"Yes. Because I know what my departure means, I have the... nerve... to apologize."

[hazlogs]

1 March 2004, sometime after 8pm.

Grotto
The woods part suddenly, here, amidst the quiet roar of falling water. A wide
      stream spills over the edge of a rocky face that is the western edge of a 
      hill some thirty feet high. The stones are worn smooth with the passing 
      of time, and are slick with moisture and soft mosses, but a climb up the 
      drier rocks would not be impossible, and there is a sense of space behind 
      the falls.
A wide pool has been carved into the earth by the rushing waters, and the tall
      trees have grown out around it, sheltering the grotto in a 
      pleasantly-cool shade. Rocks, hewn from the cliff face and shouldered 
      along the path of the stream, form a rough ring around the edge of the 
      pool and guide the flow of water further westwards, again deeper into the 
      woods. All manner of animal tracks are visible in the sandier areas of 
      shore; the trees crouch close against the edge of the stream again as it 
      passes further west, muting the dull thunder of the falls.
Faint trails, between the trees, lead off in all directions, while a determined
      climb eastwards would crest the rock face.

Salem approaches the grotto on four legs and stops just before entering it
      properly. The Walker has never been here before, and he looks around 
      curiously before letting out a short, brief howl to announce himself.
Firewatcher's howl goes up to recognize and welcome the Glass Walker's
      approach. The scent of the Fianna is strong about here, but the others 
      are faded, if noticable at all. What Scar might smell on his approach in 
      is a yeasty smell and a sour scent of turning milk.
The Walker indeed wrinkles his nose briefly, but the scent isn't so offensive
      to an urrah. He trots quickly over to the source of the Sept Alpha's howl.
By the time Scar reaches the clearing around the waterfall itself, Megan is
      back in homid, and has the beginnings of a small fire going, at least at 
      the tinder and kindling phase. Her lesser homid senses may not pick up 
      the Glass Walker's arrival immediately.
Salem shifts back to breed, moving around so that she can see his approach
      clearly. He's wearing the usual comfortable, dark clothing, much of it 
      black, and the characteristic long coat. His expression seems somewhat 
      strained, however, and there are dark shadows under his eyes. "Good 
      evening, Megan-rhya," he greets, with deliberate formality.
Megan glances up from the fire as Salem breaks the silence, eyes narrowing
      slightly as the honorific and his formal stance registers. Her nod in 
      return is a curt jerk down with her chin, and the smile which finds a 
      place in her expression is faint and thin. "Good evening, Salem. I wasn't 
      expecting company out here, or I would've had the fire going before." 
      There's only a trace of humor in her tone.
Salem inclines his head. "I was intending to come see you earlier, but wasn't
      able to." He remains standing, not nervous precisely, but definitely 
      tense; if he has news, it must be bad news.
Megan shrugs her right shoulder. "No big deal," she reassures him offhandedly.
      "You're here now. What brings you all the way out here?"
The Glass Walker inhales a breath and lets it out. "I'm stepping down as tribe
      elder," he tells her, hands clasped behind his back. "As of tomorrow, 
      Natalie Holds-the-Line will lead the Glass Walkers." He pauses a breath, 
      continuing before Megan can ask why. "On the fifteenth of this month, I 
      will be leaving St. Claire for a time. I don't know how long."
Many thoughts seem to flitter through Megan's expression, given how her
      features move, but the dominant emotion seems to be anger. It is several 
      seconds before she responds only with, "Why?" The word is harsh, 
      demanding, and there's no question about being angry.
He meets her eyes briefly. "I have some unfinished business to take care of. I
      would go into details if I could." Salem's jaw tightens as he looks away 
      from her, tilting his head to bare throat. "You have," he adds, more 
      quietly, "my sincere apologies."
Megan pushes to her feet in one rapid motion, shifting up to glabro as her
      clawed hand makes to grab the bared throat in a show of dominance that 
      although part of the protocols, is *not* done very frequently. ~I have 
      your *apologies*?~ she snarls. ~You, a Fostern Philodox and 
      self-proclaimed alpha of the city want to leave a new, untried cliath in 
      charge of your tribe to go off on some unfinished business that you don't 
      want to get into details on, when this Sept is bleeding leadership as if 
      from an unstanched wound, and you have the *nerve* to apologize?~
He keeps his eyes open, still looking past her. Behind his back, his hands
      tighten together, but he remains motionless in her grip. "Yes. Because I 
      know what my departure means, I have the... nerve... to apologize." 
      There's no hint of insolence in his tone, nor insincereity in his 
      submissive acknowledgement of her anger and the reason for it.
Megan's grip tightens, the clawed fingernails pressing against the homid throat
      hard enough to probably draw pinpricks of blood, before her arm recoils. 
      Disgust is now paramount in her features. ~If you are going to abandon 
      this Sept and your duties, I am sure it is for a worthy cause. Philodox,~ 
      The auspice word is driven home like an acid-coated knife blade. ~But, I 
      think you owe me an explanation more than just 'unfinished business'.~ 
      Her hands go to her hips in an aggressive stance as she waits.
Salem, released, resists the urge to reach up and massage his throat, though he
      can feel the thin trails of blood trickle down toward his shirt collar. 
      "With all due respect, Megan-rhya," he says evenly, "the Sept did not 
      have an explanation from you, either, before you left." Once again, he 
      meets her eyes, and this time his gaze is steady. "Yes, the Sept was in 
      better shape then than it is now, but had things been different, would 
      your decision have been different? _Could_ your decision have been 
      different? Your honor demanded that you have that... thing... taken care 
      of. _My_ honor, however little you think of it, demands no less of me 
      than it does you."
"If anyone had asked," Megan says, not the slightest bit deterred by Jack's
      attempt to put the shoe on the other foot, "I would have told them why I 
      left. I'm asking." The rest of his attempts to parry her question are met 
      with grim silence as she waits once more.

[Unfinished, alas, but needless to say, he didn't tell her and she was probably
 pissy about it. :} ]