, and fetches the large glass bottle out of the fridge, pouring the light-colored stuff into the glasses. "Besides. There is his relationship with... the Gnawer. I will not go near him until he has decided." She focuses on the pouring. "Until he knows what he wants."

Salem shakes his head. "That isn't what I mean," he says, watching her. "He's already broken things with Lyra. And little would please me more than if you and Quentin, ah... were together. Especially if it makes you both happy." His head tilts slightly. "Your people back home... do you talk to them at all?"

When he mentions Lyra, she turns her head slightly in surprise, a sharp movement that brings her face into profile, her expression clear and startled. Then she tops off both glasses, answering with a shake of her head. "No," she says, and then a moment later less fierce. "A little. My mother and I... aren't close, really."

Salem's tone takes on a hint of desert-dry humor. "No angry warpacks are going to show up because an elder's daughter has been seen holding hands with a blue-haired Wyrmcomer?"

Sarah turns, stepping over to offer him one of the glasses. It's an excellent brew, organic and strong, half root beer and half hot ginger. "The elder's daughter," she says quietly, "would never have left the res, if she'd been a worthy and obedient girl. I doubt many of them expect to hear from me, or care what happens."

Salem accepts the glass and takes a sip. His eyebrows rise slightly; before answering, he considers the glass with some approval, and then he nods to her. "I understand."

Sarah's mouth quirks upward at one corner slightly. "You like it?" she asks. "One of my friends at the college makes it. I'm trying to convince her she ought to sell the stuff."

Salem makes a 'mm' noise. "She should. I'd certainly buy it." After taking another sip, he asks, "You're going back in the fall, correct?"

Sarah nods to him, something determined in the set of her chin. "I am."

Salem's smile is faint, but approving. "Good." He raises his glass to her.

The bare flicker of a smile comes again, as she touches her glass to his.

"And that reminds me." Salem takes another swallow, then sets the glass down and reaches into his back pocket for a folded piece of paper. "I don't know if you've gotten this already, but if not..." He offers it to her. "It's a list of other kinfolk in the city. People you can talk to who _don't_, ah, have a tendency to turn into frothing killing machines." There's more of that dry humor.

Sarah blinks, taking the folded paper in her hand and then pocketing it, with a nod. "Thank you," she says quietly.

The Glass Walker gives another of those very thin smiles of his. "Welcome. We try to stay connected with each other."

"I hear it is something you Urrah can do well, maybe," she answers with a dryness to match his own.

Salem's expression turns wry. "Ideally, yes. And, speaking of urrah, what did you think of L.A.?" He watches her keenly as he asks this.

Sarah's brow furrows, and she glances down. "It was... interesting," she admits. "I have never seen one of those caerns in the city, before. I was surprised at... the aura of it."

Salem cocks his head. "How do you mean?"

Sarah lowers her eyes. "That it was so strong. It /felt/ like... a sacred place. Maybe part of what we have been taught... is wrong."

Salem takes a sip of the home-made ginger beer and nods. "They're rare, city caerns, and difficult to defend. The guardians can't simply stomp around the bawn in the war form and kill anything that comes near. That makes them all the more precious."

"It must be like a fortress, in the spirit world... to resist the darkness of the city." Her voice is soft, musing.

Salem nods. "It has to be." His tone turns almost wistful. "Our homeland in the Umbra is an idealized city, a proper blend of Weaver and Wyld, technology and nature. _That_ is something we strive for." He sips. "And there's... a certain beauty in the Pattern Web, sometimes, and the Weaver's other works. Deadly and... intricate. Ordered."

Sarah shivers. "It is a hard thing to understand," she whispers. "How that could be a part of... who we are."

Salem mmms. "Nobody likes spiders." He shrugs easily and finishes his drink with a satisfied sound. "Thank you for the drink."

Sarah nods, taking the glass from him. "Of course." She goes to put it on the counter, next to her own; the movement covers her uncertainty, and the gathering of will to speak. "Is Quentin okay?" she asks, looking over her shoulder.

"He's fine," Salem says. "Settling into his new role as an adult and doing well... as I knew he would." He inclines his head to her. "If there's nothing else, I'll leave you to your dye-making."

Sarah nods. "Please, feel free to call if you need anything," she says as she walks him to the door.

"That I will," the Walker says. He nods to her again as he goes. "Be seeing you."