hazlogs: Ronin Glyph (Ronin)
[personal profile] hazlogs

[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.

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