"Have you been hiding here since the explosion?"

[hazlogs]

It is currently 13:31 Pacific Time on Thu Sep 25 2003.

Currently in Saint Claire, it's a sunny day. The temperature is 67 degrees Fahrenheit (19 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from variable directions at 3 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.22 and steady, and the relative humidity is 52 percent. The dewpoint is 49 degrees Fahrenheit (9 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waning No Moon phase (3% full).

If the slums are where you'd usually find a Gnawer, this one has wandered too far. Even the slums have their good parts; this isn't one of those, it's the dingiest, darkest, filthiest little hole you could ever imagine, and yet people live here. A dead-end road of boarded-up houses, towards one such house being where the stone pulls.

Salem keeps an eye on the environment as he follows the polished grey stone dangling from the end of the black cord, well aware that desperation may sometimes outweigh the Curse -- and there are few places more desperate in St. Claire than this one. Lips thinned into a grim line, he pauses outside the derelict house and squints up at the windows.

The streets are mostly empty; either everyone's at work, or asleep, or doing some nefarious deed that requires them to be elsewhere. A few stray dogs growl at the stranger, though they don't move from their 'territory' of an alleyway between two of the derelicts. The house in question has all it's windows boarded up, though the skill with which this was done leaves something to be desired, the wood having warped and bent over the winter's rain and summer's sun. Now large gaps show through into the rooms beyond; trash-filled and lifeless caves, but the stone insists Raul's inside.

You paged Raul with 'Door boarded up too?'.
Raul pages: Nah. Door's just closed, and the lock looks like it's recently been busted.

Salem nods to himself and walks up to the house, tucking the stone and cord away in a pocket as he does so. Rather than bother with the boarded windows he simply goes through the front door, giving the busted lock a wry look.

"Knock-knock," the Glass Walker calls out dryly, his casual tone belying the alert way he scans the dim interior. "Anyone at home?"

There's the sound of rustling in the next room; this being the hall, that would most likely be the lounge. Of all things, a rat scampers out of the lounge's open doorway, pausing for a kind of deer-in-headlights moment before dashing back the way it came. Other than this, there's no reply.

Salem arches an eyebrow slightly and walks slowly down the hall toward the lounge, his boots creaking on the dusty floor. "I know you're here," he says conversationally. "And that you're not dead. Asleep, perhaps, or in a stupor?"

There's more rustling, and as the lounge becomes visible through the open doorway, it becomes evident why. On a rather beat-up mattress, Raul is crashed out and apparently asleep, curled up foetally. Empty beer bottles and cans surround the sleeper, but the room does not smell much of alcohol. Rats seem to have likewise taken up residence here, maybe to watch the Gnawer.

Salem eyes the form curled up on the mattress and says, dryly, "Or both." Then he sniffs the air, shrugs, and approaches, taking care not to step on any careless rat. Dropping into an easy crouch, he grasps the Gnawer by the shoulder and shakes him lightly.

There's a vague grumble from Raul, but the shake isn't enough to stir him. This close, it becomes apparant that the bottles and cans are arranged in a tight circle about the Gnawer, thusfar unbroken, and though alcohol can be smelt from the remains in these containers, there's none on the sleeper.

Salem grunts, noticing this. He sits back on his heels for a moment, considering, then shrugs and leans over again. This time, very calmly, he pinches the other's nose shut and covers his mouth with his palm. Let the Gnawer keep sleeping through _that_.

A moment, maybe two, before Raul begins to flail a little in his induced sleep, knocking away the cans and bottles. His eyes flick open and fix on Salem, though whether they actually /see/ the Walker is a matter for debate, given that his pupils are fully dilated and he's got a somewhat glazed look to him.

Salem releases Raul's nose, grimacing faintly, and wipes his hand on the leg of his black jeans. "There you go. Awake, if not _aware_." His eyes narrow as he studies the Gnawer.

The slight smell of alcohol begins to dissapate, blue eyes blinking a few times until they can focus on the ex-slord's face. It takes a long moment before the Gnawer sits up, however, looking somehow even more haggard and less well-fed than usual. "-rhya" he mumbles, the sound halfhearted though not slurred.

"Afternoon, Raul," Salem says briskly, sitting back on his heels again as if perfectly at ease in these ruined surroundings. "Have you been hiding here since the explosion?"

Raul rubs his hands over his eyes to clear them of sleep, then scratches back through his already-scruffy hair. "Yes," is his short reply, as he scootches over on the mattress and leans back, shoving bottles off and making room for another if he chooses to sit.

Salem remains where he is. "And how long are you planning to continue to hide?" His voice is bland, but his expression is more thoughtful than critical.

A listless shrug, and Raul folds his hands behind his bed. No verbal answer is offered beyond that, his eyes casting around the room and taking in the detail of his 'home' for the past days.

"I see." Salem shifts his weight slightly, then settles down crosslegged on the floor, elbows resting on his knees, fingers pressed together. "Why are you hiding, Raul?" he asks quietly. "Is your life over? Is your pack dead? Has the war been lost?"

"The mother of my pups is dead, along with her children. All the kin-dogs I've known as family since I got here, creatures who accepted me before anyone else did. Sharpclaw, her three kin-pups and a baby Lupus are gone, Salem, and as their sire, I should have been there to protect them," Raul responds ever-so softly, his voice tight.,

"'Should have,'" Salem echoes, and snorts. "Would have, could have, if only." He shakes his head, grimacing slightly. "We're mortals, not gods. We can't be everywhere or know when we _have_ to be somewhere."

Raul exhales softly. "I keep thinking, if I'd taken them somewhere else...I don't know...the junkyard, or even here....they'd be safe, and there'd be one more of the few Lupus left in this world," he murmurs. "I coulden't sleep...coulden't stop thinking....so I made a deal with a spirit of forgetfulness. Give me surcease for a few days....and now you're here." He gestures around at the bottles, as if to illustrate.

"The junkyard blew, too," says the Walker, grimly. "And the Rialto. It seems that your people were... targeted." He glances around at the bottles, then back at Raul, his eyes narrowed. "A spirit, hm? Healthier than drink or drugs, I suppose..."

"And less expensive," Raul responds drily. "The main factor. Besides, those guys like alcohol. It attracts them faster than almost anything else - why do you think people forget 'the night before'?" He exhales slowly. "I guess I've got to start remembering again, huh?"

Salem nods. "Time to stop bleeding, let the wounds scab up and then scar." His brief smile is thin and humorless and not without a certain touch of sympathy.

"A pity not all battle-scars are visible," Raul murmurs quietly, pushing his hair back from his face before beginning to stand. "How are Rough and Tumble coping?"

Salem stands up, brushing the dust from his coat. "They're coping. Renee and Alicia are involved in a possible Wyrmthing disguised as an old woman. I'm sure they'll be glad to catch you up. I haven't spoken to Lyra in some time, though."

Raul nods slowly and straightens. "Thanks," he replies softly, tugging his plated jacket straight over his shoulders and looking down to the few rats remaining. "Thanks you too, guys."

Salem smiles thinly. "Welcome." He glances down at the rats, gives them a nod, and then turns to make his way back out of the house.