[3/24/98]
Currently the moon is in the waning Crescent Moon phase (21% full).
Harbor Park Fountain
The area where the fountain was, and presumably the new fountain will be, is
now totally enclosed by high plywood walls. There is a door in one of the
walls, firmly locked with a padlock. The walls enclose much of the flagstone
area, now, only leaving a little around the edges of the old courtyard. To
one side, some ground is being leveled for further improvements. Healthy
green hedges line one side of the courtyard, just behind some
graffiti-covered benches.
The murky waters of the Columbia River flow swiftly along the east side of the
park. Bracketing the park to the west is First Street. The park extends to
the south.
A young woman sits on a bench, watching the river rush past the piled
sandbags. She's been there for quite some time, visibly separate from the
very few other groups in the park after sunset.
Salem prowls into the park, hands in his pockets, his mood clearly solemn,
even sour. He's not simply by himself; there seems to be a distinct aura
that actively repells the majority of people.
The place has its usual forlorn look--the plywood of the construction, the
remnants of yellow police line tape and the piled sandbag dikes only adding
to the empty, haunted atmosphere. There are only a few people around, and
those few keep to the better-lit areas near the street.
Salem approaches the fountain and prowls in a circle around it, unsmiling. He
seems vaguely restless.
[Rina]
Dark-brown eyes, touched with hazel and amber, look out from a pixie-sharp
face. Rina's skin is fair, but not quite pale--a light Mediterranean olive
from generations of pure Italian ancestry. Black-dyed hair, showing hints of
dark brown at the roots, frames her features in a butch cut a la anime: long
enough to send spikes down into her eyes, tapering to jagged shortness at
sides and back. Her chin is delicately-boned, her mouth small, the line of
her jaw well-defined: a girl-next-door attractiveness, down to earth. She
can't be more than seventeen or eighteen, but a certain wry cynicism shows
in her expressions. Despite her petite, un-curvy build, she carries herself
with confidence and a kind of lean-muscled, athletic grace.
She wears a confusion of textures and patterns: tattered fishnet over grey
tights, a short flannel dress in a faded charcoal-colored floral, topped off
with a nylon cyberpunk-ish bomber in, of all things, aqua. Thrash boots
climb to her knees, fastened tight with a row of silver buckles down the
outside. At her throat, a silver chain is just barely visible, ducking
beneath her clothing to conceal a pendant.
Prompted by a shift in shadows, or maybe by the sounds of the man's footsteps,
the girl on the park bench hitches her shoulders uncomfortably and glances
over toward the fountain. She returns her gaze rather quickly to the river,
and shifts her posture to something a shade more protective. While her body
shields whatever lies before her, a movement of her hands around something
in her lap produces the telltale soft clicks of a spinning revolver cylinder.
Salem pauses at the sound, his head coming up as his attention turns toward
it, dark eyes narrowing slightly. The tall body becomes watchfully still.
A moment later, the cyclinder snaps into place. Given the sound, the half-seen
movements are easy to interpret; the girl slips the firearm back home
beneath one arm. She settles again, leaning forward a little, elbows resting
on her knees; her head is bowed, her shoulders heavy and tense. A little
more tense, now--perhaps with the subtle prickling of the watched.
Currently on this windy and cold spring evening in the general St. Claire
area, it is 45 degrees Fahrenheit (7.2 degrees Celsius). The wind is coming
from the west-northwest at 27.7 mph. The ground is normal. Skies are clear
with no chance of precipitation.
Obscured by the darkness, Salem's face twists slightly into an expression of
disgust and contempt. He mutters something under his breath in Serbian and
half-turns away, fishing inside his coat.
Released, at least for the moment, from the stranger's scrutiny, the girl gets
up and walks southward a few steps along the bank of the river. A subtle
anger, or at least violence, underlies her movements as she leans down,
picks up a fragment of concrete, throw it hard out into the river. It lands
with a plunk, barely audible above the water's rushing sound.
Salem keeps an eye on the woman as he pulls out a battered pack of cigarettes
and shakes out out, setting it between his lips. He replaces the pack and
lights up with smooth, unthinkingly practiced motions and exhales a cloud of
grayish smoke.
With the same tense, angry movements, the girl throws another rock into the
river. It's almost as if she's aiming the attack at someone in particular.
Salem stows the lighter away in his coat and straightens up to watch the young
woman more openly now, the end of his cigarette making an orange ember glow
in the evening dark.
With a whispered curse, the young woman kicks at a sandbag and then rakes both
hands back through her hair, a quick and angry movement. Then she turns and
stalks southward further, toward the shadows and fencing beneath the bridge.
Salem tracks her movement with his eyes. The grimace has faded, but behind the
stony facade lurks a vaguely feral undertone. Predatorial.
Rina slips into the darkest area to climb the wire-topped fence around the
underpinnings of the massive bridge. Her movements have the ease of long
practice at this particular trespass: strip off the jacket, hang it on one
arm, take the first two steps up before throwing the bomber over the baling
wire atop the fence. Then up and over, landing on the opposite side with the
smoothness of an athlete, slipping the jacket on quickly to hide the
shoulder holster again.
Salem takes another long drag on the cigarette, watching this procedure. Then,
curiosity perked perhaps, he drops it on the ground, crushing it underfoot
as he moves with arrogant, fearless confidence toward the shadows and the
fence.
The girl is already climbing up the service ladder when he reaches the fence.
All her attention is focused on her task.
It's simple enough, apparently, for Salem to copy the girl's actions, having
both seen it done and clearly possessed of no small athletic ability. He
doesn't even bother to be stealthy -- more arrogance, that.
Rina's about five feet off the ground when she hears the rattling of the
fence. She freezes for a moment, then searches him out--eyes narrowed, her
expression uncommunicative, the delicate features drawn into a tight mask.
One hand reaches, surreptitiously, for the revolver and its security, as she
watches him.
Salem pauses as he reaches the top, the long leather coat draped over the
barbed wire. "I'd advise you not to touch that gun," he says, glancing up at
her. "It would make me very upset. And I'm not a nice person when I'm upset."
The girl's throat tenses in a swallow. Expressionless, she draws her hand from
her jacket, empty, and holds it some distance from her side. "You a cop?"
Her voice is hoarse, her gaze narrowed to hide whatever truths might be
gleaned from her eyes.
"No." With a smooth, graceful motion, he's over the fence, retriving the
battered black coat and shrugging into it with a casual gesture. "Are you?"
Rina takes a shallow breath, her jaw tightening a little as she shakes her
head mutely.
Salem smiles thinly, humorlessly, watching her with hands folded into the
pockets of his coat. "I didn't think so." His words are touched with a very
faint accent, probably European.
Rina's expression tightens. "Then leave me the fuck alone," she says tersely.
The sudden breaking in her eyes is barely visible as she looks away--up, to
the ladder above her, as she resumes her climb.
Salem's eyes narrow sharply, the smile fading as he tilts his head back to
watch her. "What the hell do you think you're doing anyway, you idiotic
little cunt?"
"What's it look like?" Her voice is tight, touched with hoarseness--and she
doesn't quite manage to keep it free of an answering snap.
Another rung, and another. She's not a tall person, and ends up having to
reach a bit to ascend the rather wide-stepped ladder.
"Something foolish," Salem retorts. He snorts, then shakes his head and
glances at his watch. "Fuck. I don't have time for this." Turning to walk
away, he says in parting, "If you die, nobody will mourn."
"I know." The answer is quieter, and not really addressed to him.
[Scene shift]
The High Note(#4043RJMh)
Polished brass rails, an abundance of ferns, and a quiet opulence of dark,
oil-rubbed wood and leather are the hallmark of this establishment, quite
possibly the ritziest jazz, rhythm and blues club in St. Claire.
A serene, smoky haze permeates the air even at midday. It drifts above the
quiet sussuration of talking patrons who are seated at the long bar and at
various bar-height tables scattered around the small dance floor.
Ankle-height kick-rails of polished brass surround the bases of the stools
here and run along the base of the bar. The tables have the lustre of
constant polish, and everything is in good repair. The staff are all
elegantly attired. Casual wear is acceptable here, but after seven o'clock,
it is hardly the norm.
At the west end of the room, a series of risers culminate in a stage large
enough for a seven-piece band. The stage is slightly more brightly lit than
the rest of the dim club.
( +view works here. )
Contents:
Bailey
Rik
Jayson
Nigel
JJ Malone(#3575PJQcq)
Obvious exits:
Street
JJ Malone nods to Rik curtly, then mutters, "I hate this place sometimes,
nothing to *work* with here--" he cuts himself off, then downs what's left
of his drink without looking at any of the four cliaths, fingers wrapped
around the glass white-knuckled.
Salem enters the High Note with a brisk step and an undercurrent of repressed,
sour anger, his mood almost as black as his hair. He glances at his watch,
then pauses to scan the room.
Rik exhales, slow and long. "Yeah. Welcome to the big time."
Nigel glances over at the door and instinctively slides his chair back
slightly as he tenses. "Err...were we expecting anyone else?"
Bailey nods again, and looks to Jayson. "Oh, yeah. Elan told me to tell you
he's able to teach you."
JJ Malone gives Rik a sour look, then notices Salem's arrival. He simply looks
over at the dark-haired man for a bit until his gaze meets, makes a brief,
barely noticable beckoning gesture, then turns back to Rik. "You know I'm
not cut out for this shit."
Jayson glances over at the new arrival, then down to his feet. "I see you
didn't budget all that well."
Rik shakes his head to JJ. "Like anybody here is? I tried it once, just about
killed off the crew."
Salem nods back as his eyes briefly meet JJ's, and he heads toward the
gathering. The anger gets pushed down another notch, but remains, visible in
every nuance of body language. "Sorry I'm late," he says to Malone as he
comes within earshot. "Took me a moment to find the place."
Bailey looks over at the sound of the voice, face suddenly becoming
unreadable. He regards Salem for a moment, then turns back to the Fostern,
curious.
JJ Malone snorts decisively at Rik, then eyes Salem. "We pride ourselves on
punctuality," he says simply. If he hears Jayson's remark, he doesn't
comment on it either. "Gentlemen, Jack Salem. He's petitioned to be adopted
into the family. He's currently in the process of trying to find a task to
prove he's cut out for life among us. But as we are a family," he says with
a faint underscore of grudging bitterness, "I asked him here tonight so all
of you would know and with the hop that you might make yourself available to
him to help where you can."
Bailey sits, frozen solid, for a moment before nodding slowly. "Sure thing."
Salem accepts the rebuke with a formal, slight dip of his eyes and then takes
a seat. He leans back slightly, folding his arms across his chest and
glancing from one Walker to the next, his features carefully sketched into a
respectfully neutral facade.
Nigel gives Salem a thoughtful nod.
Nigel is a sandy-haired man in his early thirties with a gold-rimmed pair of
spectacles and a scrawny build. His exposed skin is brown from a great deal
of time spent outside, and his calloused hands and dirty nails would seem to
indicate a person who earns his living through physical labor, but while
some blue collar workers have cel phones and pagers on their belts, not so
many have an emerald ring on their finger and a $2000 watch that measures
barometric pressure. His usual expression can be described charitably as
pensive, or (less kindly) as befuddled. Judging from his clothes, Nigel
dresses in the dark. He wears a canary-yellow pullover on top of a
lime-green t-shirt (with the words 'Suicide Squid' visible above his
neckline), maroon jeans with frayed cuffs and patches on both knees, and
thick Polarwear socks (one blue, one green) under a battered old pair of
Reeboks which were white sometime in the past.
[Rik]
Six foot two, eyes of blue. Short dark hair, and chiseled features,
contrasting with his dirty boots, jeans and flannel shirt. He is very
attractive, in a brutal way. The way you wish evil was attractive, so you
could recognise it and avoid it. He radiates bad vibes, and this makes
people who are 'easily upset' feel uncomfortable standing next to him. That
and the fact that he has the nasty habit of ripping off the heads of people
standing next to him. You can see a shoulder holster leering out from under
a wool jacket.
Carrying:
Blade
[Bailey]
Well, it looks like someone had a little spree through an American Eagle
clothing store. This man, who looks to be in his late teens, stands a couple
of inches over five-and-a-half feet, lean build and fine facial features
making him look to be almost feminine from certain angles. His face is
clean-shaven, eyes the dark-blue of winter storms, and a smile curves up the
edges of his mouth. His light-brown hair is cut neatly, hanging to just
above his ears, except for a single long lock, too pure-white to ever be
considered dyed, which falls over his right eye. His clothes are
freshly-cleaned and pressed, a light-blue denim buttown-down shirt hangs
unfastened over a black T-shirt, which is tucked into a pair of blue-jeans,
fastened with a corded leather belt. His sneakers are white Reeboks, and
show signs of wear. Over his right shoulder is a forest-green backpack,
which seems to bulge slightly with the stuff held inside. He doesn't wear
any jewelry except for a leather-banded watch and a small gold hoop in his
right ear.
Jayson smiles at Salem. "I'm available whenever you need. Just give me a ring."
Bailey turns to Salem, anything to break the silence. "So, what Moon?"
Salem gives Jayson a slight smile, the expression twitching at the corners of
his mouth. "Thank you." His eyes then flick toward Bailey, giving him a
slightly more measuring look, though it seems -- to the perceptive -- that
he's taking pains to curb his more aggressively arrogant tendencies. "Full."
Bailey nods quietly, trying to shake off the nerves he now has. "Welcome
aboard."
"Since there's nothing else," J.J. breaks in jarringly. "I call this meeting
adjourned. Bailey, please ask Mark the best way to contact him directly, and
leave me voice mail if you see him. Jayson, we'll speak later about your
project. Nigel, we'll do lunch or some such foofra to talk about your
chiminage. Rik, I expect you to help out and not need dragged in like a
recalcitrant kid. Bad enough to have cubs."
Without great enthusiasm, Rik says "Yessir."
JJ Malone adds finally to Salem, "And Jack, one month."
Salem's gaze flicks toward Malone. He nods once. "Understood."
Jayson stands up and pulls his wallet out, prodiucing a small white card,
which he slides over to Nigel. "Hey, when you get a chance give me a call. I
have some business I'd like to discuss with you at some time."
Bailey nods. "Done."
Nigel smiles as he takes Jaysons's card. "Will do. And that reminds me..." he
reaches into his jacket pocket and takes out a handful of bunsiness cards,
which he passes around to everyone (including Salem). "This has my e-mail,
my pager number, all the fun stuff, should anyone need me to come look at a
plant or ask a spirit something, or whatever."
JJ Malone takes Nigel's business card carelessly, then slides out of his seat.
He cuffs Salem lightly on the shoulder. "You can start by giving me a hand
tonight."
Bailey looks over the card, and smiles, nodding, placing it in his wallet.
Jayson slips the card into his wallet with a nod, then moves his attention to
Bailey. "I'd like to sit down with you , sometime in the near future, too.
Some tribal stuff to discuss."
Nigel drops money for a tip on the table, nods once more to everyone, and
heads out the door.
Bailey nods to Jayson. "I'm at Silverton. apartment 101. Feel free to stop by."
Nigel walks out the door, the grinning doorman nodding suavely as he holds the
door for him.
Nigel has left.
Salem accepts Nigel's proffered card, glancing at it. JJ's cuff provokes a
sharp stiffening movement from the Ronin, quickly and forcibly squelched. He
nods and pushes to his feet, slipping the business card inside his coat.
"I'm at your disposal."
Jayson nods. "I'll look you up." He nods to the others collected. "Evening,
folks", then heads out the door.
JJ Malone gives a cursory motion, pulling on his coat. "Evening to you all,"
he says with a modicum of civility. "Rik...later," he finally adds after a
pause, then heads for the door.
Jayson walks out the door, the grinning doorman nodding suavely as he holds
the door for him.
Jayson has left.
Salem falls into step with JJ Malone, following the Walker elder like a
Doberman in grim human guise.
Bailey nods to the table. "See all of you around. Evening," he says, and heads
for the door.
[Salem spends the rest of the evening patrolling a crescent-moon umbra
with JJ.]
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