It was a Dark and Stormy Salem.

[hazlogs]

[Jan 1, 1998. Around noon.]

You travel north, making your way through the tall grass to the fountain.

Harbor Park Fountain
The area where the fountain was, and presumably the new fountain will be, is 
  now totally enclosed by high plywood walls. There is a door in one of the 
  walls, firmly locked with a padlock. The walls enclose much of the flagstone 
  area, now, only leaving a little around the edges of the old courtyard. To 
  one side, some ground is being leveled for further improvements. Healthy 
  green hedges line one side of the courtyard, just behind some 
  graffiti-covered benches.
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. The park extends to 
  the south.
Contents:
Dillan
Elan
Flowers
Obvious exits:
ManHole  River  STreet  South  

[Salem]
        Tall and dark, he stands a few inches over six feet, a striking and 
  rather dangerous-looking man in his mid-twenties. Black hair, not quite 
  shoulder length, frames hawkish features and a high forehead, the dark eyes 
  deep-set. It's a face tailor-made for brooding and cynicism, and he excels 
  at both moods. He's handsome, albeit in a devilish, saturnine kind of way, 
  but rarely does he seem truly relaxed, and often a sharp and tense hatred 
  seems to rage just beneath the surface of his flesh, a murderous anger held 
  in check by a tight and uncertain control. A black goatee lines his lips and 
  jaw, and a thick scar runs down the left side of his face, just missing the 
  eye. In short, he has the look of the very devil about him, a Lucifer fallen 
  from grace, bitter about his fate and prone to dark moods and unprovoked 
  violence.
        The tails of his duster nearly sweep the ground when he walks, and the 
  sturdy black leather of the garment shows signs of wear; it's clearly seen 
  better months. His clothes are rumpled and uniformly dark - charcoal-green 
  t-shirt, black jeans, and black high-top sneakers. 

Dillan rubs his eyes and yawns. He lifts a hand, mid-yawn, to wave to the 
  Gnawer. "Mornin'," he says. "What up?"

Currently on this calm and cold winter late morning in the general St. Claire 
  area, it is 26 degrees Fahrenheit (-3.3 degrees Celsius). The wind is coming 
  from the west-southwest at 2.3 mph. The ground is snowy. Skies are clear 
  with a definite chance of precipitation.

Salem walks along near the river, a tall, saturnine figure in a black duster, 
  trailing smoke from the cigarette in his mouth. He's clearly alone.

Elan also seems pretty sleepy. "Na' much, holmes." He comes and flops down on 
  the bench by the teen. "Wondered if you wanted to start that teachin'?"

[Elan]
A strikingly handsome youth, maybe 18yo, with smooth dark skin and large 
  wolf-gold eyes. He's got a dancer's body; supple, lean, muscular and well 
  defined. He moves with a martial artists' grace. A lock of his silky thick 
  brown hair falls across his eyes, and his face is smudged a bit.
Elan wears a stained military cammo shirt at least one size too big for him 
  with a black T-shirt underneath. Both have a number of holes and gashes , 
  inexpertly patched. He wears torn and patched black Levi's with a military 
  web-belt around his narrow waist. The belt has velcroed pockets and 
  compartments. He's shod in worn motorcycle boots. A couple of small tokens 
  can be seen sewn onto or dangling from his belt or boottops; a touch of the 
  primitive. A small steel earring composed of two interlinked rings with 
  arrows shines on his right ear, along with two other bright gold hoops.

[Dillan]
     Oddly enough, Dillan just doesn't look quite as arrogant or snotty 
  anymore to those who know him. It's almost like he's a friendly kid. Well, 
  sure, he's still got that 'I'm cooler than the rest of the world combined' 
  thing going but he's just not as punky as he was before. He carries himself 
  with a confident pride, despite the sloppy posture, shoulders slouched.
     He looks to be 17 or so, standing in the neighborhood of 5'10"; definitly 
  highschool age at any rate. A black trenchcoat hangs off his shoulders, 
  unbuttoned. Blue jeans and a light grey shirt proclaiming 'bacdafucup' in 
  simple letters across the chest lie beneath the jacket. His head is topped 
  by a black felt fedora, looking out of place on the kid. A pair of small 
  earrings lay embedded into his left earlobe, gold by the looks of it. 
  Peeking out from the bottom of the trenchcoat are a pair of Nike Air Jordans.

Dillan lifts both arms above his head and stretches up to the sky before 
  answering. "Mmmmrrrrmph. Sure thing, if you figure you're 'wake 'nuff. 'bout 
  time I stopped slackin' long enough to learn the shit, though."

The dark figure by the river stops, still out of earshot of the two teenagers. 
  He faces the sluggish river, smoking, his face indistinct. An older woman 
  walking her poodle veers around him, giving Salem a wide berth, dragging the 
  frantically yapping animal on a red leash.

Elan peripherally gets a glimpse of Salem as he listens to Dillan, and tenses 
  just a bit. He tries to keep part of his attention that way, but fails 
  sometimes. He looks back to Dillan. "Yeah, know how ya feel. I didn't pick 
  that stuff up, when I had the chance, and I regretted it a lot. People 
  gettin' hurt around me, and not bein' able t' do anything."

Stepping over, around, and when she has to, though the piles of snow, one 
  Sally MacKay strides up from the meadow. Her hands in her pocket and her 
  long coat held tight around her, she glances around as she checks out who's 
  here that she might know.

Dillan cracks a half-assed grin. "Well. Sorta. I just don't wanna hafta rely 
  on Cutter for anything that important. That an' I can't let gee get ahead of 
  me." He winces a bit at the poodl's yapping and hunches up in his trench.

A street mutt seems to be following Sally at a distance, ducking behind trash 
  cans, trees, any other cover that may be available if she bothers looking 
  back. It seems he is making a game of "stalking" her.

Salem's shoulders tense, but otherwise he manages to ignore the woman with the 
  yapping poodle. Flicking ash from his cigarette, he brings it to his lips 
  again and inhales, his eyebrows lowered and his expression sour and brooding 
  as he gazes out over the water.

Sally MacKay spots Elan and Dillan and heads for them, as aware of Shakes 
  behind her as she is that classes restart at SCCU in a week. That is to say, 
  not at all. "Hey," she smiles as she nears them.

Elan nods and smiles to Dillan, agreeing, then gives a little wave to Sally as 
  she approaches.

Shakes stops to sniff at a tree for a moment before going any further into the 
  Fountain area.

[Shakes]
The creature before you looks like a candidate for the nearest dog pound. 
  Looking more like a street mutt than a wolf, spotted brown and tan fur 
  covers his body and a bushy tail wags slowly from side to side. His left 
  eye, when he opens it, is a milky white, giving his face a somewhat beaten 
  appearance. Someone must have taken a pot-shot at the poor mutt, judging by 
  the nasty scar on his left side. He wears a flea collar and a new brown 
  leather collar with tags, so it's probably a good guess that someone owns 
  him. His fur is a little matted, as he probably hasn't been brushed in quite 
  a while.

[Sally]
Sunny and bright, Sally's blonde locks frame her face before spilling over her 
  shoulders and cascading down her back. Her bright blue eyes sparkle with 
  unhidden mirth and her lips display a warm, confident smile. Tall and 
  slender, Sally moves with grace and sense of rhythm which turns each small 
  gesture or action into something more. 
 
 Her outfit is college student norm with a twist: Simple blue jeans and 
  tee-shirt under a full-length duster-style winter coat. Attached to her 
  jeans are a pair of handcuffs, one bracelet closed on the belt loop just 
  left of center, the other one at the loop by her left hip. There's enough 
  slack left between the two that a faint metallic sound accompanies her as 
  she moves. From one of the loops on her right side dangles a white rabbit's 
  foot charm. Around her neck is a silver necklace which vanishes into her 
  shirt, hiding anything that might be suspended from it.

Dillan tries to stifle a yawn, and tips a hand to his head, mock-saluting to 
  Sally. "Yo, homegal." Back to Elan, Dillan prompts the Gnawer. "So, whenever 
  you want, gee."

Elan nods to Dillan. "Ain't gotta take a look around until later, so we could 
  start after lunch?"

The blonde stops as she reaches them. "Damned cold to be hanging out in the 
  park," she notes, looking from one to the other with a smile. "You couldn't 
  find some place warmer?" she jokes.

Dillan shakes his head, answering Sally. "No-where quite as, uh... 
  'important', nah. When I want warm, I'll go crawl back home and park my ass 
  in front of my Playstation."

Shakes starts his approach toward Sally, creeping up behind her while she's 
  talking. As soon as he gets close enough, he puts his cold, wet nose up 
  against the most easily accessable bare skin, most likely one of her hands.

Elan's attention is caught by the word 'Playstation' almost as much as he 
  would be by the word 'food'. "So, you got some cool stuff for it?"

Sally MacKay jumps away from the cold touch against her palm, a cry of 
  surprise sounding from her before she catches herself. She spins around, 
  almost knocking into Elan. "Hey! Damned do-" She pauses, still frowning as 
  she eyes Shakes. "Oh, the kinswoman relaxes, mostly, anyway. "It's you."

Shakes bounces around in the snow. Tag, tag! You're it! He barks, obviously 
  pleased with himself.

Salem's attention jerks toward the small gathering, eyes narrowing in on 
  Sally. He stares in her direction for several moments before turning away 
  again, still tense. He takes another drag on the almost-finished cigarette 
  and scowls at the river.

Elan chuckles. "He gotcha. Now you're 'it'."

Dillan nods. "A few games, yeah. Bushido Blade, Final Fantasy Seven. Got the 
  new Star Wars fighter. S'not too bad." He stops, eying Shakes' yapping. 
  "Calm down a'eady. Sally, you been puttin' Jolt in his dogbowl?"

"I'm it, huh?" She shakes her head at the 'dog' good naturedly. "Well if you 
  think I'm gonna chase you through the snow, you got another thing coming." 
  Spinning towards Dillan, she shushes him, "Don't give it away! He doesn't 
  know yet."

Elan just chuckles at Sally

Shakes wanders up towards Sally once more, sniffing. Got any food? Huh, huh, 
  huh?

Sally MacKay looks down at the dog, her hands back in her pockets again. "What 
  do you smell?" she asksquietly, making the part of her jacket he's sniffing 
  wave so that it'll lightly tap his nose.

Shakes sneezes.

Dillan rubs the side of his face. "I swear," he mumbles, standing up a bit 
  straighter. "All gee does is talk 'bout food, or eat. Think I ain't seen him 
  not doin' either in, like, forever. Gonna be like Jenny Craig time if he 
  keeps up."

Salem's cigarette comes to its end. Before it becomes truly extinguished, 
  though, he uses it to light another. The butt gets dropped to the ground and 
  crushed underfoot.

Sally MacKay snorts and makes a half-hearted kick at him with her foot. 
  "Stupid dog," she smiles, "What'd you know?"

Shakes moves back from Sally and sits in the snow. He turns his attention 
  towards Dillan, wondering why he's so concerned about Gnawer appetites.

Elan looks to Dillan and shrugs. "Well, he hasn't, much, D."

"I ain't!" exclaims Dillan, the picture of innocence. "But you keep stuffin it 
  in my face ain't easy to miss. I be like sittin' 'round mindin' my biz and 
  alla sudden be like your fat ass in my face with a Big Mac."

Shakes licks his chops. Big Mac.

Sally MacKay looks back to Elan and Dillan, trying to pick up the thread of 
  the conversation again.

Dillan points at Shakes, illustrating his point to Sally and Elan. "See!"

Elan nods. "I gotta agree that sounds pretty good. You buying?"

Sally MacKay's eyebrows raise slightly as Dillan points at Shakes, then she 
  lets her attention wander around the park. She turns away from the two, 
  checking out the few other people in the area.

Salem turns away from the river and prowls toward the nearest bench, still 
  quite a ways out of earshot of the others. Still smoking, he drops down into 
  the bench and stretches his legs out.

Dillan lets out a quiet grunt. "I told ya. Always eatin'. Fine," he says, 
  looking to Elan and jerking his head towards the park exit. "S'pose I can 
  buy, since you're helpin' me out 'n all. Least I can do. Maybe we can pick 
  up the score from the game, too."

A deep growling sound, familiar to Elan and Shakes and perhaps others, can be 
  heard out on the road outside the Park as a big black jeep with barbed wire 
  wrapped around the bumpers drives by. Shakes yips and starts running in the 
  direction of the vehicle, the driver of which taking no notice of the dog as 
  he heads up the street. The truck, and Shakes, disappear up the road.

Salem glances sharply up at the truck and dog. His scowl deepens.

Elan stands in one smooth motion, but sees the truck is easily going to 
  outrace him on just two feet. "Go Sha - Boy! Go!" He yells after the 
  departing mutt, and looks to Dillan. "Sure thing. Now would be great..."

Sally MacKay's attention linger on Salem as he moves, an openly evaluating 
  look as her eyes move from his face down, then back up. She starts to smile, 
  then blinks and turns her head back towards Shakes as he makes a quick exit. 
  "What? Did he see a cat, or something?"

Dillan shrugs at Shakes' quick exit. "Too bad for him. Passin' up free food. 
  Less for me t'shell out, though." He grins broadly, and calls to Sally. "You 
  comin' too? Lunch at Rotten Ronnie's."

Kathryn walks alongside the river, head down, muffled in a large jacket. Kath 
  doesn't seem to have noticed the knot af people gathered here.

Sally MacKay hmms? as she looks to Dillan. "You buying, man?"

Elan trots out, with Dillan and Sally.

Salem leans back in the bench, pulling the leather duster closer around 
  himself and turning the collar up against the cold. If he noticed Sally's 
  look, he shows no sign of it.

Squirrel Man is walking along a path near the roadside, just on this side of 
  the chain-length fence. All bundled up against the winter chill, that 
  steaming styrofoam cup in his hand is doing double duty, both as a beverage 
  and a hand warmer.

"Yeah, yeah," conceeds Dillan. "I got hooked. So you want or not?"

[Squirrel Man]
Squirrel Man (or Ed, for those who ask) is of an age to be considered old by 
  most people, pushing along through his early-70's now, though some people 
  might guess him to be ten years younger than his actual age. Yes, it's true 
  that his hair continues to thin out on top, and that what's left is more 
  white than brown. And it's also true that his movements aren't as quick or 
  as sure as they were five decades ago. His hazel eyes still have a look of 
  sharp focus to them, and this without the aid of bifocals.
He's dressed the same as he is for almost any day, and almost any occasion: 
  dark brown polyester slacks, a button-up long-sleeved shirt, and shabby 
  dress shoes. Winter's brought about the addition of a somewhat moth-eaten 
  wool coat, matching cap, and gloves, but other than that it's pretty much 
  what he always wears. No sir, sensible fashion like this just doesn't go out 
  of style.

Kathryn looks up as she hears voices, and glances over at the discussion. 
  Seeing some people she does not recognise, she keeps her distance, for now.

Sally MacKay pushes up one of her sleeves, then frown. "Damn, what the hell 
  time is it? I need a watch," she almost mumbles that last part.

[Kathryn]
A tall, slim woman in her early twenties, Kathryn has long, wavy red hair tied 
  back loosely and held in place with a copper clip of celtic design. Her 
  small nose is surmounted by a smattering of freckles, and her green eyes 
  sparkle with charm. Her face is slim, has a complexion the colour of fresh 
  cream, with high cheekbones and delicate features and is perfectly 
  proportioned, and she looks like she could put the best looking models in 
  the world on the spot, without makeup. A pair of platinum hooped earrings 
  pierce her ears. She wears a bracelet made from many polished discs on a 
  strip of leather on her left wrist. A simple wooden flute hangs on a thong 
  around her neck, decorated with feathers. Her movements are precise and 
  graceful, and her fingers are the long, slim digits of a musician. She has 
  the body of a life-long dancer, tightly muscled and lithe, which adds to her 
  beauty.
Kathryn wears a loose-fitting white blouse with flared sleeves, and a powder 
  blue waistcoat with silver embroidery upon it, depicting celtic designs. 
  Tight blue jeans adorn her legs, and she wears a pair of big, clumpy black 
  Doc Marten boots on her feet.

Dillan shrugs. "I figure it's close to bein' lunchtime." He holds out both 
  arms, indicating his lack of a wristwatch. A glance over his shoulder 
  confirms Elan's got a big head start. "Someone's hungry, anyhow."

Sally MacKay shakes her head and leans back against the plywood surrounding 
  what's left of the fountain. "Better not, man. I gotta get to work at one 
  o'clock; must be coming up onto that." She smiles at him, "Give me a 
  raincheck?"

Squirrel Man eventually strays from the streetside, shuffling along to some 
  point near the fountain. If he catches the eye of anyone, with the exception 
  of cheerful old Salem over there, he'll give a cordial enough to nodded 
  greeting.

Dillan mimes a gun at Sally, aims, and fires it at her. "Bang. Gotcha. I owe 
  ya one. Listen, I'll catcha later. I don't wanna get there and find out 
  Elan's ordered enoguh for the whole project or something." He runs off to 
  chase Elan down.

Kathryn decides not to get involved in any conversation at the moment, and 
  heads along the riverside. Kath hangs her head as she goes, not looking back.

Salem mutters a quiet curse and stands up in one abrupt, swift movement, 
  throwing the half-smoked cigarette down and shoving ungloved hands into his 
  coat pockets. Tense with unfocussed ire, he heads away from the bench.

Sally MacKay's hand goes to her chest, and she spins away from her wooden 
  resting place. "You... you... got me," she gasps in what might easily be the 
  worst acting in recent memory. She stands back up with a laugh as she calls, 
  "Yeah, have fun. Catch you later."

Squirrel Man mumbles something to himself, or perhaps a stray air molecule or 
  two, before settling himself down onto a bench that's probably not all that 
  far from Sally, a contented sigh as he gets off his feet.

The blonde's bright laughter dies down as Dillan trots off after Elan. She 
  takes another look around the park, her eyes passing over Squirrel Man as if 
  he wasn't even there. The older woman heading back this way with the poodle 
  also holds little of Sally's attention, and soon enough her eyes return to 
  Salem.

This time, Salem notices Sally's attention, and he stops to meet her gaze 
  directly, unsmiling, a stray lock of black hair falling across his forehead 
  and partially obscuring one eye.

Squirrel Man is keeping a peripheral eye on things around him, content in his 
  role of people watching. A few more sips drains his coffee, at which point 
  he sets the styrofoam cup aside, reaches into a pocket on his pants to 
  withdraw a pipe and tobacco pouch.

Salem's lack of smile almost seems to bring a sparkle of amusement to Sally's 
  eyes. She resumes her lean against the fountain's wooden fence, her chin 
  raising a touch as she returns the direct eye contact, her smile twitching 
  further upwards.

Salem's lips twitch, tightening at the woman's amusement, and his eyes narrow 
  dangerously. All that unfocussed, simmering anger abruptly hardens into a 
  sharp point, directed at Sally. He doesn't break the gaze.

Squirrel Man slowly packs his pipe, a more arduous process with gloves on. The 
  look he gives Salem is a decidedly uneasy one, before he decides there's 
  really other places he should be paying attention to in the park.

And Sally does not miss the sharpening of his focus onto her, though perhaps 
  strangely, this only seems to heighten her amusement her further. She breaks 
  the stare, but it's only to yawn, the back of one of her hands coming up to 
  cover her mouth. Feigning a bored air marred by her near-grin, she takes 
  another slow look around the park.

Salem snarls, literally, lips peeling back from his teeth, his head coming up 
  sharply, face twisting into an expression of barely-controlled fury. He 
  stands there for a moment, trembling on the razor's edge of frenzy, and then 
  abruptly turns on his heel, heading for the meadow.

Squirrel Man waits until he's sure that Salem is outside of hearing
  range, a smaller figure down in the meadow to the south. 
  "He didn't seem a very friendly fellow," he opines, aloud, as he tamps down 
  on the tobacco.