"Gaia is a mother figure, not a sacrificial lamb."

[hazlogs]

It is currently 10:09 Pacific Time on Tue Aug 5 2003.
Currently in Saint Claire, it is mostly sunny today. The temperature is 59 degrees Fahrenheit (15 degrees Celsius). The wind is calm today. The barometric pressure reading is 29.96 and falling, and the relative humidity is 77 percent. The dewpoint is 52 degrees Fahrenheit (11 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waxing Half Moon phase (51% full).

Salem and Mel's Apartment

The small, two-bedroom apartment has a warm, cozy look. The thrift-store furniture's been chosen for its quality and comfort, and the new place actually looks an improvement over the old. There are a few less cockroaches, but still no traps or use of sprays.

At first glance, Sunny might not appear particularly out-of-the-ordinary. This is, after all, a multicultural society. She stands a willowy 5'9" tall, well-built without being too muscular, more of the wiry and half-conceiled strength about her. Athletic, her body is trim and supple, the woman moving with a sensual, almost feline grace that speaks of long hours in practice, or a lifetime's training. Her skin is a deep bronzed hue, partly by birth and partly from an active, outdoor lifestyle, offset perfectly by long and silken black hair. Her facial features - high cheekbones and a soft jaw, nose a little more prominant than it might otherwise be - suggest a native Indian heritage. This is only enhanced by the keen, almost preditory watchfulness in her eyes, those being so dark that it's hard to tell where pupil ends and irises begin.

She's currently wearing a comfortable outfit of cotton. Snug black pants cover her legs, clinging to her thighs and rear and then flaring a touch at the knee, half-obscuring her black sandeled feet. Over her torso is a loose, long-sleeved shirt of dark red, buttoned twice at her chest before being allowed to fall freely to it's termination at mid-thigh, parting enough over her front to reveal a little of her flat stomach, her navel circled by a henna tattoo of the ourobous. Two silver rings grace her left hand - one on her wedding finger, the other on the middle of her right hand, and a shoddy-looking bracelet made of wool and brightly painted wooden beads sits over her right wrist. Her long, black cascade of hair is snagged back at the nape by a simple wine-red ribbon, though a few rebellious locks still dance about her face.

There's a lightly rapping knock on the door.

Said door opens a few moments later to reveal the Sept's alpha in black sweatpants and t-shirt, looking, remarkably, as though he awakened not long ago; the almost-shoulder-length hair is a bit mussed and he hasn't shaved yet. Still, his expression is alert. Alert and, seeing who is visitor is, curious. "Good morning," he greets, eyebrows raised.

"Hau, Salem-rhya," the indian woman greets formally, dark eyes fixing on the halfmoon. "I hope I'm not disturbing you?" She clasps a 7' walking-staff in one hand, rough-hewn and only partly sanded, looking as if it's just been taken from the best part of a tree branch.

"Of course not," Salem says easily, and seems to mean it. Despite it being 'his' moon, and waxing besides, he looks to be in quite a good mood. The successful challenge last night probably being the reason for this. Stepping aside, he holds the door for her to enter; fresh coffee smells come from the kitchen area, and a cup of such is sitting on the breakfast counter along with a newspaper. "Come in."

Sunny dips her head slightly, stepping into the room and turning to watch her host thoughtfully. "I'm afraid I don't know any Glass Walker rituals for events like this," she apologises in advance. "So you're going to have to bear with me through some of my own people's."

Salem arches an eyebrow. "So noted," he says. He closes the door behind her. "If you'll bear with my own ignorance to Wendigo rituals." Though his voice is light, he doesn't smile; his manner's bemused, even curious, but otherwise solemn.

Sunny offers a faint, very tight smile, though tiredness and a faint amount of gauntness is reflected in her face, even at the seemingly amicable expression. Not as strong as last time she was with the Walker. "I am required to take my leave of the Sept," she murmurs. "The judgement of Erika Judges-Souls is that I return to my home Sept and make amends with the spirits and Wendigo there." One hand dips to her jacket, tugging a small, blue-tinted feather from the inside pocket and offering it out on the palm of her hand, head bowed and knees slightly bent, the other hand still holding onto her staff. For a moment, it seems as if she'd fall over if she weren't using it to support herself. Only a moment, though. "This is the feather of the Wisawtayas, what you would call a wild canary. Give it to the spirit of that bird and whatever message you send with him will get to us, in Costa Rica, should you need me." Not that it's likely, with her being Kin, but it seems to be a ritualistic thing.

Salem, quite grave now, inclines his head and reaches out to take the feather. "That's... quite a distance," he says. The fact that she's 'merely' kinfolk doesn't seem to detract from her offer in the slightest. "When will you be heading out?"

"Most likely, tomorrow, now that I am saying the last of my goodbyes," Sunny replies softly, straightening and clasping her staff with both hands now. "Also....if my judgement is carried out and accepted, the spirits will no-longer recognise me as Halona Bleeding Sun, but as Halona Glowing Sky, the name I was givenas my own before my brother's actions."

Salem handles the little blue feature with great care, studying it. He looks up and nods once. "Your... brother. Hm." His mismatched eyes are intent on her. "There's a story there, but I won't make you tell it." Instead, he inclines his head to her formally. "Very well, then, Halona Bleeding Sun. I wish you good fortune and a safe journey, and I hope you will choose to return to us one day."

A warmer smile now. "If I do return, Salem-rhya, the story is yours, though I'm no Galliard," the Wendigo kinswoman promises. "I will be in written correspondance with Cameron, child of Stag, so you will be forewarned by about six months if I do attempt to return, since that's how long I expect the journey to take." She bows, low and respectful now. "I have taken enough of your time, and the road calls to me. Sha, eni miigwetch."

"Mother with you," the Glass Walker replies, "and Cockroach watch your steps." With a slight bow, he opens the door for her. His mouth quirks a faint half-smile. "I hear they grow quite big down south."

"The size of my head, and larger," Sunny agrees drily as she steps out, lightly shaking her staff to dislodge a couple of the insects in question before leaving, not turning back once she's left.

Salem watches her go, still holding the feather, then shuts the door. The feather gets carefully stowed away for safe keeping before he returns to his coffee and paper.

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

It is currently 23:57 Pacific Time on Tue Aug 5 2003.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is mostly cloudy. The temperature is 57 degrees Fahrenheit (13 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the south at 9 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.01 and rising, and the relative humidity is 86 percent. The dewpoint is 53 degrees Fahrenheit (11 degrees Celsius.)

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

Porch

A lathe-turned wooden railing runs the length of the porch save where the steps are, well-worn with use. To the right of the stairs, a wide swing is suspended from the overhang which shelters this area; to the left, a small table is the centerpiece for several chairs pulled around it, all of which face out to the front yard and the fields and trees beyond. The entire area holds an atmosphere of peace and comfort during these summer days, lending itself well to evening reading, small talk, or just watching the stars. Low shrubs snuggle up to the porch held back by the railing, their flowers filling the air with the sweet scent of greenery.

An aging screen door newly refurbished stands between the heavy inner door of the house and the outside air. Four steps lead down to the lane, a number of pots with small flower seedling carefully arranged alongside them.

Tatt makes a thoughtful sound in the back of her throat; the name of his tribe gets a neutral reaction. She crosses both ink-marked arms in front of herself, and shrugs loosely. "Honestly? Y'oughta talk to Rina 'bout it. She deals with handin' out cuts and territory and such... and you get an assful of silver if y'don't respect that." Judging by the woman's wince, she's speaking from firsthand experience.

Konstantin's eyebrow arches curiously. "Rina?" He glances toward the screen door and then back to the Strider. He and Tatt seem engaged in a conversation that barely carries beyond them. "What's her position inside the scab?"

Salem's rust-orange Yugo -- which doesn't run quite so nicely since Synthesis disbanded, but still continues to motor along determinedly -- pulls up to the farmhouse, lane-gravel rattling under its tires, headlights shedding a wash of illumination over the scene.

Rina comes out, closing the door behind her as she did before. She looks like she meant to go bug Tatt and Konstantin, but the car's arrival distracts her for a moment. Her eyes squint against the lights, and then she steps over to the other two, coming to lean against the porch rail by the swing.

Tatt murmurs something to the young man next to her, then narrows her eyes towards the familiar pair of headlights. Letting out a small breath, she reaches over and takes up the banjo again.

Rina wraps bare arms around herself, "You aright, Tatt?" she asks the Strider before she can start playing.

Konstantin glances at Rina and offers her a quick smile. Salem's Yugo also display Konstantin's hefty and gargantuan 1977 Pontiac Catalina, which is parked as well in the gravel.

The Strider looks up at Rina with those weirdly silver eyes, and lifts a corner of her mouth. "Been better, chica," she rasps, one hand resting atop the strings of her instrument.

The car slows and then stops, its engine dying and the headlights cutting off. Its owner unfolds himself from it a moment later, pocketing his keys. Salem's voice carries toward the gathering on the porch as he approaches. "Evening."

Konstantin doesn't quite stand and click his heels together, but there's a certain element of formality that seems -- much like a light being flicked from off to on -- to sudden appear. "Good evening, sir," the young man nods respectfully toward the philodox.

Rina turns at the sound of that voice, a flash of something in her eyes, something of suspense in her posture. She contains a coiled-spring desire to move, and confines herself to searching his face. as if she might find some sign of the outcome in his expression.

Tatt simply lounges in the swing, one bare foot tapping against the floorboards as she idly strums the banjo. No verbal greeting, from the Galliard.

Salem mounts the steps up onto the porch, and his gaze passes over Konstantin, giving the young Shadow Lord a brief nod. He's more obviously pleased to see Tatt somewhere other than the Sept Compound and, it must be said, somewhat surprised at Rina presence. He gives the kinswoman a wry look, lips crooked in a half-smile. "No wonder I couldn't find you at home."

A brilliant smile lights up Rina's face. "Yeah." Her expression shifts, then, fading into seriousness. "Cat had another visit from that Fury bitch last night. She asked a Fury chick for help... and the Fury chick's gonna be in touch." Her mouth twists slightly in distaste.

Konstantin glances toward Rina with a touch of concern in his expression. He doesn't say anything, though.

From afar, to the room, Rina looks... tired. Shadowy around the eyes, a bit hollow, like someone who hasn't been sleeping/eating too well.

Salem wrinkles his nose, the faint smile turning into a frown -- something that fits his face far more easily. "She asked _which_ Fury chick? Helen?"

The Strider twangs out a lazy bluegrass tune that's well-suited for a summer evening out on the porch... weird conversation topics aside. She hums under her breath.

Rina nods curtly. "Cat's inside. He kinda flipped, wasn't with it enough to ride afterwards. So we stayed the night. He wants to talk to that Fang. Whatshisname. Toby."

"Tobin." Salem leans against the porch railing and folds his arms across his chest. His eye strays toward the banjo-playing Strider, then shifts toward the front door. "Hmm. I should go talk to him."

"Add this one t'your list, after Cat," Tatt interjects, pausing the song in order to jerk a thumb towards the young man sitting next to her.

Rina looks over to Konstantin at that, narrowed eyes measuring him. She tilts her head a fraction, as if to question.

Salem eyeballs Konstantin as well, one brow lifting quizzically.

Tatt clears her throat casually, taking up the tune again. She sets the bench to swinging a little, with one push of her foot, and keeps her eyes on the strings of her instrument. "He's interested in... a former business venture of mine," she offers helpfully.

Rina crosses her arms, and regards Konstantin steadily... listening.

"With certain discussed modifications," he amends. He glances from Tatt toward Salem, first. Then Rina.

Rina pages: Ooooh. Rina = Business.

Salem smiles thinly, then turns to Rina. "Handle it," he says; there's an unspoken respect and implicit trust, there. "I'll go speak to Cat."

Tugging hard on the heavy door opens it with a creak. You step through into the living room of the house.

Farmhouse: Hallway and Living Room

All doorways in the front part of the house lead to the front hallway, a J-shaped area with the short tail starting at the stairs, the front door hitting the bottom curve, the doorless opening to the living room halfway up the long side, and the also doorless opening to the kitchen and dining room at the very top. The hall has a simple wooden floor, and decorated with a generic print of soft-colored flowers hanging on the wall to the right of the front door, and a tall table sitting under the print which serves as a place to toss keys. A closet under the stairs serves as a place to hang coats or to toss shoes.

The doorless opening to the living room is halfway up the side of the hall's J, and the word cozy might spring to mind when looking into is, as it seems to radiate comforting vibrations. A long couch sits against the south wall beneath a large bay window curtained only by sheers that manages to obscure the view in but only filters the day's light. A variety of out-of-date magazines are strewn atop a low coffee table; more neatly presented are the plethora of books filling the small bookshelves which line the eastern wall. Three chairs sit about the room, focused inward, to allow group conversations. Large floor pillows are stacked in one corner of the room, except one, which lies carelessly in the middle of the floor, apparently left out the last time it was used.

An opening in the northern end of the hallway allows access to the kitchen and dining room at the back of the house, while carpeted stairs twist up at the other end of the hall, leading to the second floor. A door at the base of the J lets out to the front porch.

Cat's stretched out on the couch, lying on his side and on his arm like any bored teenager might do.

Salem catches the door as he enters, letting it close quietly. He quickly spots the boy sprawled out on the couch and approaches with a mild frown of concern. "Cat?"

Tatt pushes in from the porch with bare feet silent on the floorboards, not long after Salem. The banjo's slung across her back; she only gives the living room a quick glance before making a beeline for the kitchen.

"Con-sta-tin," Cat repeats absently, blue eyes flicking up as two more people enter the room. Salem- oh. -Salem-. The boy bolts upright. "She came back," he says instantly, words coming rushed. "She came back an' she talked to -Helen-."

Salem glances over at Tatt as the Strider goes by, then turns back to the cub. He nods, taking a seat on the couch next to him. "Rina said. What happened?"

"She was sad," Cat admits reluctantly, staring at his shoes. "She wanted to be with other Fury people. I didn't get it all 'cause she talked something else outtamy mouf-" here the boy idiotically opens his jaws and tries to speak while pointing inside "-but she felt sad and she wanted to be with Miz Helen."

There's some clanging and clinking in the kitchen, before Tatt re-emerges with a pair of steaming mugs. "..Rina f'got to finish yer hot _chocolate_," the Strider rasps, pronouncing the last word in Spanish. She holds them out--one for Salem, one for Cat.

"Hmm." Salem runs a hand over his bearded chin. "Rina's right. You should speak to Tobin. He has ancestor spirits, too... and Sepdet, perhaps. She's wise in the ways of ghosts." Looking up, he nods to Tatt and accepts the warm drink with murmured thanks.

Cat happily takes the hot chocolate, smiling up at Tatt in quiet thanks as he slurps up some of it- and promptly makes a muffled 'ow'. Hot.

Her task completed, the lanky Strider sprawls her leggy frame across one of the nearby armchairs with banjo in her lap. "..Know what 'Ezra' means, Cat?" It's an offhand question.

Tabia comes tropming down the stairs with all the catlike grace of your average, oh, duck. THUD THUD THUD, go her bare feet on the stairs, despite her being under a hundred pounds yet. Her hair is disheveled, and one can easily tell that she's just woken up. "Mmfrlinge," she greets those present blearily.

The cub blinks as Tabey clumps in, a smile starting on his face and then dying as he looks to Salem, utterly blank. "Wh-what does Ezra mean?" he asks Tatt timidly.

Salem leans back, legs stretched out before him as he sips the hot chocolate. He glances over at Tabia, looking the sleepy cub over blandly, then turns a curious eye over to Tatt.

"'Helper'," Tatt informs the Walkercub, pulling a cheerful little riff from the banjo. "'S a good name. Strong name. Nothing t'be ashamed of." The silver-eyed Strider keeps her attention on her instrument, after lifting her chin towards Tabia.

Tabia rubs her eyes, offering a wave to Cat and Tatt as she notices specific people, rather than just presences in the room. "You just get a new name?" she asks the Theurge cub.

Cat shakes his head, pausing to sip a little hot chocolate. "Learning more about my old one," he tells the other cub softly, with a sideways glance at Salem again. "It means 'helper'. I like that." Shy, he goes back to studying his hot chocolate.

Salem nods. "A good name, at that," he says to the younger Glass Walker. "Suits you. And _you_." He turns his eye toward Tabia. "Settling in all right?"

Tabia seems a little surprised that he'd care. "Yeah. Doin' okay. Hangin' out with Raven and Cat, here. Learnin' stuff. Goin' crazy 'cause I can't get out t'the city that often, an' I'm not cut out t'be a forest ranger. Usual cub stuff."

"...For Ezra had prepared his heart to seek the law of the Lord, and to do it, and to teach in Israel statutes and judgements," Tatt murmurs, almost to herself. An urrah junkie Strider quoting the Bible? It would seem so.

Salem arches an eyebrow at Tatt, looking impressed.

The Walker cub blinks at Salem too, surprised at the off-hand compliment. And then he gets to stare at Tatt, 'cause soooomebody just spoke Bible.

Tatt continues toying with the banjo, oblivious... until she notices the staring. "Ezra was the scribe of the law of heaven," she rasps, almost defensively. "Y'know... Moses, the ten commandments, alla that."

One corner of Salem's mouth quirks upward. He glances sidelong at Cat, amused for some reason.

Tabia seems faintly amused, though it's probably not because of the staring or Tatt's defensive response to it. Whatever the reason, though, she keeps it to herself. Tact she may not be known for, but there are times when it's better to keep quiet.

Cat looks between both cliaths- excuse, between the cliath and the fostern, giving the latter a bright-eyed glance -before canting his head. "Thought you said you didn't believe in angels?" he counters to Tatt, slowly.

Salem opens his mouth, then closes it. He drinks his hot chocolate slowly, listening with his attention divided evenly between Tatt and Cat.

Tatt shakes her head, silver eyes sparking a little as she holds up an ink-marked finger. "Th' song said I don't /need/ angels," she corrects the cub with a tiny smile, starting up the tune again.

Tabia ducks into the kitchen for a minute, long enough to emerge with a glass of chocolate milk, since she didn't make it down in time for hot chocolate.

Could there have been a better answer? Cat fairly grins from ear to ear, sipping at his hot chocolate with a cheerful little slirp. Somewhere deep inside him, a certain spirit is pounding phantasmic limbs against a phantasmic head. Then a thought crosses his mind and he looks back at Tatt, confused. "But you said somethin' about the gods that fling thunder about and stuff. That's mythology. Y'can't believe in Heaven and angels and stuff like Zeus too."

Tabia does have a comment on that. "You sayin' there's no such thing as powerful spirits, then?" the Strider asks, sipping her chocolate milk.

Salem's gaze follows Tabia as she vanishes into the kitchen and then returns. The Alpha seems more than content to sit and listen; theology's not much of his thing.

Tatt clears her throat, playing thoughtfully for a while. Shaking her head again, she points out, "I was singin' about thunderheads. Those're just stormclouds." Silver eyes glance towards the Walkercub with a squint. "And what if Zeus and Heaven are just two different stories about the same thing, hey?"

"'Cause Zeus is a pagan, heathen god," Cat says promptly. "He -might- be just another name for Jesus but then what about all those other gods and their philandering ways?" He pauses, going over the question Tatt had asked, and that he had misinterpreted. "Well...Heaven's what it's like," he concludes rather unimpressively. "Gaia's Jesus, and where all the homelands and the spirit worlds meet, that's Heaven/

Salem's mouth thins, but he refrains from comment. Verbal comment, anyway; the Philodox does shake his head a bit.

Tatt quirks half of a smile, tattooed legs dangling loosely over the arm of her chair. "What about some shaman in a desert across the ocean somewhere, Ezra? He wouldn't believe in your god anymore than you believe in his. Who's right, who's wrong?"

Salem, despite his best intentions, speaks up. "Gaia is a mother figure, not a sacrificial lamb. Indeed, we're trying very hard to _keep_ Her from being sacrificed."

Tabia was about to go the same place as Tatt, albeit in a different way. Agreeing with Salem, she says, "God is all about death and afterlife. Suffer now so you can go to paradise after you die! Me, I'm more about living m'life, and death can sort itself out when the time comes. I'll take Gaia any day."

Cat frowns over first at Tatt, and then at Salem. Oddly enough, he only answers the Fostern, although he very much looks like has some response for the Strider. "I didn't say Gaia was sacrificed. Jesus is a part of God, right? So Gaia is Jesus and God and the Holy Spirit too. An' Jesus didn't even -really- die. I mean, he did, but his soul was safe and that went back to the rest of God and so rest of Gaia." The cub smiles softly. "See?" To Tabia, the cub makes a face. "But...we do suffer, and we do go to a paradise after we die. We're fighting this big war, aren't we? And then we go to our homelands, don't we? So..."

Salem simply shakes his head and swallows hot chocolate. His expression takes on a rather thoughtful air.

The older Strider's silver eyes flash sharply, all of a sudden--cutting a disapproving glance that encompasses Tabia *and* the Sept Alpha. "Shut the fuck up and let the kid answer a question uninterrupted, hey?" She sounds annoyed, plucking a few strings before she looks back to Cat. "..Think I'm gonna have t'go dust off my Bible," she admits. "Can I get back to you after I do some readin'?"

Cat's eyes light up. The prospect of a real Bible talk was about as exciting as waiting for Latin Lessons...that is to say, very. "If you would?" he asks shyly, just as a tremendous yawn takes over the last syllable and distorts his pitch. When it's done, the cub makes a tired, irritable face. "Think I'm sleepy," he states softly, glancing to Salem. "May I be excused?"

Tabia snorts at Tatt, but bites back her retort. Elder, after all. And just as important, if not moreso, Cat's feelings.

Salem lifts eyebrows at Tatt, looking mildly surprised by the Galliard's vehemence. He considers her for a moment, eyes narrowed, that thoughtful look lingering. One can almost see the gears a-turning. Then he gives Cat a nod. "Go ahead. You going to spend the night here again?"

The Walker cub makes a face. "Have ta. Miz Rina's still outside talking to Con-sta-tin." There's a sing-songy way that Cat says the name. "An' maybe I can catch Tobin-rhya and figure stuff out about Ar- Her." He gets up heading towards the kitchen to put his hot chocolate mug away. "'Nite rhya, rhya," he murmurs as he heads up the stairs, sending a faint smile to Tabia, adding, "'Nite Tabey."

Tabia smiles after the other cub, "Sleep tight!" Her attention turns back to Salem and Tatt, then, asking the latter, "You really buy into all that religious stuff?" A little incredulous.

Tatt watches the Walkercub go with a faint smile that's quickly schooled away, as she looks back down to the strings of her banjo. "Define 'buy into'," she answers the Strider cub quietly.

"More things in heaven and on earth," Salem murmurs, his voice trailing away. He drains his cup, then rises. "Going to take a turn around the Bawn, I think."

Tabia says "Just that. I mean, c'mon, organized religion's the best damn scam job in history."

Salem leaves the two Silent Striders to it, the older one getting a rather pleased look directed her way, and slips out the back.