Fine. Fine. Fine.

[hazlogs]

[1/21/98]

Currently the moon is in the waning Half Moon phase (41% full).

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:
Flowers
Obvious exits:
ManHole  River  STreet  South  

Currently on this calm 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-northeast at 3.2 mph. The ground is snowy. Skies are hazy 
  with a definite chance of precipitation.

Seirian makes her way through the tall grass of the south.
Seirian wanders in, hands tucked in her pockets as she hums to herself.

Salem sits, slouched, on a bench facing the slow, glurky river, a small orange 
  glow emitting from the cigarette in his mouth. His expression is closed, 
  tight, brooding.

Seirian looks over the larger plywood-enclosed area and murmurs just loud 
  enough to be heard. "Finally doin' somethin' 'ere, eh?"

[Seirian]
Seiri's red-gold hair is confined in a tight braid that falls to a few inches 
  above her waist, free of its usual adornment. Her grey eyes and 
  high-cheekboned face look a little tired, but still smiling. Her tallish 
  form is well-muscled from months of travel, and well-proportioned. Her 
  slender hands are usually tucked into her pockets and she carries herself 
  without airs. Seiri's clad in dark black jeans, somewhat new-looking. A 
  black turtleneck with a moon and star motif covers her torso. Over this, she 
  wears her old leather jacket, encrusted with its myriad patches. Used black 
  and brown hiking boots cover her smallish feet. Thick, warm black socks are 
  bunched about her ankles above the boots. The only jewelry she wears is a 
  silverish knotwork necklace, and a pair of black dangling earrings shaped 
  like moon phases.

Salem sits up, turning his head toward the accented female voice, the motion 
  quick, alert. Too alert. He inhales on the cigarette, and the orange ember 
  at its tip glows a bit more brightly.

Seirian catches both glow and movement from the corner of one grey eye, her 
  head turning to that direction and looking over who she sees there.

Salem lifts his chin slightly as he exhales a cloud of gray secondhand smoke. 
  His return stare is quite direct, unsmiling, and almost as cold as the 
  winter air itself.

[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. Black BDU pants cover his legs. A gray-and-black flannel 
  shirt hangs open over a dark green t-shirt, and he wears black high-top 
  sneakers.  <<+details>>

Seirian raises an eyebrow and regards the man coolly. "Evenin'." She doesn't 
  look away though.

"Evening," he echoes. Salem's voice sounds educated, the tones a bit clipped.

Seirian lets her gaze trail away slowly, back to the encased fountain site. 
  "Nippy weather t'be out..."

Salem grunts, taking another drag on the cigarette. "More like bloody fucking 
  cold. But yes, it is."

Seirian shrugs, "Y'get used t'it after a bit." She shifts the conversation a 
  bit, "What brings ye out t'night, eh?"

Salem regards the woman with a face tight from cold, the eyes now half-lidded. 
  Underneath the casual facade, though, restless, unfocussed anger paces back 
  and forth like an animal in a small cage. "Needed some air."

Seirian nods, eyes still traveling over the boarded up founatin. "Plenty 
  o'tha' out 'ere, e'en tho's cold."

"Why are _you_ out here?" Salem throws the question toward her.

Seirian shrugs, "I'm allus out here, jus' wand'rin' 'round. 'S wha' I do when 
  I needs t'think or such."

Salem tilts his head, his eyes never leaving her face. "You're not from around 
  here," he notes.

Seirian looks back to him, "Nae, I'm not, but 'tis m'home now."

One corner of Salem's lips curve upwards in a humorless smirk, and he inhales 
  another lungful of cigarette smoke. "Ah. Got your Green Card?"

Seirian tosses her hair away from her face. "I'm a legal resident, donnae need 
  one n'more."

"Good for you." Salem's voice sounds a bit raw, though the tones remain dry. 
  His gaze remains direct, with an intensity that many people would find 
  distinctly disturbing. "I hear that Immigration's a bitch."

Seirian shrugs, "D'pends upon whetha or not y'let it get t'ye. I didnae find 
  it all tha' hard."

"Good for you," Salem repeats, with a sardonic twist that makes his 
  congratulations obviously insincere.

[Seirian]
Seiri's red-gold hair is confined in a tight braid that falls to a few inches 
  above her waist, free of its usual adornment. Her grey eyes and 
  high-cheekboned face look a little tired, but still smiling. Her tallish 
  form is well-muscled from months of travel, and well-proportioned. Her 
  slender hands are usually tucked into her pockets and she carries herself 
  without airs. Seiri's clad in dark black jeans, somewhat new-looking. A 
  black turtleneck with a moon and star motif covers her torso. Over this, she 
  wears her old leather jacket, encrusted with its myriad patches. Used black 
  and brown hiking boots cover her smallish feet. Thick, warm black socks are 
  bunched about her ankles above the boots. The only jewelry she wears is a 
  silverish knotwork necklace, and a pair of black dangling earrings shaped 
  like moon phases.

Seirian eyes the stranger, "And what about ye, eh? This doesnae seem like yer 
  from 'round 'bout either..."

Sally MacKay strides up from the meadow, side by side with Casper. She laughs, 
  then takes a glance around before dropping her voice and saying a few quick 
  words to him.

Salem and Seirian appear to be in semi-casual conversation, the man seated on 
  a bench and smoking. He lifts one eyebrow in response to Seirian's remark, 
  and then leans back, shrugging. "Not the city, no."

[Casper]
Quiet and uncertain, this young man of late 'teens, or early twenties, seems 
  to take each step with great deliberation, walking slowly but smoothly. He's 
  of average height, but a little thin with bony shoulders. His face 
  ressembles an old byzantine painting, long and thin, with an arrow-like nose 
  and deep-set brown eyes. He has red-brown hair, shorn short, but starting to 
  get fuzzy and red stubble covers his chin. His expression is in flux like 
  water, an erratic flow of confusion and wonder. By contrast though, the eyes 
  show some vague sense of otherly wisdom. His skin is ruddy and dirty.
        He wears a plain, green t-shirt under an oil-stained and worn winter 
  coat, like the kind that gas attendents wear. It's black and there is a 
  crest that says "Joe" on the left side, half-torn off. Thick, brown cords 
  cover his legs and he wears muddied sneakers on his feet. A battered canvas 
  backpack hangs over one shoulder.

Seirian's expression is cool, two shades away from condescending, "And did ye 
  come here wit' a name, eh?"

Casper walks with his hands in his pockets and a far-off grin on his face. He 
  looks over to Sally.

Salem's face tightens further, the in-born anger waking up to growl, like a 
  bad-tempered junkyard dog. His voice remains even and sounds calm, but 
  there's a dangerous look in his eyes now, hard and unfriendly. "Did _you_?"

Seirian smiles, obviously having not slipped from whatever marginally good 
  mood she was in. "Aye. Seirian O'Connor at yer service."

Sally MacKay leads the pair towards Salem and Seirian, smiling and greeting 
  the Fianna with a nod before looking to Salem. "Hey," she smiles, slowing to 
  a stop before coming too close to them. She tilts her head up and slightly 
  to one side, pausing, checking out his expression.

Seirian's smiles brightens and she waves to Sally and Casper. "Evenin' y'two! 
  Lovely night, eh?"

Casper waves to Seirian and looks over Salem, the quiet grin remaining and 
  bleaching out any telling emotions.

"Salem. Jack Salem." Introduction given, the dark man takes another deep 
  lungful of cigarette smoke, his eyes never leaving Seirian's face. At least, 
  not until Sally shows up. His gaze flicks toward her and then to her 
  companion, and he offers up a small, dry little smile. "Evening, Mustang 
  Sally."

"Evening Jack Salem," Sally echoes in just the same manner as him, softening 
  her expression further with another playful smile. "You guys know Casper?" 
  she nods at the Gazer, helpfully pointing him out to the two.

Casper echoes Sally in a quieter tone, "Evening Jack Salem, I'm Casper." he 
  smiles again to Seirian, "And Seiri and I know each other already Sally."

Seirian smirks and nods, "Evenin' t'ye then, Jack Salem." At Sally's 
  introduction, she chuckles. "Aye, us two knows each other."

Salem turns dark eyes toward Casper, looking the thin young man up and down, 
  his body still half-slouched in the bench with an utterly casual attitude. 
  Well, except for the signs of predatorial tension shifting invisibly under 
  his flesh.

Sally MacKay nods, "Cool." She turns her bright eyes from Salem a moment, 
  giving Casper a look and the slightest raising of eyebrows, a gesture she 
  angles to keep from Salem's view.

Seirian tucks stray wisps of hair back from her face. "What brings th'two of 
  ye out t'night, eh?"

Casper breathes a whisper out in a sing-song sigh. He looks Salem up and down, 
  and up and down again, his posture remaining calm.

[Seirian leaves.]

Salem brings the cigarette to his lips again and takes another drag. The man 
  doesn't fail to notice Casper's long - too long - look, and his eyes narrow. 
  "Something wrong?" he asks the younger man; there's a touch of warning in 
  his tone.

Casper shrugs and shakes his head, "No, I don't think so?" he seems innocent 
  and oblivious, despite the intelligence in his eyes.

"Just walking," Sally answers Seiri for them, her look at Casper becoming 
  sharper. The corners of her smile twitch down, then she scoots in a quick, 
  smooth movement to gather a handful of snow. In a quieter voice she adds her 
  own potential lie, "No, nothing's wrong."

Something in Casper's tone doesn't agree with Salem at all, and he rises to 
  his feet in a single smooth motion to face Casper, the cigarette between two 
  ungloved fingers. His eyes search out the other's, sharp and cold and hard. 
  "Damned well better not be," he says softly.

Casper grins at Sally, "I hope you aren't turning that innocent snow in to a 
  weapon..." his grins fades as he turns back to Salem. His eyes seem to click 
  into a sharper mode. "I'm sorry... I didn't mean to offend, though I'm not 
  sure what I did to irk you... perhaps I'll be on my way."

Salem takes a single step toward Casper, meeting the other's gaze without 
  compromise. The threat coils in every motion, vibrates in each subtly of his 
  stance. "Perhaps you should be on your way, yes," the dark man says, stonily.

"Let him go, Salem," Sally says, her voice soft, quiet, non-threatening. She 
  watches her hands form the snowball, not looking up at the dark Garou. "It's 
  okay," while the words might not be a lie, to her they might just feel that 
  way.

Casper's peer back into Salem's. There's no challenge here just a seeking 
  look. After a moment of silence he grins politely and bows his head. "Good 
  night Sally... and Mr. Salem, good night to you too." he takes a step back 
  and starts down the street.

The tension in Salem's posture uncoils slightly, the rage lowering its hackles 
  part-way. He watches Casper go and then turns toward Sally. "You have 
  interesting friends."

One of her hands leaves her slowly forming snowball and Sally gives Casper a 
  wave and another curious, puzzled look. The expression is gone once she 
  turns back towards Salem, though.

Now with Casper out of the line of fire, Sally returns to her more direct look 
  at the Ronin. "Yeah, he's cool. We hang out now and then." She tosses the 
  snowball towards him like a baseball, angled to be hit, not to hit him. 
  "He's smart."

Salem's hand catches the snowball out of the air, unerringly, fingers snapping 
  closed to crush the wet white missle to oblivion. "Is he... one of _them_?" 
  He watches her face closely.

"You were supposed to throw it back," Sally scolds him gently as the snow 
  falls from his fingers. Looking back up to his face, she only nods, watching 
  his expression with seeming casualness.

Tension continues to invade Salem's posture like background noise you just 
  can't tune out. He lets the cigarette burn between his fingers and studies 
  Sally with a slight frown. "I saw the look he was giving me. I wonder why he 
  did that."

"Maybe he was ... curious," Sally suggests, bending her knees to gather more 
  snow. Tension slowly collects within her, a different type than his. Visible 
  as a tightening of her shoulders and a stiffening of her back, it seems to 
  be becoming more of an effort to retain her calm, unworried expression.

"I hope so, Sally." Salem's voice is soft, but there's no calm in his body and 
  face. He takes a step back from her, suspicious and wary. "I'll... see you 
  around."

Sally MacKay watches him go without rising. "Bye."

Salem stalks out of the park with a long-legged, quick stride.

[Scene change -- the Rialto]

Pete Barlow sits in the cast of a streetlamp, a book in his hands, bag of 
  Dorritos at his side.

Salem lets the door bang shut behind him, and once the barrier is closed 
  between himslf and the outside world, the Garou's face twists into a rage of 
  anger and self-recrimination. His right fist slams against the wall twice, 
  hard; he clearly hasn't notice Barlow.

Pete Barlow turns sharply toward the sound, book closing shut with a sharp 
  snap. Barlow almost rises with the quick, natural reaction but stops, 
  sitting back into the chair when he sees Salem. "Rough night?"

Salem's head jerks up, alertness feral, dark eyes narrowing with a reflex of 
  defensive caution. Upon seeing Barlow, though, the Ronin forces himself into 
  an attitude of calm, flexing the fingers of his right hand. "Most nights 
  are," he replies, guardedly.

Pete Barlow gives a nod, stiffly, a sense of his own anger or irritation clear 
  in his eyes and the set of his jaw. "Got any news for me?"

"News?" Salem lifts his eyebrows skeptically. "No. Your alpha mentioned you 
  were having vampire troubles, and I've told her a bit of what I know. I 
  haven't run into any bloodsuckers yet, though."

Pete Barlow gives a nod. "You looking for them?" he asks, setting his book 
  down.

Salem reaches into a pocket of his duster and pulls out a pack of cigarettes, 
  shaking one out and setting it between his lips with a quick, habitual 
  gesture, born of long practice. "Not as such." The pack gets stowed away, to 
  be replaced by a cheap Zippo which he uses to light up the cancer stick. 
  "That's not my place." He's regained some more of his outward composure, and 
  his educated voice is smooth. "Though I'll gladly with the extermination if 
  some _are_ found."

"So what is your place, Jack?" asks Barlow as he leans back in his chair. "You 
  just roam around outside all laws? Mr. Anarchy?"

Salem inhales a lungful of nicotine-laced smoke and eyes Barlow sidelong, 
  instinctive wariness returning. "I have no place," he says, his voice even 
  over a foundation of almost-hidden bitterness. "Some would say that I don't 
  even exist."

"It's pretty fucking obvious that you do," says Barlow, still sitting, 
  watching the Ronin. "Do you want a place?"

Salem remains wary underneath the facade of calm. He takes another drag on the 
  cigarette and studies Barlow's face with an odd, almost awkward 
  half-sideways glance. "Are you offering one?"

Pete Barlow gives a shrug as he looks at the man. "Don't know I have one to 
  give you, Jack. You get a place and you then gots things to consider: 
  respect and rules and duties and shit."

"I'm two years out of practice. Might be a bit rusty." Below the dry, sardonic 
  humor of the reply, Salem's manner hasn't changed; it's the manner of a man 
  forced to walk barefoot over broken glass.

Pete Barlow's eyes look over at the man, this Ronin, and nods. "Fuck right 
  you're out of practice. What's the third rule of the Litany?"
 
Salem's face tightens, his chin coming up like a wolf scenting a dangerous 
  scent upon the air. ~Respect the territory of another.~ Speaking Garou with 
  a homid throat is something of an effort, but clearly something he's 
  practiced in.

"At least you know it," says Barlow with a shake of his head. "Even if you 
  ain't been practicin' it." The big Gnawer finally stands, turning to face 
  the Ronin. "I'm a Gnawer, Jack, and an Uncle at that, though I wish to 
  Hannah somebody else were around who could do the shit I'm always fuckin'up. 
  But Mama makes do with what she's got." Barlow pauses and looks at Salem. "I 
  don't really give a crap what you were before you went on the Rice-a-Roni. 
  What I do care about is doin' what shit we can, when we can, where we can. 
  If you got that left in you and you can keep the rules... or most of 'em, 
  then we'll start talkin' about findin' you a place."

Salem shifts his eyes away as the Bone Gnawer stands, his expression and 
  stance still tight, the edge sharp under his flesh; it seems to be an effort 
  for him to keep his weight on his whole foot when that edge wants to balance 
  on the balls of his feet, oversensitive to threat. "I see." He takes another 
  smoke-filled drag.

The tall Gnawer watches the other man, nodding. "Ball's in your court."

Salem glances back at Pete, studying the older man's face for a moment before 
  shifting his gaze away again and studying the far wall of the gaping 
  auditorium. "What, exactly, do you want from me?"

"It's an either/or," says Barlow rather quickly, as if he had been thinking 
  about the very question. "I want you to either settle up and start thinkin' 
  about fightin' alongside us here in St. Claire..." Barlow stops, right hand 
  going up to scratch the back of his dirty neck. "Or I want you to get the 
  fuck outta Dodge. Tonight. I ain't gonna have a loose canon going off 
  without some direction to it."

"Fine," says Salem, after a moment. "I assumed that something like that would 
  be required of me, as payment."

"Payment?" asks Barlow with an arching of his brows.

Salem's own eyebrows lift. "Chiminage, if you want to call it that." His makes 
  a vague gesture with the cigarette-wielding hand. "An outcast gets nothing 
  for free."

Pete Barlow shakes his head. "This ain't chiminage, Jack. This is the ground 
  rules. You want more, we'll talk about that when you got the ground rules 
  down." Barlow pulls some licorice, red, from his pocket, chewing on a 
  strand. "I'm not tryin' to be a shit about this, man. I just been around one 
  too many Ronies who didn't give a flyin' fuck about anything but themselves. 
  Selfish bastards that get people killed. You... You may be a mean son of a 
  bitch, full of the Rage, but you don't strike me as being a shit."

"Thanks for the compliment." Salem's tone is definitely wry, though the 
  humored quirk of his lips doesn't quite reach his dark eyes.

Barlow walks down to the edge of the stage, lifting himself up to sit on it. 
  "So what's it going to be? Ground rules or the road?"

Salem's tension seems to ease somewhat as Barlow moves back toward the stage, 
  though the difference is subtle enough that only the most perceptive will 
  notice it. "I'll follow your 'ground rules' for as long as I'm in the area. 
  Is that acceptable?"

Pete Barlow gives a nod, a slow, thoughtful nod. "That'll do for a month. 
  After that, we start talkin' 'bout more permanent arrangements."

Salem grunts acknowledgement, the cigarette going to his lips again as he 
  takes another lungful into his body.

"Oh, one more thing," says Barlow as he pushes off the stage.

Salem lets secondhand smoke out of his mouth in a long breath and gives the 
  Bone Gnawer a silently inquiring look.

Pete Barlow turns a sharp look over at the Ronin. "No more dominance games on 
  territory that ain't yours."

Salem goes still, the cigarette halted in its motion back toward his face. He 
  studies Barlow for a moment and then nods, once. Slowly. "Fine," he says, 
  and takes another drag.

Pete Barlow gives a nod and then turns to head down into the bowels of the old 
  theater. He doesn't turn around, but says, "I got a job that I'm gonna need 
  some help on. Can I count on you in a pinch?"

"Of course." The Ronin's voice carries smoothly to the Bone Gnawer. "I'm not 
  going anywhere at the moment."

Pete Barlow gives a nod as he looks back from the door. "It'll be a couple 
  days. I'll come get you then."

For the third time this evening, at least, Salem says, "Fine." A pause for the 
  cigarette, and he adds, "Be seeing you."

Pete Barlow leaves the auditorium through the door at the right of the stage.