"I'm just doing a job."

[hazlogs]

Friday Aug 1, 2003. Night.
Currently the moon is in the waxing Crescent Moon phase (29% full).

The Sept Compound

Sweeping branches of trees form a sort of natural roof overshadowing most of this clearing, no more than an open space of grasses and beaten earth in the heart of the forest. Some pains have been taken to keep wear and tear on the area to a minimum, so the firepit tends to shift from time to time. The firepit, several sawn logs polished from use, and a stack of firewood discreetly piled up at the base of an old spruce under a tarp, are the only signs of constant occupation. However, a student of such things might think that some minimal landscaping or planning has been done, for the meadowlike profusion of grasses and other plants has an unusually high concentration of brilliant flowers, which attract a number of bees and butterflies.

A faint trail leads off to the east, and a bit north.

Tatt passes a weary hand over her face, shakes her head as she leans back on an elbow in the grass. "Gonna sit this one out, I think."

Tabia makes the coin vanish, tucking it back into her pocket once again before taking the hotdog and putting it on her stick. She doesn't even try to persuade the other Strider to eat, putting her stick out over the fire. She's only seen Tatt twice, so let Renee handle that end.

Renee grunts softly and holds her hotdog over the fire. "Suit yerself. I'll leave'em here when I go, incase ya change yer mind."

"This is rather cozy," Salem says dryly as he enters the compound. He gives Renee a nod as he approaches the fire, then lets his eye skim briefly over Tabia on its way to Tatt; his former packmate gets a hard, critical look.

Tabia's expression darkens at the sight of the Alpha. While she doesn't know Tatt well, her experiences with her have at least been good ones. Not so, hers with Salem.

Mischief. Something about this girl screams it, even when she's trying to be serious. Her age may have something to do with it -- she's still shy of her teens, and perhaps the fact that she isn't the least bit shy, extremely extroverted and full of energy. She's about average in height and weight for her age, around five feet tall and perhaps ninety pounds. Black hair, cut short in a style that could go equally well on either gender and brown eyes, as well as dark skin suggesting middle eastern descent.

She wears worn-in blue jeans and tennis shoes, topped with a baggy sweatshirt, all well-suited to outdoor activities. The outfit is topped off by a light blue denim ball cap with a pyramid logo and 'Luxor, Las Vegas' lettered across the front.

The newly-Cleansed Strider looks haggard and pale beneath the dark complexion; there's something distinctly /odd/ about her gaze as she glances towards the Walker, then turns resolutely back to staring at the fire. Expression unreadable.

Renee wags her hotdog on a stick at Salem. "I'm jus' workin' on puttin' somethin' in my gut."

Salem's eyes narrow slightly at Tatt. Then he turns back to Renee, his manner easing into something a bit casual (relatively speaking) as he takes a seat on one of the logs by the firepit. "How are things with RAT?" he asks the Bone Gnawer, amiably enough.

Renee shrugs, as her hotdog finds it way back over the fire. "Well enough. Alicia an' Lyra ain't really talkin' ta eachother. From what I can tell, Alicia opened her yap. Fer all her good points, Alicia can have a bigger mouth then me an' thats sayin' somethin'. I'm workin' on that."

Salem grunts. "She can be rather... chatty, yes. Good luck."

Tabia listens to the conversation while her hot dog cooks, not adding anything to it.

Renee smirks. "Hell, atleast I got her ta talk ta her brother, without pitchin' a royal fit. That was a new one."

Tatt sniffs dryly, reflected firelight dancing in her silver eyes. No words are offered by the older Strider either, but her pale gaze seems inevitably drawn towards the one-eyed Walker.

"Benedict?" Salem lifts an eyebrow. "What _is_ her, ah, issue with him? Granted, he can be a little smarmy sometimes, but..." He shrugs and glances across the fire, meeting Tatt's eyes.

Renee shrugs. "Far as I can tell, its the smarmy bit that gets her. That an' she doesn't feel that he listens. Ya know, yer standered overprotective crap."

Through the dancing sparks above the firepit, Tatt makes a small movement: the subtle lift of her chin, showing her throat to the Walker. A wordless gesture of respect. Nothing more--her silver gaze is haunted and unblinking.

Salem answers Tatt's gesture with a slight nod, accepting the submission, and a thin smile tugs at his lips. "Speaking of smarmy," he says dryly, turning back to Renee, "Met Konstantin yet?"

Tabia pulls her semi-charred hotdog away from the flames, eating it right off of the stick. Being the good little cub, seen but not heard, in no small part because she doesn't _know_ most of these people.

Renee shakes her head. "Nope. Can't say that I have. He that bad, eh?" The Gnawer pulls her own weiner out of the flames and blows on it.

Salem shrugs. "I've met worse. He seems fairly eager to please." He eyes the young Bone Gnawer elder and smirks faintly. "He's _probably_ not as bad as Jarred, and he's quite green as well. Don't let him give you any shit."

Tatt hunches her shoulders, gaze dropping back to the fire. She seems satisfied with the Walker's reaction; the look in her eyes quickly goes distant again.

Renee hehs. "No worries. If he annoys me, I'll make certain he is pickin' bugs outta his teeth fer a week."

"That's the way," Salem says, amused. He eyes Tabia again, then turns to Tatt, his expression more serious. "Feeling better, I hope?"

Now that the hotdog has had some time to cool, Renee gobbles it down.

The older Strider pulls slowly out of her reverie to refocus on Salem, blinking once. Scratching at what appear to be a permanent series of burn-marks along her forearm, she rasps, "Like a million bucks." Her voice is low, hoarse from misuse... but she manages to lift a single corner of her mouth, betraying humor.

Salem rests his elbows on his knees as he looks at Tatt. "You had us worried, you know."

Tabia frowns faintly as Salem's gaze settles on her for a moment, but covers it with another bite. Frowning is better than flinching, anyway, and she remembers all too well the threats of last time.

Tatt passes a hand over her face; all of a sudden, the full weight of her years is showing in the formerly youthful Galliard's features. "I don't remember much," she admits quietly. Frowning.

Renee jabs the butt of her stick unto the ground and makes certain that it is secure, before hanging the the hotdog package on the tip. No sense in letting the remainder of the pseudo-meat go to waste. "I'm gonna get goin'. Got shit ta do," Renee rumbles, as she stands and dusts her rear off.

Tabia stands, brushing herself off and tossing her stick into the fire. "Yeah. Me, too."

Salem nods to Renee. "Walk safe," he says in farewell. The cub gets a nod as well.

Renee nods and slips out of the Sept Compound. "You too."

Tabia returns the nod, though it's aimed to include the other Strider as well, and then she's on her way.

Once the other two Garou are gone, Salem turns back to the Strider Galliard, studying her for a moment. "Have any plans for the future?" he asks quietly.

As soon as the pair are out of sight, the Strider lets out a ragged whoosh of breath and flops heavily back in the grass. Pressing the heels of both hands against her eyes, Tatt coughs shallowly. "..Stay alive and try to figure out where the /hell/ the last three months have gone?"

Salem's mouth twitches into a rueful sort of smile. "It might be best if you remained on the Bawn while you do that. The Sept does need Guardians, and I think it would do you good." He glances sideways, considering the opened pack of hot dogs for a moment before helping himself to one, spearing it neatly on a stick.

Tatt grunts; it doesn't sound like the suggestion thrills her. "Woods aren't my specialty," she rasps lowly, ending in another cough.

Salem suspends the hot dog over the fire, his gaze canting over toward her. "You need some time to recover," he says. His voice is mild but no less firm for that. "And away from certain influences. Get to know the woods better. Not to mention the caern." He rotates the hot dog slowly, letting every side receive heat. "The next time," he adds, in that same tone of voice, "will be the end of you."

She grunts again, lifting herself up into a sitting position with arms draped loosely over her knees. A dark brow lifts slowly. "..That an ultimatum, _Cicatriz_?" Those eyes are still strange and unnerving in their pallor.

"It is," the Glass Walker answers, meeting her eyes. He's deadly serious. "No more drugs. Not taking, not dealing. Nothing. The next time that you do, I'll see that you're hunted down... and _put_ down, like a dog."

Tatt holds his stare for a few long breaths, her silence interrupted only by the crackling of the fire. Finally, she drops her eyes to the flames, passing a hand over her mouth. "If it ever comes to that," she murmurs lowly, "...promise I'll die by your hand. Not Sepdet's." It's her own ultimatum, of a kind.

Salem nods. "I wouldn't accept it done by any other." This matter settled, for the moment anyway, he turns his attention back to the roasting hot dog. "I believe that it won't have to come to that. You're better than this, Tatt."

She winces perceptibly, tossing a small stone into the fire and sending up a brief swirl of sparks. "What makes you think so?" There's an audible edge of bitterness in her tone.

Salem's eyes follow the sparks, then shift to her. "You're insightful. Intelligent. Tenacious... not many Garou would have survived the abuse you've put yourself through and come out of it. You're stubborn as hell." He quirks a faint smile. "You have a viciously wicked sense of humor, which I can appreciate, even if its irritating sometimes. Besides," he adds, with characteristic dry humor, "if not for you, who's going to root through my family's underwear drawers?"

Tatt actually laughs at that, though the sound is hoarse and thin. She pushes the hair from her face, lets out a shallow breath of air. When she meets his eyes again, her gaze is weary and frank. "The real name's Martiya, _hermano_," she rasps.

Tatt pages: If he's had any contact with Gypsy culture, he'll recognize that as a Rom name.
Long distance to Tatt: Salem hmms. He probably has, a little bit anyway.
From afar, Tatt nods. Then he'll also know it's a big damn deal for Rom to tell a non-Gypsy their true name.

Salem's eyebrows lift slightly; then his smile turns less sardonic, though it remains just as faint. He inclines his head. "Martiya."

He lifts the hot dog away from the fire, then and waves it vaguely in her direction. "When's the last time you ate?"

The Strider looks at the piece of skewered meat and wrinkles her nose decisively. "Not really hungry," she grunts. "But thanks anyhow."

Salem shrugs. He touches the dog gingerly with a finger, then lets it cool for a bit. "The farmhouse is still around. You can get something there later."

"'M kinda leery 'bout running into anyone just yet," the lanky Strider confesses, scratching at the new scars on a forearm. After a moment of regarding the flames, she asks: "How's alphaship treating you?"

Salem considers this for a moment, then shrugs. "It's... hm. Not as stressful as I thought it would be." He shakes his head, looking wry. "When I was younger, I had two goals. Wield a klaive and become alpha of my pack and my Sept. And, of course, achieve the Elder rank as quickly as possible." He tests the hot dog again and, finding it cool enough, pulls it off the stick and bites into it.

Tatt tilts her head, staring up into the night sky. "Missions accomplished," she observes thoughtfully, lowering her pale gaze to her former packmate.

Salem snorts. "_One_ mission accomplished. And certainly not the way I envisioned it happening." He shrugs again, chewing and watching the flames thoughtfully. "This is a very strange Sept."

~Gaia's Armpit,~ the Strider agrees in all seriousness. She leans forward, reaching out a hand to pass it slowly over the flames without any sign of discomfort. "The fates lead him who will," she rasps quietly, her gaze faraway. "Him who won't--they drag."

Salem snorts and responds with, "'Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.'" He shakes his head. "I'm just doing a job. _Someone_ has to be alpha, and there's no one else suitable." He finishes off the hot dog.

Tatt focuses on the Walker, her cold-silver gaze suddenly intent. "Icewalker was just doing a job, too," she points out. "...And Sepdet, and Tobin, and any number of Garou. Glorified or not." She tosses another stone; the shower of sparks is more dramatic, this time. "Don't sell y'self short, old dog."

"Hmf," replies the Glass Walker, eloquently, as he impales another hot dog.

The Strider examines one of the dark scabs along her forearm thoughtfully. She seems far more comfortable with silence than she was before... finally, she muses, "How's our Italian bird?" Simple curiosity, without her usual hint of a leer.

"Rina?" As if there are any _other_ Italian birds Tatt might be referring to. Salem looks thoughtful. "She's getting help. Cat's presence _is_ good for her... and she's painting again." His mouth thins. "She sleeps poorly sometimes... dreams of John. Still." He looks over at her. "She's been to see Drew and I have hopes for that. Renee, too, has apparantly struck a friendship up with the woman."

Tatt's expression darkens slightly at the mention of dreams, then clouds over entirely at Drew's name. She shakes her head slowly, sadly. "Anyone gotten a look at the kid?"

Salem nods. "Rina and Renee both. Apparantly, he looks quite a lot like his father. Drew named him Russell."

The Strider cracks a grim smile. "She always was the sentimental type," she notes under her breath. "Is he full-blood?"

Salem's mouth thins. "Unknown. She won't let anyone Baptize him."

Tatt whistles lowly, leaning back on a hand as she frowns. "Somethin' happen to her?" She sounds apprehensive.

"You mean besides losing John _and_ Chaser in one day?" Salem grimaces and shakes his head. "She doesn't want to learn that her son is Garou, I think. Afraid of living to see him die like his father."

Tatt grunts, echoing the Walker's grimace unconciously. "Runnin' the risk of losing her, then," she rasps. "Y'oughta talk to her, as sept alpha. Sign of goodwill, and all that."

Salem rubs his chin with a free hand. "I'll have to make sure she'll see me, first. She told Rina that she wanted nothing to do with any of us. Not the full-blooded ones, anyway. Still... she's been talking to Renee, and that's promising."

The dark-skinned woman's mouth twists wryly. "Drew couldn't keep herself away from Garou if she /tried/," the Strider observes. "She cares too much. Probably full-blood, in another life."

Salem grunts. "Well, here's hoping. Ideally, the Baptism should be done within the first year. I hope I can persuade her to let it be done, if only to prevent the boy from ending up as yet another Lost Cub."

"John's pup deserves better'n that, at least," the Strider agrees with a nod, rubbing wearily at her temples. "I'll see what I can do, once I'm back on my feet. She usually lends me an ear, even if she don't agree with me."

The Walker looks from his roasting dog to the rawboned Galliard, concerned. "That would be... good. But take your time and get well. I meant what I said about reacquainting yourself with the caern."

Tatt nods once, gazing into the flames. Fire and ice dance in her eyes. "..Can I ask a favor, Jack?" Her scarred voice is almost soft.

Salem lifts an eyebrow. "Of course."

"There's... a violin case, in my room at the farmhouse," she says slowly. "I'm... not ready to leave here, yet. Was wonderin' if you might bring it by sometime." The Strider plucks absently at a blade of grass, still staring into the pit. She glances up at him with a great deal more vulnerability than is normal for the Galliard.

Salem smiles faintly. "I'll fetch it before I go back to the city today. All right?"

Tatt nods once or twice, releasing a thin sigh. "_Gracias, amigo_," she murmurs quietly. "_Gracias._" With that, she slowly shifts and blurs into her lupine form. The sandy-furred Galliard flicks her single intact ear, silver eyes just as strange in this form as they were in homid. I need rest.

"Rest, then," the Walker says mildly. There's nothing more that needs saying; he content for the moment to sit in companionable silence, roasting hot dogs, tending the fire, and watching over the weary Strider.