*snort*

[hazlogs]

1/6/04

Osprey Circle Fountain

Situated in the center of the grassy mound is a white marble fountain. The
      smooth stone of the fountain sparkles and sends off bright shafts of 
      light whenever a stray beam bounces of its shiny surface. Perched at the 
      top of the fountain is a soaring osprey. Directly below the osprey, 
      gentle jets of water spurt up into the air, making it seem like the spray 
      is propelling the osprey upwards toward the sky. White marble, about a 
      foot wide, rings the center of the fountain, allowing the formation of a 
      watery basin. Iron benches sit slightly back from the fountain.
The asphalt roadway of Osprey Circle rings the grassy mound.

"Enh," returns Dale, his smile widening a trifle. "I guess I could lower myself
      to watch a Division 3 team flail around the ice for three periods. Want I 
      should just find you at the game? Or maybe we could get together 
      someplace beforehand?"

Charlie waves a hand towards Rina, "She's the social planner. I just randomly
      show up places, m'self."

Currently the moon is in the waxing Full Moon phase (97% full).

Rina slants Charlie a look, and then returns her attention to Dale. The two
      women are definitely standing close. "Catch us at the game. Home side. Or 
      if y'decide to pass it up, the pool hall, after..." She lifts one 
      shoulder, and lets it fall. "Whatever."

Salem prowls into the area, a tall figure in a long black coat. Not the usual
      black leather duster, mind you, but it's well past knee-length 
      nonetheless. The Walker is well-bundled against the cold and walks with 
      his hands pushed deep into his coat pockets.

Rina pages: Wow. They look good together. They're both app 4, and they're like
      cheery punk day and dark wicked night.

A visual opposition of sorts, Charlie is both a charmingly attractive young
      lady and a slightly dangerous looking punk. She stands perhaps 
      five-foot-five, and has a lean, somewhat tomboyish build. Denim blue eyes 
      sparkle with fire and humour in a face that could be described as both 
      delicate and strong. Clean lines accentuate high cheekbones, a determined 
      jawline, and perfectly arched eyebrows. An ever-so-charming smile shows 
      off dazzlingly white teeth. But then, there's the attitude, and the 
      clothes. And the boots. 

	 Sandy brown hair, streaked platinum in the front, is worn loose, the paler
      strands softly framing her face. A pair of black KikGirl skate pants 
      cling tight to her thighs, flare wide over a pair of retro Vans sneakers, 
      and hang low enough on her hips to reveal the waist of a red thong. A 
      form-fitting baby-doll tee, red, with black lettering, declares "Warning: 
      Hanging Around Me Will Greatly Damage Your Reputation." Her arms are 
      bare, save for the narrow arm-band tattoo of a barbed-wire/Celtic design. 
      A battalion of earrings has taken up residence along her left ear. A wide 
      black leather band embossed with steel skulls and spikes is on her right 
      wrist, offsetting a heavy looking black-leather-and-steel watch on her 
      left. A black messenger bag is slung over her left shoulder, the strap 
      scattered with buttons and pins, and the bag itself tattooed with patches 
      upon patches.

[Rina]
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.

A black barbed-wire tattoo encircles her neck, and matching inked bracelets are
      visible on her wrists. 

Loose, ragged jeans hang low on her hips; paint in dark colors spatters the
      denim. She wears a grey army surplus long-john shirt, faded and frayed 
      and softened with age; the shirt skims over her curves, barely suggesting 
      the contours of muscles beneath the thin knit fabric. Heavy black 
      infantry boots complete the street-tough image. 

A traditional biker jacket in black leather, at least two sizes too big, adds a
      layer of toughness to the petite woman's attire. Several patches of 
      electrical tape and a small plate of discarded circuit board patch a few 
      holes and rips in the leather: the front and back of both shoulders, and 
      a spot near her waist on the left. There are more additions to the 
      traditional biker body armor: scraps of circuit board, metal spikes and 
      rivets, and a pair of mismatched vambraces that make her look like some 
      sort of Mad Max knight errant.

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.

A tall young man, at least a couple inches upwards of six feet even in his very
      early twenties -- and more than that, solidly built, from broad shoulders 
      and chest through to well-muscled thighs and calves. He keeps blond hair 
      back out of his face, though frequently indulges a few days stubble 
      beyond a trimmed goatee that's, despite his relative youth, not 
      incongruous amid craggy, attractive features. His eyes are a pale blue, 
      striking in their way, but are more often than not touched with a gleam 
      of raw fury.

Underneath a black leather hip-jacket, protection enough against mild
      Washington winters, he wears a belted pair of blue jeans -- the bottoms 
      of which wrinkle around dark brown leather day boots -- and a heavy white 
      tee-shirt.

Dale follows Rina's glance to Charlie, at least for a moment, but then returns
      his attention to the Italian woman. "I'll be there," he assures her, and 
      proffers a hand again. "And maybe you'll let me buy you that drink 
      *then*." He lifts his shoulders in another shrug, though, and says, 
      "Guess I'd better head over to that hotel you mentioned, and catch my 
      ride."

Rina flashes a quick, mercurial smile as she shakes his hand--and then glances
      past his shoulder, her eyes narrowing. "I think you can take this one 
      over... yeah, 102." The bus is just beginning its turn onto the circle, 
      as she looks back to him. "Luck. Don't get shot."

Salem pauses, squinting over at the trio, two of whom being familiar, then
      heads over that way.

Charlie really can't help but notice Salem, and the man gets a quick lift of
      the chin, as acknowledgement that she saw him.

"Nice!" Dale exclaims, as the bus hauls into view; his eyes find Salem,
      briefly, but he looks right past the other man, then retrieves his hockey 
      sticks and hefts the duffel up to his shoulder. "Yeah, I'll... try to 
      watch out for that." He keeps his eyes on Rina as the bus pulls to a stop 
      and opens its doors; he only breaks eye contact long enough to board, but 
      not before calling, "Take care."

Salem's jaw tightens; as he comes up to Rina and Charlie, he eyeballs Dale, at
      least as long as the other man boards the bus. Then he looks down at Rina 
      and arches an eyebrow.

Rina lifts a hand to him, that crooked smile staying. As she turns back to
      Charlie, it teams up with a thoughtful look in her eyes. "So, gorgeous..."

Dale descends down the grassy mound, away from the fountain and onto the
      asphalt roadway. Back toward Riverfront Drive.
On the asphalt roadway, Dale comes from the north, the fountain off of Osprey
      Circle at the beginning of the similar-named drive.
On the asphalt roadway, Dale heads west, towards the financial district.

Charlie smirks a little at the kinswoman, "Who, me, or him?"

Salem looks from one woman to the other, from Rina to Charlie and back again,
      frowning.

Rina blinks, as Salem's considerable shadow enters her peripheral vision.
      "You," she answers distractedly, as her chin tips up and she raises an 
      eyebrow back at Salem. "Hey, hon."

"Tall Dark," the Fianna greets the big Walker. "Gotta get with you sometime,
      run-down some shit Signe was tossing at me the other day. Ideas, n'shit."

Salem wrinkles his nose at Rina, looking irritated for some reason (the full
      moon behind him gives a good hint) then glances over at Charlie to give 
      her a nod.

You paged Rina with 'He's just a little bitch these days. More prickly than
      usual. It's not _just_ the moon.'.

Rina tips her head a fraction. "I was just walkin' home with Charlie," she says
      quietly. "You want me t'drop by, after?" Her expression is guarded, now, 
      the smile shuttered away.

Salem shrugs dismissively and shakes his head. After forcing a brief smile, he
      turns to go, one gloved hand emerging to make a 'go on' sort of waving 
      gesture at the two of them.

Rina slides an arm around Charlie's waist, but gives Salem a long look before
      she turns to go. The two of them walk westward, linked together.

Charlie gives the Walker a little wave. "I'll catch up with you on that stuff
      soon, okay?"

Salem lifts a hand to Charlie in acknowledgement and nods without looking back.

[...]

Dominion Estate

The Dominion estate spreads out over a small hill, giving the mansion built at
      the peak a view of the surrounding suburban countryside. The snow-covered 
      lawn is dotted with statuary and encircled by hedges grown up to hide the 
      stone wall which surrounds the estate. A gravel driveway snakes 
      elliptically up from the front gate northward to the house, east from 
      there to the garage, then back towards the front gate. Preparations for 
      some sort of garden have been made on the western slope of the hill.

The house itself is old and appears to have had had work done it over the
      years. The original, main part of the house is made of gray stone and 
      reaches four stories high with the tower. The east and west wings appear 
      newer and are made of brick and wood. The previous decay and disrepair 
      can still be seen, but there also seems to have been some effort put into 
      fixing the place up.

Cockroach Mansion -- Downstairs

The heavy, dark opulence to this mansion known as Dominion is perfectly
      exemplified by the room vistors first enter, this front hall. 
      Dark-stained wood serves as paneling on the walls, gleams with high gloss 
      in the hardwood floor, and supports a semi-circular balcony in carved 
      pillars. The heavy double doors, made of oak, open into the hall from the 
      south, opposite the huge, hourglass-shaped staircase composed of red and 
      black gneiss which soars up to the balcony; both are fenced in with a 
      wooden railing of simple spiraled posts. Several doorways can be made out 
      on the second floor, nearly blending in discreetly with the back wall. 
      The wall to the left of the front doors is composed entirely of windows 
      which run from the forty-foot-tall domed dark wood ceiling to the floor; 
      if drawn, the heavy velvet drapes of deep red would completely mask them 
      from view, but when parted, as they often are, one has a marvelous view 
      of the grounds outside.

A doorway to the right of the front doors leads to a parlor, and towards the
      back are the kitchens, the large dining room, and Salem's office.

In the parlor, Their elder hadda baby with another Garou, Cat informs Quentin
      solemnly. And then they kept it a secret. The Master of the Challenge 
      hadta step down, an' Fixes-Stuff, he got in trouble too, but Scar-rhya, 
      and Guards-the-Flame, and the elder got punished more. They have squeaky 
      Jackal voices.

Salem clomps into the Dominion, looking ill-tempered and tracking in some of
      the snow that's started falling outside. The Walker's face is tight, 
      frigid, as he starts shrugging out of his coat.

In the parlor, "...oh." Quentin's eyes slip closed, one hand sliding up to rub
      his fingers over his face a bit, fingerpads rubbing against his temple as 
      he asks quietly of the cub beside him, "What happened to the metis? They 
      left it with Renee, I hope..?"

In the parlor, The wolf licks at his injured paw, thinking for a moment. The
      Wendigo elder wanted...something, I think? he says uncertainly. But I 
      think the metis is okay. The Gnawers're gonna keep it. And the Alpha who 
      Judged didn't seem to think the baby was at fault. He pauses. I think.

Salem pauses, still at the hall closet and getting out of winter outerwear, and
      cocks his head. Frown deepening, he finishes putting his coat and such 
      away, then stalks over toward the parlor.

Cockroach Mansion -- Parlor

This room is a palette of whitewash and wood tones, a cross between a library
      and an adult's recreation room. To the right of the door way, tall 
      windows with a deep-set seat and heavy earth-brown velvet drapes show a 
      view of the front lawn. The far and left hand walls are inset with wooden 
      bookshelves just over man-height tall; the collection of books is varied, 
      with both fiction and non-fiction. The floor is well-carpeted in a light 
      tan color, and the furnishings -- an old but nice-looking couch plus 
      several armchairs and small tables -- match the decor. One side of the 
      room boasts a fairly impressive-looking entertainment center, complete 
      with high-definition television.

"Yeah, that sounds like something Leo'd ask for," Quentin says in rather dark
      tones, letting his hand fall and reaching out to ruffle Cat's wolf-ears 
      briefly, "..thanks for the news, kiddo." The sound of foot-steps heading 
      their way was noticed, though, and he looks back over his shoulder.. 
      pausing at the sight of Salem, different as it is, before pushing himself 
      up to his feet. A faint, wry smile's offered.. "Hey, boss. Hope you don't 
      mind me coming up to visit."

Salem folds his arms across his chest and looks Quentin over critically for a
      moment before giving the young Galliard a tight smile.

Cat, in lupus and on the couch, looks up and his tail wags slightly, ears
      perked. We were having a ~chatski~, he barks happily.

Salem snorts at the cub, then heads over to his usual chair, waving for Quentin
      to sit back down as he goes.

Quentin's lips twitch a bit at Cat's eager bark, before his expression smooths
      into something a bit more serious again, and he rakes one hand back 
      through electric-blue (freshly re-dyed) hair to tame it a bit. "The new 
      cub's got some anger management issues," he observes, even as he settles 
      down on the couch once more, "I notice."

Cat stretches out a little, leaving the right paw to hang over the edge over
      the couch as he watches the two Walkers with bright, inquisitive eyes.

From the front hall, Snow-dusted and bedraggled, Rina makes her way inside; the
      door closes with a bang behind her, and she sighs, "Je-sus *fuck*," in a 
      long-suffering voice.

Salem's shoulders lift and fall at Quentin's observation; then he looks sharply
      over toward the doorway into the front hall. After a moment's hesitation, 
      he gets up again and crosses to look out at the newly-arrived kinswoman.

From the front hall, Rina suppresses a shiver, and scrubs gloved hands through
      her hair to shake out the flakes. She glances toward Salem, giving him a 
      slightly breathless half-smile, a little preoccupied or distracted.

Quentin's head lifts at that familiar voice, twisting to look over towards the
      foyer-- a somewhat relieved expression briefly crossing his face, as 
      'ultra silent Salem' was kind of making him uncomfortable. "Don't 
      blaspheme," he calls out, casually.

Salem returns Rina's half-smile with a tense reflection of it, then steps away
      from the doorway, giving Rina plenty of room to enter.

The wolfcub lifts up his head, stockstill and listening. It's the exact
      position a dog does when it thinks someone it knows is coming.

From the front hall, Rina stares past Salem in disbelief, her jaw dropping--and
      then she strides into the parlor, damp jacket, gloves and all, tossing 
      her helmet to an empty chair as she makes a beeline for the blue-haired 
      boy. "Q-babe!" she exclaims delightedly, holding out her arms in that 
      expecting-a-hug way.

"I mean, really, I thought you were a good, innocent catholic girl, Rina.."
      Quentin's lips curve into a somewhat impish smile as he pushes himself up 
      to his feet, stepping in with gloved hands spread to accept that hug and 
      offer his own.

Cat's tongue lolls out in a grin, and he watches happily, not the least
      disturbed at being passed over. He looks over at Salem and yips to show 
      his approval. !

Salem leans with a shoulder against the wall, arms folded across his chest as
      he watches the reunion. He's almost smiling, but not quite. Cat gets a 
      glance and an arched eyebrow.

Rina gives Quentin a swift hug, and then holds him out by the shoulders for
      inspection, grinning. "What a pleasant s'prise. You look good, kiddo. 
      Real good."

The cub just keeps grinning, then dips his muzzle and licks at his paw
      gingerly. It seems swollen. The Family is all home, he comments absently.

Quentin's hands slip back down to his sides, thumbs hooking through belt-loops
      as he's looked over; a grin quirking his lips up at one corner, a chuckle 
      tumbling from him. "I was hoping to come back for New Year's, but I went 
      to a party with Frankie, was hung over for three days.. y'know how it is."

Rina raises an eyebrow slightly. "Yeeeah," she drawls, shaking her head
      ruefully. She glances to Cat, and the smile fades. "Hey, kiddo--what'd 
      you do, there?"

Cat's ears fly back and he looks caught off-guard; blue eyes glance to Quentin
      sheepishly. "Bark?" he offers, left paw shifting and covering the right 
      one. I wasn't at the party. I can't drink.

Quentin drops back a half-step, glancing over towards the cub and answering for
      him, tone a bit rueful. "He got his hand between Josh and the wall that 
      he'd apparently decided how to die. I think it was the kid's first full 
      moon, so he's having anger management issues."

Rina eyerolls. "/Him/," she groans. "God, I'm the fuckin' Den Mother. The kid
      is gonna be hell. Ahrouns." She flops onto the couch lazily, glancing to 
      Cat. "So, didja kick his ass?"

Salem snorts at Rina's comment. Audibly. Then he pushes off the wall and prowls
      back over to his chair, dropping into it with a sort of sullen, edgy 
      carelessness.

The theurge glances at the floor, looking kind of embarrassed.
      Um...depends...on... Cat pauses, then snorts amusedly. No, not really. I 
      think he learned his lesson, though.

Rina leans toward Cat, narrowing her eyes. "And why the hell not?"

"Because," Quentin says quietly, "Cat was teaching him a lesson about
      controlling your anger. And right now, that's what the kid needs. Plenty 
      of time to beat the living shit out of him later."

"Oh." Straightening, Rina reaches out to rumple Cat's ears. "It's aright, then.
      The kid has a lot to learn."

Cat leans up so that his cold nose brushes Rina's cheek and then drops his head
      back on the couch, trying to look cute. What he said, he agrees happily.

Quentin adds more dryly, "Though I -do- expect you to beat the shit out of him,
      kiddo."

"What he said," Rina agrees lightly, shooting a wry glance at Salem. Her
      attention pauses there, smile fading away, eyes growing serious.

Salem misses Rina's look, because he's studying Cat with a pensive expression.
      Thinking.

Rolling onto his back, Cat stares at Quentin upside down and mock growls, left
      paw jerking in the air. Maybe...another lesson about the Litany, later. 
      He wriggles. I could take him anytime, but he's so new, it just wouldn't 
      be fair, right?

Salem's mouth twists, as if he really doesn't believe Cat's statement. But he
      says nothing.

"You been teachin' him to fight, Jack?" she asks quietly.

Quentin's lips twitch slightly at that comment, stepping over to the couch's
      side and reaching down to rub the cub's belly. "Mmhmm," he comments, "New 
      moon, kiddo. When he's not likely to flip out, frenzy, and try to eat 
      your head."

Salem's gaze shifts from Cat to Rina, long enough for a grimace, then moves
      back to Cat, pinning the cub.

Cat wriggles again, enjoying the attention. When he's better, the theurge says
      simply. He'd say more, but one blue eye catches sight of Salem's stare, 
      and his happy squirming pauses; then he rolls back to his side and bites 
      at the air around Quentin's fingers, but is missing on purpose. It's like 
      he's trying to put on a show of being fierce.

"Ey!" Rina whaps the young wolf lightly. "Stop bein' so fuckin' cute, you, or
      we'll hafta shoot ya."

Quentin's fingertips lightly bap Cat's chin, sliding away as he leans against
      the couch's arm. "So," he asks then, quirking a brow to Rina, "What's all 
      this ghost shit, anyway?"

The wolfcub happily obliges Rina by lying down again and playing dead. From the
      quirk of his ear, though, he's listening to the conversation.

Salem sighs quietly and shakes his head, one hand coming up to lightly pinch
      the bridge of his nose.

Rina glances to Quentin, guardedly. "Not sure. They told me they're just
      here... that they don't want anything, don't want to sent away, whatever. 
      We can't /do/ anything, basically, is what they said." Her mouth twists a 
      little, and she leans back into the couch, looking up at the ceiling.

Quentin's lips purse in a slight frown, glancing back over his shoulder towards
      the main room. "Damn. Don't know shit about ghosts, myself.. heard a 
      'Strider talking about one down at Steel Angel once, but it wasn't 
      anything useful."

Cat opens his eyes, lifting his head. ...Have you ever seen...sad spirits? he
      asks Quentin cautiously.

Rina winces slightly, and then leans over toward Salem a little. "Did Cutter
      tell you about what happened, with our guest?" she asks in an undertone.

Salem's hand drops away from his face, and he looks up at Rina from his place
      in 'his' chair. He nods, then reaches for the pen that's sitting on the 
      end-table nearby. "Cleansed," he scrawls on the pad that's been placed 
      there as well. He pauses and then adds, "We hope."

Quentin tips his head a bit to look down to the cub, quirking a brow. "No," he
      admits, quietly, "Angry ones, hungry ones, but never sad ones, really.."

Cat's eyes are confused, worried. I went to the Umbra...to see the ghosts, he
      says haltingly. And there's...a lot of pain, and sadness, and hate there. 
      He dips his muzzle down, eyes closed. A lot of things I...don't like 
      having seen. But they aren't connected to anything here. I don't know why 
      they are there.

Rina blinks at Salem. "I meant the one here," she says guardedly. "Downstairs.
      You mean Kostya, though?" A flicker of hope touches her eyes. "He's okay?"

Salem's brow furrows. He frowns, then shrugs and writes, "Time will tell.
      Cutter didn't."

Quentin purses his lips in a frown at Cat's words. "Mrm." A pause, "No clue..
      but, then, I'm no theurge."

Rina presses her lips together, and nods, lowering her eyes briefly in thought.
      After a moment she looks across to him again. "Later," she says quietly.

The wolf sighs. I wish I was a better one, he says ruefully, cracking his lids
      to stare up at Quentin. They're telling bad things to the new boy.

"..yeah, I heard. And give it time, kiddo, you're still a cub." Quentin's gaze
      flickers over to the other two, pausing there a moment before he crooks a 
      finger to the wolf and offers, "C'mon, show me the rest of this big ol' 
      spooky place, eh?"

Rina reaches out to rumple Cat's fur distractedly, and looks to Quentin with
      worry in her eyes. "What, do I smell bad?"

Cat makes a contented rumbling noise, glancing from cliath to kin. He sniffs,
      whiskers twitching, and looks over to Quentin. I don't think so.

Quentin shakes his head a bit, allowing over, "Nah, you two just sound like you
      have something to talk about, is all.. that was my oh-so-subtle attempt 
      at making myself scarce." A brief, wry grin, "Not so subtle, I guess."

Rina shakes her head minutely, and leans over to rub her nose to the top of
      Cat's head. "We'll talk later," she murmurs, rumpling fur again and 
      scratching behind his ears.

Salem says nothing, but sets the pen down and pushes to his feet. The top page
      of the pad gets ripped off and crumpled; he seems to be preparing to 
      retire for the evening.

Rina lifts her head just a little, and her dark eyes look to Salem. "Jack?" she
      asks softly, a little concerned.

Cat rumbles happily, then curls up and shifts upwards, cradling his now very
      red and swollen right hand. "Come see my room," he pipes up, getting to 
      his feet and heading towards the hallway. "It's kinna messy...but, I got 
      better at drawing, wanna see?"

Salem looks over at Rina, stifling a little twitch of irritation.

Quentin's gaze flickers between the two of them, before with a turn of his head
      to give them privacy-- of a sort-- he heads after Cat towards the 
      hallway, chuckling, "Sure, lemme see what you've got.."

Rina swallows, and lowers her eyes instantly, giving a quick little shake of
      her head. "Sorry," she murmurs.

Salem exhales a noisy, exasperated breath, then stalks out, heading toward the
      back of the house where his office and rooms are stashed away.

In the parlor, The younger boy is oblivious to the adults...maybe it's the dull
      throb of his hand, or the things he's thinking, but he's rather 
      single-minded right now. And right now he's putting his room on display. 
      "I got painting paper for Christmas," he continues to bubble, a regular 
      chatterbox as he climbs the stairs. "And books too, ever read 'The Way of 
      the Shaman'?"