In out of the Cold

[hazlogs]

[1/17/98]

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.

Morgan makes her way down the disintegrating cement path, leaving the road 
  behind.

Salem leans against one of the plywood walls surrounding the place where the 
  fountain once stood, smoking a cigarette and enduring the bitter cold with a 
  sour expression.

Currently on this breezy and freezing winter evening in the general St. Claire 
  area, it is 25 degrees Fahrenheit (-3.9 degrees Celsius). The wind is coming 
  from the north at 8.55 mph. The ground is snowy. Skies are cloudy with a 
  probable chance of precipitation.

Morgan makes her way through Harbor Park like this is a regularly scheduled 
  activity. She spies Salem and slows from her brisk walk. She keeps her 
  distance for now, just spying the other man.

Salem continues to smoke, the greyish whisps from the cigarette mixing in with 
  the puffs that his own breath makes in the freezing air. He can't be 
  comfortable, but something keeps him there, by himself in the dark and the 
  cold, brooding.

Morgan's expression sets as she walks towards the other man, slowly, like you 
  walk towards a wounded dog. "Evening," she says to him. "Still cold out 
  here, isn't it?"

Salem's eyes shift toward the woman and narrow, his mouth set in a tight 
  light, unkempt black hair falling across his forehead and slightly over his 
  left eye. "Bitterly."

Morgan smiles, surprisingly enough. "Let's skip the games this time, okay?" 
  She talks two more steps towards the man and nods at him. "I know what you 
  are and you... you look smart enough to figure out what I am."

Salem takes the cigarette from his mouth and looks at her closely, not 
  returning the smile. "What say you just spell it out for me." A corner of 
  his lips twitches upwards, but there's no humor in the bloodshot, shadowed 
  dark brown eyes. "A man in my position can't be too careful."

Morgan holds her smile, and she shakes her head. "That's clever," she says, 
  holding up a hand and nodding approvingly. "But we're playing games again. 
  Look, the Rialto's right across the street. It's private in there. Quiet. 
  Warm."

Salem brings the cigarette to his face and inhales, the orange ember at its 
  tip glowing brightly for a moment in the winter darkness. "Fine," he rasps, 
  curtly. "Lead on."

[Scene change...]

The Rialto -- Auditorium(#3319RJ)
        The roar of the crowd. The smell of greasepaint. "Now is the winter of 
  our discontent..." An old, darkly nostalgic quality hangs heavy in the air 
  of this empty old theater. Once black-painted windows no longer refuse the 
  light of sun and moon, now broken and open to the city sky.
        Largely gutted now, this once gilded and opulent theater spreads like 
  an old grand dame holding desperately to a past now gone and largely 
  forgotten. The plush seats which once held nearly a thousand people are, for 
  the most part, long gone. Time's indifferent hand has dulled the once ornate 
  proscenium arch and faded the velvet red of the main curtain, leaving the 
  wide stage in dark shadows before the gaping and toothless mouth of the 
  music pit.
        At the right side of the stage, from the auditorium floor, a door 
  leads toward the back of the theater. To the left of the stage, an old exit 
  sign still glows above a reinforced door. In the back of the auditorium, 
  archways lead back to the lobby and the boarded up front doors.

"See? Nothing special," Morgan comments after the heavy metal door swings 
  shut. She rubs her gloved hands together before she takes them off her 
  fingers. "You're Garou, or I'm a Bone Gnawer, friend." She says with a 
  casual ease.

A whistling can be heard coming up from downstairs, along with someone's heavy 
  feet. The song is "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds"

Salem seems to have disposed of his cigarette on the way over; at least, it 
  isn't with him now. Still visibly on edge, he scans the inside of the old 
  theatre with a scowl. "So. I'm a Garou." He looks at Morgan and abruptly 
  shifts languages, growling the wolf-man tongue with sharp fluency. ~Then I 
  suppose you understand me?~

The whistler doesn't come in through the stage door but can be heard moving 
  somewhere stage left, still whistling.

Morgan nods a silent affirmation to his question. She walks a bit towards the 
  old stage, before she turns back to face Salem. "Just like to keep track of 
  who runs on our turf, is all. I don't know you from Adam. And ... I was 
  worried you might be a problem. I'd like to prevent that. If possible."

"Hey, who's out there?" calls Barlow's heavy voice, the question more casual 
  than concerned. "That you Davy?"

Salem's face tightens, the hands curling into fists inside the pockets of the 
  battered leather coat. About to answer Morgan, he stops, turning quickly - 
  too quickly - toward the sound of the voice. Every motion expression 
  suspicion, the edgy wariness of a man expecting a trap and intending to 
  fight like hell if needed.

Morgan's expression breaks into an amused grin before she turns stage left and 
  says, "Not Davy. Do I sound like a drunken Fianna womanizer? Hey, Chugs, 
  come out here. Want you to meet someone." She glances back to Salem and 
  holds up a hand -- a gesture of reassurance. "We're not going to jump you, 
  man. Relax."

Salem grunts, not looking all that reassured. "So you say."

Morgan shrugs. "Actions speak louder than words -- I know that. But chill. 
  It's just my packmate. This is his place."

Pete Barlow comes out from off stage right, a cigarette in his mouth and a 
  coil of rope in his hands, a long end dragging behind him off into the 
  darkness. "No, can't say you sound like that at all. Who do you got to 
  meet..." The big Gnawer goes suddenly silent as he spots Salem, the coiling 
  motion also stopping. "Who's this?"

[Pete Barlow]
        Remarkably plain like cheap vanilla ice milk in an old tupperware 
  bowl. A loose, easy, casual manner describes this tall fellow, his edges 
  turning in lazy almost masked curves. Dark brown hair with a few straggles 
  of grey slides back from a largely bald head. Narrow, somewhat droopy green 
  eyes glance out from a face covered in an unkempt, thick salt-n-pepper beard 
  circling a thin-lipped, crooked smile. Around 6'3 and probably in his late 
  thirties, Pete carries himself with a quiet, almost subservient manner 
  though the smile twisting his mouth might just betray a certain... lack of 
  seriousness.
        Pete's returned now to his normal duds: worn jeans, ivory cableknit 
  mock turtle sweater and heavy coat.

Salem's gaze shifts toward Barlow and fixes on the older man, regarding him 
  with a narrow stare.

Morgan takes a few steps towards Chugs and she shakes her head at him. "I 
  don't know his name -- but I know he's Garou. Met him down on the wharves on 
  patrol the other day." She turns back toward their guest and lifts her chin. 
  "What should we call you, stranger?"

"Salem," the stranger says in clipped, terse tones. "Jack Salem."

"He's a Dogbody?" asks Barlow with a frown, hopping down from the stage. He 
  stops beside Morgan, eyes fixed on Jack Salem.

Salem's lip curls upward, displaying a glimmer of teeth in a half-formed snarl 
  at Barlow's choice of phrasing, but he says nothing.

Morgan shakes her head again. "No idea," she says, regarding Salem with a 
  fixed measured stare of her own. "He's never been real verbose." She pauses 
  to mumble something to Pete, before she speaks to Salem again. "I'm Morgan, 
  a fostern Black Fury crescent moon. Chugs is an ahroun. We're both in a pack 
  called Edge, children of Weasel. What about you?"

Salem's hands clench and unclench inside the coat pockets, tension radiating 
  from him until one can almost smell it. If he were wound any tighter, he'd 
  snap like a cheap rubber band. "Ahroun."

Pete Barlow still looks at the man. "You're a gawddamned garou makin' trouble, 
  eh? Boys in Cavall pointed you out the other day over at Charlies. Said you 
  were gettin' a reputation for bein' trouble on the streets." Barlow takes a 
  step past Morgan, toward Salem. "That all you got to say?"

Morgan doesn't seem surprised. She crosses her arms as Pete walks past her, 
  and takes a step to the side. She still seems relatively calm.

Salem's attention shifts toward Barlow and fixes itself there. His chin lifts 
  slightly, defiant in the face of threat, stubborn and wary and angry all in 
  one package. "When people piss me off, I 'convince' them to leave me the 
  hell alone. End of story."

Pete Barlow gives a nod to the fellow. "You got that right, pal. End of story. 
  We got enough trouble 'round here without havin' some freebooter blowin' 
  into town to set up shop... without gettin' permission."

Salem doesn't yet let down his guard. Not one inch. "That section your pack's 
  territory?"

Morgan nods, slowly. "Sixth street to the river, wharves to Silver street. 
  That's ours." Her voice is calm, but solid, fearless. "We don't need any 
  extra problems, especially from a loose cannon who no ones knows."

Pete Barlow shakes his head, stopping a few steps from Salem. "Probably not. 
  Sounds like Cavall walk. But Edge and the boys of Cavall claim most of 
  Southside. All part of the city though, Jack, and I don't think nobody done 
  told me that you were puttin' up cardboard and claimin' space. Anybody tell 
  you, Morgan?"

Morgan shakes her head, her arms still crossed.

Salem grunts. "Took you a bloody long time to say anything," he remarks, 
  taking his hands from his pockets and folded them across his chest. "But, as 
  I said. As long as the local apes know how to leave me the hell alone, 
  there's no problem." The edge remains audible under his voice, flexing its 
  claws restlessly.

"Ain't good enough, Jack," says Barlow shaking his head. "Ain't gonna have no 
  ronin squattin' round here causin' trouble when we got enough of that and to 
  spare." The tall Gnawer takes a deep breath. "Especially a ronin who's got 
  the angries as fuckin' bad as you."

"You're Ronin?" Morgan chips in, now sounding surprised.

Salem grits his teeth. "I. Can. Handle. It." Morgan's question goes 
  unanswered, but neither doe she refute Barlow's assumptions about his tribal 
  status.

Morgan snorts softly her disagreement with that assessment. "It doesn't look 
  that way, friend. Look. I want to make this simple. Simple on us, and simple 
  on you. If you're Ronin, you should just clear out of town. We don't need 
  any Veil breaches from some tribeless chucklehead."

Pete Barlow scratches the side of his beard, looking back over at Morgan for a 
  moment before looking back at Salem. "Exactly. You got two choices as I see 
  it: you move on or you come clean and play by our rules. Me, I don't give a 
  shit if you're ronin or the Queen of fuckin' Sheba. You play by the our 
  rules when you're in our playground. Simple."

Salem closes his eyes for a moment, breathing heavily. Bit by bit, he beats 
  back the rising tides of blood-hot fury until he reaches a state of - no, 
  not calm, but control. Tight control. When he opens his eyes again, the 
  glittering rage has been beaten back, and his voice, though slightly hoarse, 
  is even. "I can handle it," he repeats steadily. "I have found _ways_ to 
  handle it." He shifts his gaze toward Chugs. "What do you want? Chiminage?"

"Chimmy's a good way to start, yeah," answers Barlow, his response to Salem 
  also tense. "If you're a Gnawer, then I can take care of the chimmy-shit. If 
  you're somethin' else, well then you'll need to chat-chat with the Cheese of 
  your tribe." The big Gnawer smiles vaguely. "And if you're Ronin fer real, 
  then well we'll have to figure somethin' else out. Gawddamned Park Rangers 
  ain't gonna wanna have nothin' to do with you."

Morgan steps up even with her packmate. "Answers would be nice too," she adds.

Salem unfolds his arms and reaches into his coat, pulling out a pack of 
  cigarettes and shaking one out with a quick, habitual gesture. He looks at 
  neither of them now. "Ask," he says, setting the cancer-stick between his 
  lips and fishing for his lighter.

"Fuckin' reminds me of Corners under the fat moon," mutters Barlow with shake 
  of his head.

"It's like pulling fucking teeth," Morgan mutters to Pete. She sets her jaw 
  and asks, "Are you Ronin?"

Salem lights the cigarette and inhales, drawing the chemically-treated 
  nicotine smoke into his lungs and then releasing it. "Yes. Two years."

Pete Barlow gives a nod, the candor satisfying him more. "You plannin' on 
  stayin' 'round here long?"

Salem utters a brief, humorless, softly bitter laugh. "Planned. Yes. Until I 
  get run out, of course."

Morgan glances at Pete and rolls her eyes. "Great," she mumbles. "What's your 
  story, then, Man with No Tribe?" She snorts and shakes her head, muttering 
  "Pale Rider," under her breath. "What are you doing in St. Claire?"

Pete Barlow gives a half-chuckle, shaking his head. "Hey, Jack, I ain't for 
  runnin' people outta town, not folks that ain't given up the work." Barlow 
  looks over at Morgan, nodding to her questions as he looks back at Salem.

Salem inhales upon the cigarette again, as though it were a focus for control. 
  "It seemed likely. I came here from Portland."

Pete Barlow gives a nod, "Spent alotta years in Portland. You don't look too 
  familiar."

Salem's eyes flick toward Barlow and then away. "I was only there two weeks."

"Guess that explains it," says Barlow with a nod. He looks over at Morgan. 
  "I've gotta go check and see if Franco got held up tonight." Confidence in 
  his pack alpha clearly evident, Barlow looks back at Salem. "You and me can 
  meet up later and make sure you understand all the rules."

Salem grunts, giving the big Bone Gnawer a nod of acknowledgement. His gaze 
  remains fixed elsewhere, however, and he continues to smoke the cigarette as 
  though it were some kind of lifeline.

Morgan steps toward Salem again, after she gives Pete a short nod. She looks 
  confident, sounds calm, as she speaks. She stays out of arms reach though -- 
  fearless is not suicidal. "I don't care if you're tribeless, Jack. But I 
  don't need or want any trouble from you."

Pete Barlow head out into the alley, the whistle starting up again. This time 
  the tune is "Yellow Brick Road."

"No trouble," the Ronin agrees, though there's clearly something in him that 
  hates the necessity for surrender, hates it with a passion. Still, he keeps 
  his eyes averted, even though the set of his shoulders remain tense.

Morgan nods again. "Good," she says. "I was serious about sleeping here if you 
  need to get out of the cold." She pauses, and looks into Salem's face, 
  before she continues. "I'd rather have you in here where you can break shit 
  than out on the street terrorizing random humans."

Salem looks back at the Black Fury for a moment, and there's an emptiness 
  behind his eyes, behind the ever-present, twisting Rage. "Fine," he says. 
  "If that's what it takes to... satisfy you and the others."

Morgan shrugs at Salem. "It's not a condition, Salem. It's an honest offer. 
  You say you can handle it." She inhales a tight breath, and measures him up. 
  "I'll believe you. But I'd like you come here if you think you're going to 
  lose a handle on your Rage. We both know it can be challenge, especially 
  around the bright moons."

"Fine," the Ronin says again. "And my chiminage?" The last is added with the 
  air of someone who knows what's required and wants to get it out of the way.

Morgan shrugs. "Dunno. What can you do? Except look mean?" She smiles at the 
  last, suggesting a light joke.

Salem doesn't laugh. "I can kill Wyrmspawn. I also know the Rite of Wounding."

"Sheesh," Morgan says, her smile faltering. "Tough room." She cups her chin 
  and nods, looking contemplative. "You do anything except fight?" she asks, 
  turning to walk back to the stage.

Salem inhales another lungful of pollution from the cigarette. "I know a lot 
  about vampires," he says, watching her. His voice tightens. "Particularly 
  the Wyrm-tainted kind."

Morgan hops up on the stage, letting her legs swing free, easily underneath 
  her. "No kidding," she says, looking extremely interested. "Maybe you could 
  be useful." She nods, then, seemingly satisfied with that. "So," she says, 
  segue to a new topic. "Why did you lose your tribe?"

Salem walks toward the stage rather than raise his voice to carry across the 
  distance between them. The tension winds around him like a cloak, but it's a 
  tension years old now, well-worn bitterness. "I made the mistake of being a 
  prisoner of war. The Sept accused me of treason and willing compliance with 
  the enemy." He stops just past where the front row of seats would be and 
  doesn't look into Morgan's face, watching her only out of the corner of his 
  eye, just enough to keep tabs on where she is. "And criminal failure."

Morgan runs a hand back through her hair. "Jesus," she says, in a mild swear. 
  "That was two years ago?"

Salem nods, a small muscle near the scar next to his left eye twitching 
  erratically.

Morgan puts her feet underneath her and stands on the stage, pacing towards 
  the Ronin slowly. "So where are you from? Originally, I mean."

"The Sept of Black Wings." He looks up as she moves toward him, and adds, "I 
  am forbidden to say where it is located."

Morgan narrows her eyes, but gives a snort grunt of acceptance. "I'm not 
  thrilled to have you here," she admits. "But as long as you keep yourself in 
  line, I don't think we'll have any problems. I'm pretty easy to get along 
  with. I don't like bullshit, and I don't like liars -- so I'm glad you were 
  upfront about your past."

Salem dips his goatee'd chin in a short nod of acknowledgement. His stance has 
  become formal, and Ronin or not, he is _still_ the image of a Shadow Lord. 
  "Is there anything else you want to know?"

Morgan shakes her head indicating she's satisfied, although she can't conceal 
  the curiosity in her eyes. She takes the stairs nearest Salem, and stands 
  in front of him, her lithe dancer's frame seemingly small in comparison to 
  his bulkier fighter's body. "You don't strike me as the kind who wants to 
  chat, either. I'm finished." She measures him up again, her expression held 
  neutral.

Salem still avoids meeting the Fury's gaze, perhaps finding it wiser - or, in 
  the long run, easier - to keep from any hint of challenge, even though the 
  iron rod he must have shoved up his spine keeps him from a truly submissive 
  grovelling. "Fine. I'll spend the night here, then. Since you offered." A 
  slight pause punctuates each sentence.

Morgan actually grins. That's right. A smile. And she nods. "Fine. There are 
  some blankets and shit downstairs. Help yourself. And one other thing. Don't 
  mess Pete's stuff up. He's..." she trails off and makes a tight circle with 
  a forefinger around her temple. "A little anal about it."

Salem's lips twitch, but not enough to be called a smile, except maybe by the 
  extremely optimistic. "Fine."

Morgan points out the direction toward the stairs with her hand and then pulls 
  her gloves back on. "He's got some food down there too. Despite being a 
  Gnawer -- I think he actually got it from the store. And not from the 
  garbage either." She grins again, and starts for the side door. "I have to 
  finish my patrol."

Salem grunts an acknowledgement, watching her leave, his eyes in shadow now 
  and the end of his cigarette glowing orange in the darkened theatre. "Be 
  seeing you."

"Yes," comes the Fury's reply before the door clangs shut. "I'm sure you will."