"Otherwise, well... people come in, people leave, people... die."

[hazlogs]

It is currently 23:14 Pacific Time on Sun Aug 10 2003.
Currently in Saint Claire, it is mostly cloudy. The temperature is 63 degrees Fahrenheit (17 degrees Celsius). The wind is calm today. The barometric pressure reading is 30.11 and steady, and the relative humidity is 70 percent. The dewpoint is 53 degrees Fahrenheit (11 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waxing Full Moon phase (88% full).

Harbor Park -- The Meadow

One of the last bastions of green left in the city, mottled and withered grass and weeds covers the earth like a badly stained carpet, with the construction work turning what is left into just bare dirt. The vegetation seems marginally healthier the further it is from the river and much healthier towards the central area of the park around the fountain. Construction work is ongoing here: a raised earthen berm about five feet tall is being built all around the park perimeter, with two breaks each at the Bridge Street entrance and the First Street end. Wooden posts are being erected at regular intervals all along the earthen wall, while tasteful iron gates and fences are being added at the entrances. Overpowering the scent of living vegetation are the exhaust fumes from a busy street to the west and an unpleasant stench from the Columbia River to the east. From the street view or river view, the park is now isolated, as if it existed apart from the city. People in tall buildings have an excellent view of any goings-ons for now, though. In the center of the park, a small glade of six tall trees and a flower bed surrounds the fountain.

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.

Salem stalks through the park, hands swinging loosely at his sides, his body language prowling and predatory. Full moon, warm summer night... and the park, of course, is all but deserted.

Signe's familiar Harley is heard half a block down, the sound of it growing as she comes up th avenue adjacent the park. The engine is cut when she reaches the chain link fence, and the bike is parked. She sits on it for a moment or two later, just looking around the old haunt. Salem's sillouette is spotted, though not quite recognized yet.

Salem pauses, glancing up at the sound of the Harley. They're not wholly uncommon. Still, he watches Signe for a moment -- also without recognition.

Signe swings her leg off the bike and moves toward where, two years ago or more, she knew there was a hole in the face of the rusty chain link weave--a hole big enough for the ahroun to push through. Hey, it's still there. She pushes through and makes her way onto the lawn of the park, toward the only other figure. There's no fear in her step, as one might expect in someone wandering the park alone at this hour.

Neither is there any fear in Salem's stance, as might be expected of someone being approached by a burly biker-chick. He squints as she gets near, puzzling over Signe's features in the moonlight, and when she gets within speaking distance, he composes his features and voice into a neutral mask. "Evening."

She's not what most would call pretty. Terms like delicate and petite would never be attributed to her, and come to think of it, neither would lady-like. She looks to be in her mid to late twenties, standing roughly between 5'10" and 6'. Her powerful frame carries a full 175 pounds, all of it undoubtedly muscle. Her hair's returned to its naturally black color and shoulder length. It's not set in any particular style, hanging straight. She wears no make up whatsoever, not having the time nor the care to put any effort into such things. She does, however, sport several earings and tattoos. Her eyes are a dark, unremarkable brown that manage to look angry a good deal of the time, whether she is or not. If there is a traditionally attractive aspect to her at all, it would be her finely crafted cheekbones and elegant jawline. They give her an air of nobility otherwise lost in her rough and uncompromising nature.

She's dressed in old, well worn jeans. Dirty, chocolate brown work boots catch the bottom edges, and a white t-shirt clings to her well-toned frame. A creased black leather jacket with a skull and crossbones motif on the back hangs loosely over her shoulders. The jacket bears some scars--a bullet hole or two that the Get has covered with electrical tape, and at least one she hasn't bothered to repair.

Signe's greeting is less formal, and less polite by normal standards, but by the Get's it's friendly enough. "Jesus," she says, getting close enough to chase the shadows from the man's face. "You look like shit." With a little grin, she also adds, "I've been looking for you."

Salem frowns. "Looking for me? Who sent--" He stops and looks closely at her, then blinks as his mind makes the connection. "Signe?"

Signe nods, her grin widening a little as he places her. "Yeah. It's me," she says, holding her hands out for a second before hitching them to the back pockets of her jeans. Standing there face to face with him silently for a moment, she adds, "Alpha huh? The Apocalypse is surely here." The grin turns a little wicked.

Salem makes an amused-sounding little snort. "It _is_ the End Times, yes." He smiles thinly and folds his arms across his chest. "Is Barlow back in town, too?"

Signe shakes her head, then says, "Actually, I have no idea. I haven't run with ihm in a few years now. No, my business is personal. It'll keep me here a couple weeks. I got in town Friday. Would have come see you sooner, but I had some personal business to attend to. Don't worry, it's nothing that falls under your jurisdiction."

Salem nods curtly. "A couple of weeks. Fine." He cocks his head, favoring his good eye and regarding her critically. "I owe you a favor, by the way."

Signe accepts the 'Fine' with a nod, and then reaches into the inside pocket of her leather jacket. "Thanks," she says, withdrawing a thin manilla envelope. "But, this is for you anyway. My visitation chiminage, call it. Five grand. It's clean, but don't ask where it came from." She pauses at the comment, brow furrowing. "you do?"

Salem's eyebrows lift. The nice thing about Glass Walker Sept Alphas is that they always accept cold hard cash. "I do. You, mm, remember that when I left the city some years back, I didn't leave it quietly, and Edge was, well. Inconvenienced."

Yes, I suppose one _could_ call having some frothing Ahroun go Crinos on a SWAT team in one's pack HQ could be called being 'inconvenienced'.

Signe's brows knit in memory, and then it hits her. "Oh, fuck, that *was* you, wasn't? I'd clean forgot it was *you*." The memory brings both irritation and amusement--a strange mixed bag--into the ahroun's dark eyes. Despite the moon, the amusement wins. Two much water under the bridge, maybe. The Get chuckles darkly. "You're lucky I didn't catch up with you sooner. If I remember correctly, I had all sorts of plans to kill you slowly and painfully."

Salem's smile is as thin as a Theurge's moon, as thin as a well-honed knife. "Yes, well." He unfolds his arms and combes fingers back through the shoulder-length hair. "When I came back, I asked one of the other halfmoons for judgement in regards to that, ah, indiscretion. Part of it was two months' Ostracism. The other part was a favor to eac of the surviving members of Edge... Kaz and Owen, at the time, and the others should they... resurface." He gives her a frank look, eyebrows raised. "Nothing that'd endanger my life or would go against the Litany."

"Oh yeah?" Signe answers, intrigued. Her brow knits again, and the humor leaves her expression. She's thoughtful now, and asks, "What did you do for them?"

Salem rubs his chin. "Owen had me help him dig a wolf den. Kaz needed some... Philodox advice on a situation that was a bit delicate."

Signe huhs, taking in the answer with a little nod. "You mind if I think about it for a while? right now, there ain't much I need that you could give me. But, I'll let you know?"

Salem nods himself, hands vanishing into his pockets. "Take as much time as you need."

Signe's standing somewhere near the edge of the park near the road. Signe's Harley's park on the street side. The two seem to be amiably talking. Signe takes in the answer with a faint grin. "Good to go then," she says, sniffing the air. "So, what else has changed around here?"

There is movement along the edge of the water--someone coming along the riverside, headed for the fenced no-man's land beneath the bridge. Rina is hugging the leather jacket to her chest, walking on the top of the half-height wall that marks the park boundary, with sidewalk on one side and stones and concrete pilings jumbling into the river on the other.

Salem starts ticking off changes, his tone of voice desert-dry. "Andrea and her pack left. Owen and _his_ pack left. The caern was taken over by the enemy last year, then reclaimed. We follow Chimera now, though almost went with Wendigo." Broad shoulders lift and fall in a shrug. "Otherwise, well... people come in, people leave, people... die." He grimaces. "Like your tribemate. Chaser."

Signe takes in the changes with varying degrees of emotion. The mention of Wendigo makes the Get laugh, for instance, and utter a soft, "Good Christ." When Salem gets around to mentioning dying, and especially Chaser, the ahroun's countenance hardens considerably. There's a tension that wasn't there before. "Yeah," she says in a voice that grates on the lower edges of the vocal range. "So I heard."

Salem is briefly distracted by movement in the corner of his (good) eye and turns toward the river, frowning at the small, moonlit figure heading toward the bridge. "I'm sorry," he says to Signe, quietly. "She was... a good Get. Her marker's at the burial mounds, if you care to visit." His mouth thins.

This had not occurred to the Get, and the idea warms the Get like Whiskey on a cold night. "Yeah," Signe says, voice regaining itself somewhat. "I'd like that, actually. She doesn't see the figure.

The Kin continues her progress on the balance beam, certainly not about to make the Olympic team. She pauses from time to time, swaying, perhaps speaking; it's difficult to tell across the darkened park.

Salem nods distractedly, staring hard now at the figure by the water. Then the Get hears him mutter under his breath in Serbian, his tone mildly exasperated. "Excuse me a moment," he says to Signe, and then starts heading Rina's way.

Signe turns to follow the alpha's gaze, a frown slipping naturally into her expression. Since he made it clear she should stay, she stays, and simply watches from where she is. Seeing Rina now, her chin lifts. "Oh," she says to herself.

Dark-brown eyes, touched with amber, look out from a pixie-sharp face. Rina's skin is fair, but not quite pale--a light Mediterranean olive from generations of pure Italian ancestry. Her black-brown hair is left just long enough in the front to fall almost into her eyes; the butch cut tapers to an army-short buzz at the sides and back, hardly more than a velvet fuzz covering the nape of her neck. Her chin is delicately-boned, her mouth small, the line of her jaw well-defined. Her eyes have a shadowy, bruised look, either from fatigue or the artful use of makeup; save for that Gothic touch, she might have stepped from a pre-Raphaelite painting. She can't be more than twenty-five or so, but in that youthful face the eyes are cynical, brooding, world-weary. Athletic grace and a certain streetwise confidence show in her movements, but there is often an element of tension as well.

Black fatigues hang low on her hips. Tucked into them is a snug dark-grey tee with ragged edges, the neck cut out to display her tattoo, barbed-wire ink around her throat. The shirt once had long sleeves, but these are cut off at the elbow, the edges left ragged; the hem has received the same treatment, though it does cover her past the waist. Battered black infantry boots, much-scuffed and not laced all the way, complete the urban-tough image.

Her left elbow sports livid bruising, fairly fresh.

She wears two rings, both a silvery white gold. Her right hand bears a single diamond framed by two smaller ones, the decorative work on the ring elegant and subtle, perhaps Art Deco. On the left she wears a simpler band decorated with letters and scrollwork.

You paged Rina with 'Inside or outside elbow?'.
From afar, Rina hms. She is walking south, but... let's say it's the right.
Rina pages: Inside.
Rina pages: So he can see it.
You paged Rina with 'Like... an injection-bruise?'.
Rina pages: No. Like elbowing something hard, or falling on it maybe. Or being thrown into something. Impact.

The dark-clad Kin seems to be... singing. Half-snarling the words, really, a stream of Italian. Her eyes are hard, focused on the bridge.

"Rina." Salem speaks just loud enough to catch her attention, and he reaches to take hold of her arm.

She stops as if jerked out of a trance. She doesn't, however, come down from the low wall. Nor does she look at him. Her face loses its expression, and she focuses on the bridge. "Evening, Jack," she says softly.

Salem's hand closes on her wrist. "Why don't you come down from there?" he suggests quietly, in that way that isn't, really, a suggestion.

Signe shifts her weight to the other foot, simply watching from her place a few dozen yards back. Her hands lift to rest comfortably in the pockets of her jacket, and her eyes narrow as she watches the exchange.

"Because I am enjoying my evening stroll, Jack," she answers, in a soft and rather dangerous voice. She still doesn't look at him. "Why don't you let go."

Salem stares up for a moment at the face of the woman on the wall, muscles in his jaw working. "Perhaps I should," he says at last, his voice pitched low and flat. "Let you go." He does so, releasing her wrist abruptly. "And you can call me when you need someone to patch up the wounds."

Signe's lips curl up into a smirk, her head shaking slightly as she looks down at her boots, then out onto the waterfront. With a sigh, her expression betrays the thought--some things do not ever change.

Rina looks over to him, then--for once, looking down on him. Her eyes are empty, horribly empty, and she lets her jacket hang loose from her hand, to bring her posture to an almost regal straightness. "No."

Salem folds his arms across his chest and stares up at her, challengingly. "No?"

A flicker of sadness passes through her eyes, as she shakes her head and looks away. "Ciao, amico," she says quietly. "You're on your own." Her gaze returns to the bridge, and she begins walking again.

The audience of one behind them chuckles a little. Signe turns to walk toward the row of small beat up benches. Picking the middle one, she sits, slouching down a little, and resting one boot heel on top of her other foot. Comfortable, she continues to watch.

Salem watches her back for a moment, then shakes his head and turns away -- somewhat reluctantly, and with a frustrated expression. His mood gone south, he stalks back over toward Signe.

Rina pauses, and puts on her jacket, heavy with metal and chain. "Somethin' funny, Get?" she asks in a low, flat voice. A hand reaches into her jacket, and takes the .45 from the inside pocket; she turns it over in her hands, turning to look to the woman with narrowed eyes.

Salem stops when Rina speaks, stops cold. He turns to look at her, kinswoman and weapon, and then at the Get of Fenris. His frown deepens.

Signe seems about to ask Salem something when Rina's question comes. Her attention shifts back to the kin. She notes the gun, notes the tone, and slowly stands up. Her jeans get hitched up, and she walks in an easy, slow gate toward where the kin's standing on the wall. The Get does not look away from that empty gaze, but after a long stare down, the ahroun's eyes nave narrow further, and there's at least the hint that the Get's slightly unnerved. Still, she there's no evidence of fear in her. "Yeah," she says, finally. "Memories."

Rina flips the gun abruptly in her hand, and slips it back into her jacket. "I'm glad you find something amusing," she says quietly. Another flicker of something in her eyes, brief, human. Then gone. "No hard feelings about the other night."

Salem's frown deepens, but he merely folds his arms across his chest, saying nothing.

The Kin continues to stare down the Get, her eyes narrowed, the darkness in them putting the lie to her words.

"Thanks," Signe says gruffly, nothing of relief in the tone at all--just more amusement. She glances back to Salem for a moment, then looks more pointedly at Rina. "Why don't you come down. We'll go dancing. Drinks are on me."

"Not gonna dance anymore," Rina whispers. "Why don't *you* fuck right off."

Salem's gaze shifts back and forth between the two of them, and his jaw is tight. "Forget it," he says curtly, and turns to Signe. "Your chiminage is accepted," he tells the Get, all business now and, underneath the mask, irritable as hell. "Give me a call when you've decided what you need... or if you need to get in touch with me for any _other_ reason."

Signe's back stiffens, and her jaw tightens. Obviously that wasn't the kind of response she either expected or is used to. A long drawn breathe is exhaled slowly as the ahroun regains some of her easier composure. It's easy to see, though, that she moves more stiffly. "Yeah," The Get answers Salem, and there's more to the word than a simple acknowledgment of what he says. It's meant to reassure, as well. She's leaving. She gets the point.

Rina turns on her heel and continues walking toward the bridge, her gaze fixed somewhere far ahead.