"The mind's the first thing to go."

[hazlogs]

It is currently 22:55 Pacific Time on Tue Aug 26 2003.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is a cloudy day. The temperature is 64 degrees Fahrenheit (17 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the southwest at 7 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.02 and rising, and the relative humidity is 72 percent. The dewpoint is 55 degrees Fahrenheit (12 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waning No Moon phase (4% full).

The Pool Hall

New moon, warm evening, cold beer. Salem's as relaxed as he ever gets in public, most likely; the tall Walker is perched on a stool at the end of the bar, nursing a glass of something from the tap and keeping a lazy watch on the weeknight crowd.

Raphael

God, he's thin. So painfully skinny, scarcely a hundred pounds on his 5'4" frame, if that; all slim lines and delicate angles. His features are finely drawn, high cheekbones and classically beautiful bone structure; his dark eyes, dusted with golden-brown shadow and lined with black kohl and mascara, are made large and luminous by his spareness and the paleness of his skin. Feathery, true black hair, shining blue when the light hits it, falls constantly across his face, curls down around his ears, flirts with the nape of his neck. The overall effect is at once disquietingly fragile and ethereally lovely.

His shirt is heavy black cotton, long-sleeved, with a very shallow v-neck; the fabric skims his body, managing to make him look, if anything, even smaller than he really is. Beneath it, his slightly faded black jeans fit closely -- it's amazing he could find them small enough -- and, perhaps predictably, disappear into battered black knee-high combat-style boots. Chipped black enamel coats his nails, but he appears to have no jewelry, no piercings, no tattoos; no such adornment of any kind. Overall, he wears a rather expensive-looking ankle-length woolen coat, hanging open and letting the breezes in.

Raphael slips in through the door, wending his way like a light breeze through the pool players and drinkers, heading for the bar with no acknowledgement of any of them, even the couple who give him appreciative or disgusted looks. In fact, one might almost think he didn't notice the other patrons, if he didn't do such a good job of slipping through the spaces between them.

Konstantin wanders into the bar, just a moment after that, and he loiters in a corner with a view of the door. He doesn't seem to notice much beyond that.

Salem watches Raphael for a moment, looking bemused at the sight of the pretty goth boy in the rather rogue establishment. Recognition passes across his face a moment later; he nods to himself, glances away, and notes Konstantin. He gives the Shadow Lord a nod from across the smokey room.

Raphael finds a stool at the bar, considering the array for a while -- he chooses a seat one down from Salem, with no one seated to either side of him, and glances sidelong at the tall man before turning his attention to the bartender, and waiting quietly, but with an impatient and intense stare.

With a glance toward Salem, Konstantin gets an "oh shit" look on his face before he can fully conceal or control it. He offers a quick nod back toward the older Garou, still mostly watching the door intently. He seems unnaturally tense -- and for no easily discernable reason.

Salem arches an eyebrow at Konstantin, then narrows his eyes, mouth thinning. With a slight shake of his head, he turns away, and his good eye falls on Raphael. He nods briefly to the smaller man (or boi), offering a curtly polite, "Hello again."

The bartender's busy obtaining a rather large round of beers down at the other end of the bar; Raphael abandons trying to summon him by focus alone, and tilts his head a little, looking up to Salem again, a bit less sideways this time. "Hello, again," he echoes quietly, reaching up to brush a strand of hair behind his ear. "I haven't seen you anywhere in a while, I think."

Konstantin seems about ready to burst each time the door opens, but after about three or four minutes, he seems to perceptably relax. He heads toward Salem, only sparing one glance over his shoulder as he does this.

"I've been busy," says the Glass Walker, after a sip of beer. Glancing up, he notes Konstantin's approach and arches an eyebrow at the Shadow Lord.

"I can imagine," Raphael murmurs, as the bartender finally approaches, letting him order himself some vodka. He's quiet, after that, hands close together on the edge of the bar in front of him.

"What is it you do, anyway?" Salem asks Raphael, before Konstantin arrives at the bar. He seems honestly curious, though in an aloof kind of way.

Raphael wraps his hands around the glass, and takes a rather large initial drink from it than he looks as though he should ever be allowed to. "...I'm a musician," he replies softly, then, watching Salem in quick glances from the side. "What do you do?"

Konstantin makes his way toward the opposite side of the imposing Philodox. "Good evening, sir," he says lightly, glancing down toward Raphael curiously.

Salem smiles in a thin, crooked, cynical sort of way. "Repo," he says, in answer to Raphael. Then he nods to Konstantin again. "Evening. Expecting someone?"

Konstantin coughs, covering his mouth with one lightly formed fist. "Hopefully not, sir," he answers in a respectful tone. He offers a bit of a smile toward Raphael. Then, to Salem, asks, "Underwear model?"

The corners of Raphael's lips turn up the tiniest fraction, the miniature smile directed, apparently, at his drink, and he has another swallow, looking over to examine the new arrival. There's another tiny twitch of his lips, this one only at one corner, and a hint of amusement in the comment to Konstantin: "...you look like my father."

Salem makes an amused noise, though whether at Konstantin's remark or Raphael's is unclear. Smirking faintly, he sips his beer.

Konstantin snickers at the comment too. "Yeah, I'm often mistaken for an older man," the teen says proudly. "Why I've even got a fake ID says I'm 44 years old." He pauses for a moment, then adds, "Ah, what's your name, sonny? Dead old dad seems to have forgotten it, dag nab it."

Konstantin is a young man in his late teens with a lean, wiry build. He has a generally unruly collection of close cropped sandy brown hair, long, almost delicate fingers and a definite, although not unattractive Slavic look about his facial features. He's dressed like a young Republican, wearing a pair of freshly polished and stylish Italian leather loafers, a pair of smart looking lightweight olive grey shaded fine wool slacks and a fine weight shirt in a fetching solid shade of a light charcoal grey. Around his neck is a simple woven leather rope with what seems to be a raven charm.

"The mind's the first thing to go," Salem murmurs, utterly deadpan.

Raphael finishes off his vodka -- three swallows, that can't be healthy -- and gestures to the bartender with it, catching his eye. "Mine just says I'm twenty-one," he murmurs, before the man arrives, and then inclines his head slightly to Konstantin. "Raphael Sterling. Hello."

"Konstantin," the teen answers back. He spares another glance toward the door, drumming his fingers anxiously.

Summer comes in, her hair windblown from the cool summer evening. She glances around the room, and then spots Salem and Konstantin; a startled smile comes to her lips as she heads for them.

The front door swings open, the motion smooth almost like it was willed open forcefully rather than simply pushed. In from the open doorway swaggers a tallish man of obvious, if you know these things, slavic origin. Alone and not looking too dressed up, he seems to be out for himself tonight. Heading quickly to the bar a little down the way he grumbles to the bartender something highly accented, but difficult to quite hear exactly what.

Salem swallows another mouthful of beer. "And Salem, if I'd forgotten to tell you the last time we met." Kon's anxiety gets him a bit of a look and an arched eyebrow; he doesn't notice Summer until she's quite near, and for the moment misses the slavic man entirely.

Summer's name suits her well: the young woman has a fresh girl-next-door prettiness about her, a clarity of feature and a shine in her eyes. She looks to be in her late teens. Her complexion is a little dusky, tanned from long hours in the sun but not as dark as Latin skin. Long, wavy chestnut hair falls nearly to her waist when loose, although she often braids it. Her eyes are an interesting shade of hazel, bright and intelligent, green mixing with gold and brown in the irises. Well-defined features, a strong jawline, and a longish nose fall a little short of beautiful by most standards. She's neither tall nor short at about 5'6", her build willowy but not quite thin, and she is clearly a person given to activity and motion.

Slim, faded jeans ruck over her battered burgundy Doc boots. She wears a gypsy shirt in a colorful red-orange-brown print, with sleeves that gather and then flare at her forearms, and a drawstring around the wide neckline; the hem hangs loosely, light fabric fluttering around her hips. From time to time one side or the other will fall over the curve of a shoulder, and she'll automatically tug it back into place again.

Raphael sips the new vodka, a little more slowly, and there's that ghost of a smile again, still to the glass. "I know," he replies to Salem, "...you had. But I found out."

Salem might've missed the slavic man, but Konstantin sure hasn't. He's been watching the tall man of slavic origin closely. As Summer nears the pair of them, Konstantin seems to wilt a little bit.

"Oh?" Salem asks, distracted by Raphael. "From whom?"

Summer offers Salem a quick, open smile, and then glances to Raphael; her attention returns to the others. "Like, who's our amazingly gothly friend here?"

The bartender moves away quickly and brings back two shot glasses for the stranger, filled to the rim, with a water-clear liquid. As the shots are placed in front of him, the lightly tanned slavic eyes the tender with a scowl sending him on his way as quickly as possible. Lifting a glass without spilling a drop, he turns to look directly at Konstantin over the shoulders of anyone between the two, holding up the shot glass as if in offering; gruff scowl giving way to a tinge of a smile, though it seems forced. He holds the glass for some time in inviting fashion, looking at the other man in the bar of similar decent to himself.

Another sidelong glance to Salem, and the hint of amusement touches Raph's voice again. "I don't remember; it wasn't important." He takes another drink, and replies to Summer's question with an expressionless look over the rim of the glass; someone else will have to handle introductions, if there are to be any.

Salem gestures toward the goth. "This," he tells Summer, "is Raphael. He's a musician. And one with a taste for vodka, it seems." The Glass Walker drains his own glass, his eye flicking briefly between Konstantin and the slavic jock who's eyeballing the Shadow Lord.

Konstantin steps away from Salem, Summer and the musician, toward Tolja. "That for me?" he asks, eyeing the shot glass.

Summer holds out a hand to Raphael. "I'm Summer," she offers with a smile that suits the game. "What do you play?"

Tolja places the shot glass back on the bar, closer to Konstantin this time. "Yes," is all he says on that matter. "Your friends I've seen around before. You... you are new. I just wanted to give proper greeting." That said, he lifts the second shot glass and offers a bit louder with eyes that seem to be looking only at Konstantin, measuring something mentally.

Konstantin picks up the glass and glances down the bar, wearing a faint smirk. "Friends? Don't jump to any conclusions," he murmurs. Lifting the shot, he adds, "Your health," before slugging it back.

The Slav's remark catches at Salem's ear, and he lifts his head to eyeball the tanned man critically, frowning. After a moment, though, he shakes his head and rises. "Pardon," he says to Summer and Raphael, as he prepares to leave.

Raphael glances after Konstantin, observing the interaction with the stranger with detachment, and then inclines his head in something like a tiny bow to Summer, though he doesn't take the proffered hand -- his hands remain wrapped around his glass. "Pleased to meet you. I play keyboards, mostly -- and computers. And yes," he agrees, glancing to Salem again, "I do like vodka." He looks as though he might be considering sayng something else, but just looks slightly disappointed as Salem takes his leave. "I shall see you around, I suspect."

Tolja nods and offers, "Budem zdorovy!" with a wider, almost sardonic grin, before shooting his glass back as well. Strong vodka, nothing compaired to some stuff you can get if you look in the right places, but the strongest stuff they had in the bar... acording to the bartender.

Summer catches her lower lip between her teeth; she, too, looks sorry to see the older Garou leave. "Cool," she tells Raphael. Then she flashes Salem a grin. "See you around, 'kay?"

"Probably, yes," Salem says to Raphael, albeit a bit distractedly. He gives Summer a nod and a faint smile -- Konstantin seems occupied -- and heads out.