Riding the Moon

[hazlogs]

[2/14/98]

Currently the moon is in the waning Full Moon phase (81% full).
Currently on this calm and cold winter morning in the general St. Claire area, 
  it is 29 degrees Fahrenheit (-1.7 degrees Celsius). The wind is coming from 
  the west-northwest at 3 mph. The ground is normal. Skies are hazy with a 
  possible chance of precipitation.

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.

Morgan wanders into the abandoned warehouse, carrying a sack of donuts from 
  Andy's. She's looking fairly at ease this morning, even if the chill still 
  lingers in the air outside. "Hey, Mr. Sunshine. I brought you some donuts."

Salem is awake, unsurprisingly; the Ronin has gotten very little sleep during 
  the past week, and has exploded into senseless frenzies at least twice. Make 
  that three times, since there's new devestation to be seen, including some 
  nasty claw-marks in the walls.
Salem sits crosslegged on the bedroll, rubbing at his eyes. At the Fury's 
  entrance, he jerks his head up with a distinctly lupine-sounding growl and 
  fixes her with a bloodshot gaze.

Morgan makes her way toward the Ronin, holding the bag like a talisman. "Here, 
  something bad for your breakfast. I thought maybe you'd decided to remodel 
  because Chugs brought you some leftovers. I mean... I tried to tell him what 
  was what, but he's set in his ways..."

Salem spits out a harsh word in Serbian and pushes to his feet with one sharp, 
  swift motion, batting away the donut bag in the manner of an irritated 
  tiger. "I'm not hungry," he says, stalking away on bare feet and pulling the 
  duster around him.

The flimsy waxed bag tears slightly. The Fury simply shrugs easily, a studied 
  contrast in emotion to the rageful tribeless ahroun. She unrolls the bag 
  neatly and sets them on one of the still as yet unbroken crates. Extracting 
  a glazed donut for herself, she comments simply, "I'll just leave them for 
  later." She takes a bite from the donut. "Full moon's almost over, you know."

Salem stops his pacing and turns toward her, folding his arms across his 
  chest; the Rage shimmers from him like a physical thing, and a small muscle 
  near his left eye twitches every so often. "Yes?" he snaps. "And?"

Morgan's eyes narrow. "That's when I break you," she says, calmly and evenly. 
  "I've let you sit here and stew during the last week because I knew it would 
  be too much. But if you think the last weeks been hard, then you haven't 
  seen shit yet."

Salem's upper lip curls up -- half sneer, half snarl. "Really? Going to break 
  out the silver and acid? Skin me alive, perhaps? Crucifixion, maybe?" That 
  muscle near his eye twitches again as his face distorts further into 
  hatefulness. "I know," he says, tones clipped. "You're going to split me 
  open to see if a Shadow Lord really does have a heart."

Morgan's eyes blaze a brilliant blue for a moment, and then she lifts her 
  chin, defiantly. "Maybe you're not worth it after all," she judges. "I guess 
  I was wrong about you." She shakes her head, disappointed. "Makes me sad, 
  Salem. It'll be a waste to kill you."

"God /dammit/!" Salem's fist slams into a nearby oil drum, causing a dull 
  'gong' that briefly echoes in the warehouse. "What the fuck do you expect 
  from me, you sanctimonious bitch?!" Just that quickly, he's on the edge of 
  frenzy, rage and control fighting each other and leaving no room for 
  nicities or diplomacy. "/Almost/ no longer full is /fucking/ /still/ 
  /fucking/ /full/." Which each of these last four words he slams his fist 
  into the drum again.

Morgan folds her arms, still maintaining her outward facade of calm. She 
  watches the Ronin for several minutes. "Are you finished now?"

Salem closes his eyes after the outburst, breathing hard. After a moment, he 
  spits out a curse in Serbian and sits down abruptly on the warehouse floor, 
  crosslegged.

Morgan waits a little more, before she starts to talk. Her voice is strong, 
  fearless, but understated. "What I want is to make you worthy of calling 
  yourself a Garou again." She zeroes in on his eyes, and his face, trying to 
  read something from his expression. "And you know what? The biggest barrier 
  is you. Stew on that some."

Salem rubs at his forehead like a man with a pounding headache. He grunts, 
  acknowledging Morgan's words.

"Okay, Bunky." The theurge gives a quick look towards the donuts. "That's 
  enough fun for today, I think. As you eloquently observed, almost no longer 
  full is still full." She takes some steps towards the door. "Someone'll be 
  around later with lunch."

Salem grits his teeth at the nickname, but says nothing.

Morgan goes home.
Morgan has left.