[1/29/98]
[Outside the Rialto]
Currently the moon is in the waxing No Moon phase (11% full).
Currently on this breezy and cold winter midday in the general St. Claire
area, it is 27 degrees Fahrenheit (-2.8 degrees Celsius). The wind is coming
from the north at 9.9 mph. The ground is snowy. Skies are clear with no
chance of precipitation.
Salem emerges from the theatre, belting the heavy leather duster about his
body and turning the collar up. He pauses to glare sourly at the snow
covering the ground.
Morgan looks like she's not slept since last night, her face is drawn and
haggard, and her skin looks pale, her lips tight around her teeth. Her walk
is angry, but she limps slightly. She glares up at Salem with a "I dare you
to give me shit" look.
Salem, in truth, doesn't look much better than the Fury, but the Ronin rarely
does, this soon after waking. He gives Morgan a wary sidelong glance, not
afraid, but mindful of her temper and the danger of violence that he really
doesn't want right now.
Morgan looks almost disappointed that Salem doesn't *want* to give her shit.
She doesn't voice anything towards him, a simple pause in her side to side
eye sweep of the street all that indicates she acknowledges his presence.
Her limping stride brings her closer to the tribeless, her nose wrinkling as
she scents the smell of his stale cigarette smoke.
Salem leans back against the dirty brick wall near the alley, though for once
he doesn't pull out any cigarettes to light up. With bloodshot eyes, he
watches the Fury approach, and then ducks his chin down in a wordless nod of
greeting.
Morgan returns the nod with a terse motion, the the Fury's usual elegance in
movement oddly absent this morning. "You were pretty fucking quiet last
night. You know something about it I should?"
"I'm tired of talking." Salem's voice rasps in this throat, face pinched as
though his voicebox were scraped raw. He tilts his head up and glances
irritably at the sky. "Moon's waxing."
"I don't give a fuck," comes Morgan's biting reply. "Besides, you didn't
answer my question."
Salem pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezing shut. "I didn't see him
strike her," he says, sounding stressed and tired. "I can probably guess why
he did it, though I wouldn't have done the same."
Morgan just grunts and lifts her chin, a vague gesture of mild approval.
"Well, that's something. I did think you did it, you know." She heaves a
sigh, and then looks over toward the Park. "Fuck I'm tired," she says in a
weary voice.
Salem lets his hand drop and turns his head slightly, regarding the Fury. "I
didn't give her that split lip," he says after a moment. "Though I did
strike her. Once." His voice is defensive, certainly not proud. It's...
dead. Dull as concrete, empty as the Abyss itself.
Morgan gives Salem a "well, now, that was a stupid fucking thing to do, wasn't
it?" look; a look most women have mastered for when they deal with men.
Salem's right shoulder lifts and falls in bitter, tired agreement, and his
gaze shifts toward a patch of sidewalk across the street.
Morgan gives a tiny chuckle, a geniune smile breaking through the bleak worn
look on her face. "I really am tired," she tells the Ronin. "Otherwise I'd
have to kick your nuts in too."
Salem's lip curves in a faint, sardonic little smirk. "You can kick me later,
of course."
Morgan laughs, finding the Ronin's reply very humorous, for some reason.
"True," she agrees. Still chuckling, she passes the Ronin, and continues
north toward her apartment.
Salem's dark little smirk lingers on his haggard face as he watches the Fury
head home.