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.
Contents:
Morgan
Currently the moon is in the waning Half Moon phase (58% full).
Currently on this gusty and cold winter twilight in the general St. Claire
area, it is 31 degrees Fahrenheit (-0.6 degrees Celsius). The wind is coming
from the west-southwest at 12.6 mph. The ground is normal. Skies are clear
with a possible chance of precipitation.
It is currently 18:32 Pacific Time on Tue Feb 17 1998.
Salem sits crosslegged on the bedroll; for lack of anything better to do with
his time, he's fallen to paging boredly through the Calvin and Hobbes book
that Merria brought a few moon phases ago. Since the Cleansing... well, the
change, if there is one, is subtle at best. The Rage is still there, and
with it the faint stink of Wyrm. His greater apparent control is minimal,
and could simply be the waning moon. His attitude hasn't improved all that
much, either, and the past few days, he's been extremely taciturn.
But he's been sleeping better, that at least is a definite change.
Morgan slips into the side door, her face almost glowing radiantly. She's
actually smiling, and looks quite happy. "Hey," she says, softly. "How are
you?" She tosses a bag towards the Ronin. "Here's some lasagna that I made.
Hope you like it."
Salem is on his feet almost before the door closes behind Morgan, the
funnybook discarded. His eyes narrow slightly as he notes the Fury's mood.
"How am I?" he echoes, sourly. "Getting fucking claustrophobic." He catches
the bag easily and sits down again to open it. "Are you pregnant?"
Morgan actually laughs, her cheeks blushing prettily. "No," she says, with a
smile. "What a silly question." She starts to laugh softly again.
Salem peers at Morgan for nearly half a minute before letting out a derisive
snort and opening the container of leftover lasagna. "You're turning into
Merria."
Morgan chuckles, shaking her head. "No, I'm not," she says. "*I'm* not
useless. And I'm usually not perky." She snorts. "I'm being perky, aren't
I?" Her head shakes, but it makes her chuckles softly. "Fucking weak of me."
"You're being damned perky," says the Ronin between bites. His tone is still
sour and unfriendly.
Morgan's expression evens quite quickly. "I'll work on it," she says, suddenly
all business. "So. It's half moon now."
Salem grunts, still eating. "So it is."
"Time to start, then." The Fury inhales a breath and cracks her knuckles, all
vestiges of the happiness she showed earlier gone, as her concentration goes
to Salem. "Hope you're willing to change."
Salem's expression sours further, if possible. He sets the container aside
with its last couple bites of lasagna and stands up, folding his arms across
his chest as he turns to face Morgan. "Where do you plan to start?" he asks,
blandly.
Morgan gives a small swallow. "Your not willing to trust anyone; or you
haven't been. That needs to change, if you ever want to call yourself a
member of a tribe."
Salem grunts. Grudgingly -- perhaps only because he feels it is required of
him -- he admits, "A Shadow Lord Sept is not the place for teaching trust,
no."
Morgan shakes her head, lifting her chin slightly. "No, perhaps it isn't," she
says. "But do you ever think that you can rejoin your original tribe? Me? I
sense your potential. I'd rather not squander the progress that's been made
so far."
Salem fixes his gaze on a point on the wall just past Morgan's ear; his
expression remains stubborn and unsmiling. Grim, even. "What do you have in
mind?"
Morgan gives a wry sort of smile. "I want to be your friend. What do you think
of that?"
Salem's lips twist into a humorless, sardonic half-grin. "You _are_ turning
into Merria."
Morgan snorts again softly. "And I want you to spar with me. Think you can
handle it now, with the slimmer moon?"
Salem shrugs and unfolds his arms. "I think so." The sardonic expression has
faded slightly, though a wary tension still invades his body language.
"Human form?"
Morgan smirks again. "All forms," she says. "Crinos during the new moon." Her
eyebrows raise in a small gesture of challenge. "Think you can beat me?"
For answer, Salem shrugs out of the long leather coat he wears and moves a
step away from the bedroll, stance slipping into battle-readiness with the
ease of pulling on a pair of much-worn jeans.
Morgan grins at Salem. "Going to fight me now?" she asks, shrugging out of her
coat. "OK," she nods, stepping closer, and then gesturing with both hands,
as she too drops into a graceful, but wary stance. "Come and get me."
Salem circles the Fury with a mixture of arrogant self-confidence and wary
caution, and then moves without warning, making a feint toward her torso
while his true blow strikes with merciless swiftness toward her face.
Morgan moves for the feint, but then she catches herself in time to duck away
from the blow, as it catches her shoulder. She is pushed backwards by the
hit. She takes a quick step back, her hand going to rub the place where
surely a bruise has formed. "Pretty good," she concedes. Then with
surprising speed, she darts in and aims a quick punch for Salem's kidney.
Salem is ready for her; his dark eyes gleam slightly, becoming predatory.
Morgan's fist smacks into his hand as he blocks the blow, and without
hesitation, the Ronin shifts his stance and aims a savage kick at her knee;
the speed of it is supernatural, clearly fueled by the Ahroun's Rage.
Morgan expected such a gesture, but she didn't expect Salem to use his
supernatural speed against her. The heavy boot catches Morgan's knee full
on, before she can even move it. With a sickly crunch, her leg buckles at an
unnatural angle, and she falls on the ground grimacing. "Fuck," she shouts.
Salem steps back, out of range of the fallen Fury, retaining the wary
fighter's stance. His eyes have gone cold, watching her in expectation of a
retalitory attack. Under his flesh, the Rage dances, teeth gleaming.
Morgan's not getting up until she shifts into a healing form. "It's broken,"
she says, sounding calm. "Caught me with my pants down. Good job. Good
fight," she heaves, still grimacing.
"I used to pack under Wolverine," Salem says, almost blandly.
Morgan snorts, still grimacing, but she manages a pained laugh. "Yeah, that
explains it." Her hand still holds her broken knee as she's curled on the
dirty floor in a fetal position. "I'm going to glabro. Don't freak out."
Salem mutters, "Noted." A touch of dry, brittle humor sparks in his eyes,
vying for position with the rage.
Morgan grunts, giving a quick snarl as the pain of her bone aligning and then
knitting itself back together hits her brain. She lays on the floor for
maybe 30 seconds, perhaps less. With a deep breath in her near-man lungs,
she suddenly springs to her feet, and then lets the extra bulk melt from her
form.
Salem tenses visibly at the quick movement, dropping slightly into a crouch
with a half-suppressed growl.
[FTB for general violence and sparring.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
