"Behavior definitely uncharacteristic of a woman in her seventies, yes."

[hazlogs]

It is currently Thu Sep 25 2003.

Currently the moon is in the waning No Moon phase (5% full).

*beep* Mr. Salem, my name is Jean. My callback number is (blah--said slowly to give enough time for someone to write it down). You don't know me, yet, but I got your number from this guy named Luke and a boy named Konstantin. I need to talk to you as soon as possible; I have some information I am pretty sure you would like to have. Again, my number is (blah). Please call me, thanks. *beep*

Harbor Park -- Fountain

Situated in the center of a large, open meadow is a clustering of six trees, a flower bed, a few steel-and-wood benches set firmly into concrete, and a flagstone courtyard that is dominated by a large fountain.

The fountain is a wide circular pool of water some fifty feet across and about five feet deep in most places. The sculpture in the center is a mix of old and new, traditional and modern: eight concrete-and-stainless-steel slabs about six feet high are set in a rough Stonehenge-like circle around the center of the fountain. Water flows from their tops, cascading in bright mesmerizing sheets to the pool below. Rising above the steel circle is a large marble statue of the Water Bearer, an androgynous figure draped in robes of flowing water. It bears a large jug carved with various Greek symbols, from which pours a seething torrent of water into the pool at its feet.

Cars on the nearby street have an excellent view of the park as do any residents of the tall buildings which line the waterfront.

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. Recent construction work is creating an earthen berm several feet high all along the borders of the park in all directions.

From afar, Jean muttermutter too damn early, "Sure, Mr. Salem, that's fine, it'll mean not missing classes later."

Even if she hasn't been given a description of him, it isn't difficult to spot who the Sept Alpha is. The scars help, and the fact that he's probably the only person in the nearly-empty park who isn't in jogging attire. Dressed mostly in black, sunglasses shadowing his eyes, Jack Salem sits on a bench near the fountain, reading a newspaper.

A girl of late teen years, she is slightly above average in height, willowy stature accentuated by a slenderness of body and limbs which give the impression of fragility. Her hair is a russet red at odds with dark eyebrows, suggesting a dye job, but is the most noticable attribute, falling loose to her shoulders in flattering layers and thick cut bangs. Her eyes are also dark, a rich brown, and her complexion just hinted with tan. Her features are strongly defined, a prominant blade of nose, sharp cheekbones, an angular jawline ending in a pointed chin. A smile seems to be always at the ready and, when she speaks, her voice is melodious, with just a trace of an accent so faint as to be unidentifiable--the perceptive may be the only ones to even notice it from a normal Midwestern American speech pattern.

And if she didn't have a description, the vibes radiating off of him would probably give it away. Simple observation at the joggers avoiding the fountain. She walks in from the parking lot with a winter jacket thrown on--obviously someone more used to warmer climes, given that it's not that cold for those used to St. Claire's weather, and after enough time to assess the traffic patterns going around Salem, she heads towards him. A good several feet off, she calls out questioningly, "Mr. Salem?"

Salem looks up from the newspaper, his expression bland. "Yes?" She can see her reflection in the mirrored lenses.

Jean hesitates a couple yards from him, then visibly steels herself to close the gap and offer up her hand. "Jean Michalek. It's an honor to meet you, sir."

There's a pause of a second or two where he seems to be sizing her up. Then he closes the newspaper and reaches out to grasp the proffered hand firmly for a moment. "Welcome to the neighborhood," he says. His tone is polite, but not especially friendly. As he releases her hand he nods toward the empty part of the bench next to him. "Have a seat."

Jean seems oddly unphased by his demeanor, at least not showing any visible sign that she is off-put by it. She settles on the bench at his invitation, saying, "Thank you. I suppose I should finish my introduction, too. I am a theurge of the Shadow Lords." She seems to be watching his face as she says it, but goes on without pause. "I met a theurge named Luke, who said I should meet with you, to offer my chiminage and to ask permission to join the Sept."

Salem's expression doesn't change. He simply nods once while folding the newspaper up into a neat bundle and setting it aside on the bench. "Another theurge. Mm." Arms folded, he turns his head to consider her again. "What do you have to offer us, Ms. Michalek?"

Jean smiles slightly. "Another warm body, for the fight. I have heard that this Caern has been beseiged in recent months. I am an experienced theurge. Not that I am sure there are not others," she says self-deprecatingly, "but there can never be too many, no? I will be here, in this area, whether or no, as I am going to college at the university. Also, I have this." And here, she pulls something out of the pocket of her jacket, a small, velveteen bag closed with a drawstring, and offering it up to the Fostern.

One eyebrow lifts as he takes the bag, hefting it in his palm. "And this is...?"

The bag is light, not more than a few ounces in weight, but there is something moving in it as he hefts it, while being tossed. "A fetish. I do not know what it is, or does, but knowing I would be coming here, I saved it for my chiminage."

The Glass Walker's expression turns openly skeptical. "You're in possession of a fetish you don't know anything about? Where did you get it?"

Jean's expression turns a touch sad, and troubled because of it. "From a Garou, after a fight. He died," is her terse answer, obviously a painful topic for her.

Again, Jean gets that moment of silent -- almost critical -- regard. "Mm." He hands the fetish back to her. "Your chiminage is accepted provided that you find out the properties of this fetish and report the information back to me."

Jean looks momentarily surprised, but then takes the bag and fetish back, slowly returning it to her pocket with a nod. "But, that is not why I left you that voicemail," she says, this time, waiting for some response from him before continuing.

Salem grunts, folding his arms and leaning back. "Yes... you said something about information..."

Jean nods in affirmation. Before she speaks again, she pulls a newspaper clipping out of her -other- jacket pocket, unfolding it to hand over to the philodox. "This," she says. The headline screams '72 year old kills, evades police', an article which ran in Monday morning's paper. "I was the one who called that in. It was not far from here, actually," she looks northwards. "There was more to it than the article says. I did not, do not, think she is just an old lady." Again, that pause.

Emma Merriweather, an otherwise unremarkable older woman (picture shown here), is wanted for questioning by police and apparently on the run. An anonymous tipster reported seeing Ms. Merriweather dump what appeared to be bodies into the Columbia on Sunday night, called police, gave them her van's plate numbers, and Sgt. Martin Williams, a veteran officer, was sent to check on her at her home. When Williams failed to update his status, an addition squad car was dispatched and William's body was found inside Merriweather's apartment--five floors down from where Peter Grave was shot to death in July after a tip lead police to discover that everyone on the 12th floor had been murdered. Ms. Merriweather's fingerprints from her banking records matched those found on the knife used to kill Officer Williams. Anyone spotting Ms. Merriweather is advised to contact the police and avoid contact.

Salem barely skims the article. Nodding, he says abstractly, "I remember this..." His mirrored gaze turns back to the young Theurge. "What did you see, exactly?"

"This woman," she says, with a gesture towards the article with a slender hand, "cheerfully carrying full-grown adult bodies over her shoulder like they were pillows."

"Behavior definitely uncharacteristic of a woman in her seventies, yes." Salem's voice is desert-dry. He studies the photo in the clipping, lips thinned. "Did you follow her or get any other information?"

Jean nods. "I saw her firsthand. I know what the van she was driving looks like. I got a license plate number. She was singing a song," the theurge continues with, "which I wrote down. I have met Renee, the alpha of the pack who claims this park, and her packmate, Alicia. I do not know if the song is important or not, but I had thought a Galliard might learn more about it. I did some research of my own on it, too--it is old, and from a place called Appalachia."

Salem nods, then frowns. "The Appalachian Mountains? Hm... she's a bit far from home. Has anyone tried using Questing Stone to find her yet?"

Jean shakes her head, then shrugs thin shoulders. "Not that I know of. I do know the ritual, but I have been hesitant to use it until more research was done. And," she goes on to add, "more of us. I have heard there may be those of our kind that follow the Wyrm in the area, or I might not have hesitated in confronting her directly when I first saw her."

Salem grunts. "The Dancers have been quiet lately, but, yes... they're not far. And they're far from the only Wyrm around here." He studies the clipping again for a moment, then nods. "Good. What do you plan to do now?"

Jean smiles a little at the question, then sobers up to serious. "Alicia mentioned that their pack had been investigating this Peter Graves, before. It is very suspicious that it happened in the same building. I have talked to Konstantin, who says he has met you," she looks at the Glass Walker at the same time for visible confirmation, or reaction if this is not the case, "as I believe he has contacts which may be of help in tracking this van down. I am going to do more research on the web into Peter Graves and those murders. And when the moon waxes once more...I think it would be useful for a pack of Garou to investigate the shadow around this building." Again, indicating the article with her whole hand and not just a finger.

Salem nods when Jean mentions Konstantin, confirming that he does know the boy, and then nods again when she's finished. "Gibbous moon at the least... mm." He seems abstracted again, his attention directed at someplace inward.

Jean raises an eyebrow curiously, but doesn't pry into whatever is occupying Salem's thoughts at the moment. "Yes. A long time to wait. It may be more prudent to do the Rite of Questing Stone sooner than that. Who knows what Emma Merriweather, or whatever is behind Emma Merriweather's actions, will do in two weeks."

"I was considering that, yes," the Alpha says dryly, coming back out of his thoughts. He folds up the clipping and tucks it into an inside pocket of his coat. "Is there anything else you need to tell me?"

Jean shakes her head. "Not now, no. Thank you for meeting with me, Mr. Salem," she says deferrentially.

"You're welcome," he says, getting up and taking the newspaper with him. Turning back to her, he gives the thinnest of smiles and adds, "I would appreciate it if you kept me informed. Also, do you have a place to stay yet?"

"Of course," Jean replies promptly to his declaration, although, really, it wouldn't be clear that was it. "I am currently in a dorm at the university, but I am trying to find some place in the city to live."

Salem nods. "If you find yourself in need of a place to crash, my tribe keeps a house on Fifteenth Street." He rattles off the address for the Dominion. "The owner's a Ragabash named Leala." He starts to go, then turns back. "One more thing. I don't tolerate civilian deaths in this protectorate. Preserve the Veil if you must, but better that you make sure beforehand there are no witnesses rather than eliminate them afterward. Understood?"

"Understood," Jean affirms, accompanying it with a shallow nod. She seems to commit the address, and the owner's name, to memory.

"Good." He inclines his head slightly. "Welcome to St. Claire. Enjoy your stay." With that, he starts walking off.