Gifts from Merria

[hazlogs]

[2/10/98]

Industrial Wharves: Abandoned Warehouse(#3937RJ$)
This is an old delapidated warehouse by the industrial wharves, near the edge 
  of Riverfront Drive and Bridge Street. It's dark and mostly empty -- what 
  litle there is, mostly consisting of empty crates and containers, old wooden 
  pallets, and miscellaneous garbage. There are some holes in the wall -- some 
  small enough for a large dog or wolf to fit through -- though the main door 
  is securely padlocked.

Currently the moon is in the waxing Full Moon phase (93% full).
Currently on this gusty and cold winter afternoon in the general St. Claire 
  area, it is 33 degrees Fahrenheit (0.6 degrees Celsius). The wind is coming 
  from the east at 10.9 mph. The ground is snowy. Skies are cloudy with a 
  possible chance of precipitation.

A knock sounds at the door.

Morgan, scowling, makes her way over to a rusted side door. She opens it a 
  crack, and then steps outside of the warehouse. "What?" she demands.

Salem paces back and forth across the floor of the warehouse, as he has been 
  for most of the day. He's discarded the useless ruins of his sneakers and 
  has the leather duster closed and belted. At the knock he stops, turning 
  sharply toward the sound, tension radiating off him in waves.

Merria has her backpack slung over one shoulder, and her perrenial grin in 
  place. "Hey, Morgan-rhya. I guess the good guys got him, after all. Can I 
  talk to Salem?"

Morgan clears her throat and glances back toward the shut door. "Why?"

"I brought him a care package," Merria says ingenuously. "You know. He gets 
  cranky when he's all cooped up."

Morgan smirks, a touch of her wry black humor seeping onto her facial 
  expression. "He's in rehab. I'd really rather not have him talk to a lot of 
  people." She holds out a hand expectantly though. "I'll give him your 
  package, though."

Merria loses her bounce momentarily. "Aw," she says uncertainly. "I won't....I 
  mean..." She hesitates, not quite wanting to out-right argue with a fostern. 
  "Um. How come?"

"He's got a lot of issues, it's full moon, and he doesn't have any of his 
  crutches to lean on." The Fury narrows her eyes at Merria. "He's in rehab, 
  and we're trying to heal him. It's delicate work."

Merria hesitates. "You're great," she says simply. "He'd die if someone didn't 
  do that for him. Maybe most folks wouldn't care, that's what makes it so 
  cool that you do. But...I care, too. I wanna help. An' before you tell me--" 
  she ducks her head a little, apologetic for the tone she has taken, "--that 
  the best way I can help is to go away an' leave you be, will you think
  whether maybe I can't help more by lettin' him know he has friends, as
  well as allies?"

Morgan shakes her head. "This isn't the time for that, right now, Merria." The 
  theurge's words are soft and her tone hints at approval. "He has to be 
  physically whole again before he can be mentally whole." Her voice takes on 
  a harder edge as she continues. "He might not make it, even still, Merria."

Merria frowns, brows puckering together above her nose. "Physically whole? 
  Whatcha mean?"

Morgan swallows, and her demeanor gets clipped and short. "He needs time to 
  heal. Alone." Her eyes flash, as she crosses her arms. "I'm sorry. Come by 
  in a few days, if you like."

Merria says urgently, "He got hurt? When did he get hurt? I mean, if you want 
  me to go away I'll go away, but is he okay?"
Merria adds hurriedly, "I don't mean /okay/ okay, just is he hurt. you know."

Morgan replies cryptically, but perhaps typically for a theurge. "He was hurt 
  a long time ago, and those wounds are still festering. He's strong though. 
  He'll probably survive."

Merria relaxes some, though she's still frowning. "I'm gonna kill 'em," she 
  mutters, not particularly intending Morgan to hear. She sighs, and plunks 
  her backpack down on the concrete and starts rummaging through it. "I 
  brought him more chocolate," she says, pulling it out as she speaks. "Tell 
  him to /eat/ it this time, we can get more for a rainy day, an' besides, 
  this is as rainy as I hope he's gonna get for a bit." She hands it over, and 
  pulls out a big, flat book with a glossy cover. "An' a Calvin an' Hobbs 
  book. He won't have the patience t'actually look at it, you know, it's just 
  to make him snort." And she fetches one more thing out. It's a ball, 
  something larger than a softball, covered in blue foam. "An' this. It makes 
  a sound of breaking glass whernever it hits things. Tell him the lady who 
  sold it to me swore it was good for any temper, but tell him I was jokin', 
  too." She stands up again. "An' tell him I miss him, okay?"

Morgan takes the items one at a time, tucking the book under one arm. "I'll 
  tell him, sure. Though probably not as fast as you might." She turns for the 
  door, and turn turns back a moment. "Thanks," she murmurs, giving the Gnawer 
  a short nod.

Merria grins. "Thank /you/." She pivots and bounces off.

Morgan somehow negotiates the rusty door with both hands full, her eyes almost 
  immediately tracing for the Ronin, still wary of him, even if she appears 
  outwardly unafraid. She deposits the items on an empty crate near the door, 
  and then puts another bundle nearby -- clothes, shoes, some toiletries.

Salem stands at the far end of the warehouse, watching the Fury across the 
  distance, face narrow and unsmiling.

Morgan, despite the moon, puts on a friendly face for Salem. "Hey. You just a 
  had a visitor. And I brought you some things." She indicates the crate. "Did 
  someone bring you by some food?"

Salem folds his arms across his chest, scowling like the stubborn, iron-spined 
  bastard that he is. "A visitor?"

Morgan inhales a breath, not sure how much longer she's going to keep up the 
  honey and sweetness act, since piss and vinegar is more her style. "Merria. 
  Little Bone Gnawer no moon." She takes a few steps away from the door.

Salem grunts. "Oh. Her." He unfolds his arms and buries his hands into the 
  pockets of his coat.

Morgan reutns a slow nod to the Ronin. "Why don't you see if these things fit? 
  If they don't I'll have to let Pete dress you." She grins.

Salem snorts and prowls over toward the bundle Morgan's brought. "Oh, please," 
  he says, caustically. "I've heard _quite_ enough rumors about Bone Gnawer 
  depravities already."

"Hell," Morgan replies, watching the Ahroun stalk closer towards her, "I'm 
  surprised he didn't dumpster dive for your burgers yesterday." Her eyes 
  soften slightly toward Salem, but it could just be a trick of the shadow.

Salem grunts again and starts going through the bundle of clothes. "Thank Gaia 
  for small favors."

Morgan chuckles, softly. "No kidding," she agrees, nodding, her arms still 
  folded across her chest. "Davy, Arlen and I have drawn the line there. 
  Somethings should just stay among tribes."

Salem shrugs out of the leather duster and discards the rags that was once a 
  decent t-shirt and a good flannel shirt. He dresses in an efficient manner, 
  though he has a way of keeping the Fury from getting a long look at the 
  eerie handprint on his chest.

Morgan doesn't watch Salem dress, really, only occasionally throwing a glance 
  his direction, as she moves through the warehouse with her compact, graceful 
  stride. "Doesn't look too bad," she says. "Better than the doublet Chugs 
  had, anyway."

Salem stiffens for a moment, the rage snapping across his face before he 
  manages to get his expression back under control. He utters another snort 
  and bends down to tie his shoelaces.

Morgan crosses toward Salem; standing right next to him, actually. She touches 
  his arm slowly, and then gives a nod toward Merria's gifts. "Until Pete and 
  Jose can scrounge up something more entertaining, why don't you try and 
  relax?" She looks into his face, trying to gauge him. "To heal fully, you're 
  going to have to shed your defenses. Be strong enough to be vulnerable to 
  someone."

Salem jerks his arm away with a curt growl, face distorting into a tapestry of 
  rage and hate. "I'm not in the mood, Morgan," he says tightly, turning his 
  back to the Fury. His mood walks the razor-wire boundary near sudden frenzy. 
  "I am _not_ in the mood."

Morgan holds her hand away from the Ronin, suspended there. "Okay," she 
  concedes, softly. "I know it will take some time. You've spent a terribly 
  long time in pain, whether you want to admit it or not. Those callouses 
  aren't going to wash easily."

Salem folds his arms across his chest, his back still to her, tightness in his 
  shoulders and stance. "Feh."

Morgan doesn't push the Ronin -- not now, not during the full moon. She knows 
  the value of patience. "Okay," she says, again soothingly. "You're doing a 
  good job, you know -- keeping it together. I can only imagine what you must 
  have dealt with for the past several years."

"Two years." Salem continues to stand with his back to her, refusing to turn 
  and show his face. "And you have no fucking idea."

Morgan nods, though Salem can't see the gesture. "I know that," she says, 
  honestly. "I admire your will, Salem. If anything else it's what is going to 
  save you."

Salem snorts, bad-tempered still, but somewhat appeased by Morgan's 
  acknowledgement. His reply is an acidic, "Thank you."

Morgan inhales another breath, her arm, by now, resting at her side again. 
  "Not that I want to mother you, Salem, but..." her voice trails off. One 
  might imagine she's grinning faintly. "Arlen and I are going to be here 
  pretty early in the morning." She shrugs, as she comes into his field of 
  vision. "Just a reminder."

Salem turns, then, finally, his hawkish features composed into a sardonic 
  expression, upper lip lifted slightly and eyes narrowed. "Should I go to bed 
  then now, mother?" he asks, poisonously.

Morgan gives a chuckle, tense, but amused even if it under the full moon. 
  "You're a big boy," she says in reply. "Or, least you will be again, soon." 
  She starts to make a slow patrol around the perimeter of the warehouse.

Salem merely snorts in response to this, growling hatred burning from his 
  eyes. But he goes toward the spot where he's laid out the bedroll that's 
  been scrounged up for him, and lies down. Sleep, though, seems an 
  improbability at best.

Morgan finishes her mini-inspection of the warehouse, though what she's 
  looking for, or at remains unvoiced. "I'll send someone by with some food 
  later on." Just before she shuts the door, turn half-turns, giving the Ronin 
  a glance and then a quick flickering nod of approval.

Salem glares woodenly at the shadows wreathing the ceiling, and makes no reply.

Morgan goes home.
Morgan has left.