Chatting with Murphy

[hazlogs]

Currently on this breezy and hot spring twilight in the general St. Claire 
  area, it is 76 degrees Fahrenheit (24.4 degrees Celsius). The wind is coming 
  from the west at 6.35 mph. The ground is normal. Skies are overcast with a 
  possible chance of precipitation.
Currently the moon is in the waxing Half Moon phase (53% full).
You walk through the arch into the cafe.

Dark Wine and Roses - Cafe(#2116RJM)
This room is bright and airy. The walls are still a cheerful white, and the 
  floors, moldings, and beams are identical to the ones in the bookshop. An 
  oak-and-marble counter is set close to one wall, and a bar can be seen 
  behind it. A swinging door next to the bar leads into the kitchen, which can 
  be glimpsed when the door is opened. In addition to the lights hanging from 
  the ceiling, several fans are also visible. Large windows open onto the 
  patio outside. Tables and booths of various sizes are scattered around the 
  room. 
A glass door on the west wall leads out onto the patio, while the archway to 
  the east leads into the bookshop proper. The door to the kitchen is behind 
  the counter to the north.
Contents:
Lisa
Obvious exits:
PaTio  Bookshop  

Lisa knocks back her iced caffe latte, a copy of Andrew Vachs "Born Bad" held 
  in one hand.
Salem steps into the cafe, a bad dream given form, at least to most of the 
  mortals present. His eyes sweep the area, pausing on Lisa before he moves 
  toward an empty table, leaving a wake of nervous glances. The Ahroun sits 
  facing the door.
Murphy walks in from the bookshop.
Murphy has arrived.
John Murphy is one of those people who appear to be almost always smiling. It 
  is a smile of someone with a secret. Or a joke just remembered. But the 
  other thing it says is that it is not going to reveal anything anytime soon. 
  He looks scruffy, but his clothes are new and well taken care of. Must be 
  the fact that he looks like he has been living in them for the last few 
  days. Somewhere nearby is a black leather jacket, although you are not sure 
  if it is the one he was wearing last time you saw him. He wears black shorts 
  when it is hot and black jeans when it is not. He almost always has on a 
  style of motorcycle boots. Then there are the tattoos, Pacific Islander 
  tribal designs that cover his arms like tiger stripes. John favors vintage 
  bowling shirts with the sleeves rolled up to show off his skin art. He has 
  short, spiked, dark brown hair and a soul-style goatee. He stands 6 feet 
  tall and weighs around 180. He has a lean and lithe physique, like a dancer 
  or gymnast. Age appears to be early twenties. He is handsome, you have to 
  give him that much. And his eyes look like they are laughing. Must be the 
  joke he won't tell.
Salem(#2653Pce)
        Tall and dark, he stands a few inches over six feet, a striking and 
  rather dangerous-looking man in his mid-twenties. Black hair, not quite 
  shoulder length, frames hawkish features and a high forehead, the dark eyes 
  deep-set. It's a face tailor-made for brooding and cynicism, and he excels 
  at both moods. He's handsome, albeit in a devilish, saturnine kind of way, 
  but rarely does he seem truly relaxed, and often a sharp and tense hatred 
  seems to rage just beneath the surface of his flesh, a murderous anger held 
  in check by a tight and uncertain control. A black goatee lines his lips and 
  jaw, and a thick scar runs down the left side of his face, just missing the 
  eye. In short, he has the look of the very devil about him, a Lucifer fallen 
  from grace, bitter about his fate and prone to dark moods and unprovoked 
  violence.
        The tails of his duster nearly sweep the ground when he walks, and the 
  sturdy black leather of the garment shows signs of wear; it's clearly seen 
  better months. A pair of black jeans cover his legs and lower torso. He also 
  wears a plain black t-shirt, tucked in, and black sneakers.  <<+details>>
Lisa glances up from her table and waves to Salem, half a smile on her face. 
  Her expressions clamp down like a bulkhead hatch as the stranger enters the 
  room.
Murphy stops in the entrance way and gives the room a once over.
Salem settles back in his chair, returning Lisa's wave with an unthreatening 
  nod. His gaze moves toward the door and settles, with recognition, on Murphy.
Lisa drops back into her book and iced cafe latte, wiping some foam from her 
  lips.
Murphy notes the brief, subtle exchange between Lisa and Salem. He nods as 
  well to Salem and walks over to his table. He takes a seat with his back to 
  the wall. "Mr. Salem, thank you for agreeing to meet with me."
"Not at all," replies Salem, his voice velvet over the shards of broken glass 
  that is the rage simmering underneath. "No need for the 'mister,' by the 
  way. Just 'Salem' is fine."
"Salem, it is then. I prefer John, myself." He glances around at the cafe in 
  puzzlement. "This place allow smoking?"
"It does in this section." Salem demonstrates by fishing out his cigarettes 
  and tapping one out. He seems confident that none of the staff will have the 
  nerve to upbraid him about it.
The smoking seems to go unnoticed by Lisa, but she does slurp her latte with 
  just a touch more noise than usual.
Murphy follows Salem's lead and pulls out his own pack. He lights one up with 
  a zippo he pulls out of a jacket pocket. He looks around again and mumbles 
  "Is there a waitress?" before returning his attention to the Ronin.
Salem lights up and inhales deeply, pulling smoke into his lungs with the ease 
  of dirty habit. "Yes, and we might even get one." The Ronin's tone shifts 
  toward the sardonic.
Murphy says "It can wait." He pauses a few moments to draw off his own smoke, 
  before leaning in a little to address Salem. His voice is pitched low so it 
  will not carry past this table. "Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?"
Salem keeps an eye out for any wait staffer who might have the courage to come 
  near. His own voice slips downwards in volume to match Murphy's. "Go right 
  ahead."
Murphy pauses a moment to collect his thoughts. "I'll skip past the obvious 
  ones, the personal ones. Those you can tell me if you ever feel like I need 
  to know. No, what I want to know is pretty simple, why /do/ you want to be a 
  Walker?"
Lisa bites down hard on a biscotti, the pastry crunching between her teeth 
  like gravel in a chipper shreader. She washes it down with another slurp of 
  iced cafe latte and turns the page on her book.
Salem takes another slow drag on his cigarette as he ponders this question. 
  "I've grown used to the city," he answers at last. "More than used. And I've 
  been suitably impressed by the Walkers I _have_ met here."
Murphy nods as he considers this answer. He flicks some ash off the end of his 
  cigarette. "Interesting. So what do you know about 'us' as a tribe?"
Salem smiles thinly. Though both have kept their voices low, the Ronin turns 
  somewhat reticent. "I'd be happy to go on at length about that," he says 
  quietly, "but not here. Too public."
Murphy nods. "You know this city, lead on if you have somewhere specific in 
  mind."
"My apartment," says Salem. "Not perfect, but better than here."
"Okay, lead me to it." Murphy taps out his cigarette and gathers himself to 
  follow Salem.
Salem stands. Without a second look at Lisa, the dark man strides out.
You walk through the arch into the bookshop portion of the store.

Salem's Apartment(#3489RJ)
This tiny, rathole little apartment, though adequate as shelter, leaves a lot 
  to be desired. The wooden floorboards are unevenly dark underfoot, and 
  there's a suspicious-looking stain along the floorboards near the narrow, 
  cramped kitchen. The front room is gapingly bare, with nothing to hide the 
  ugly yellow-and-white wallpaper, and the small bedroom is empty but for a 
  military-style cot and a squat wooden dresser that looks as though a dozen 
  bored juvenile delinquents hacked at it with knives. The less said about the 
  bathroom, the better. The bedroom walls show damage in two places, as though 
  someone or something had been wrecking havoc with really large knives or 
  claws. The marks just above the cot are bad enough, but the damage is worse 
  in one corner, where both lower wall and floor are scraped and wounded.
Muffled noises from neighboring apartments can be heard through the walls, and 
  the grimy windows give a limited view of disreputable street outside. 
  There's a phone in the kitchen, but no sign of television, radio, or other 
  such staple of modern entertainment. Nearly all of the electrical outlets go 
  unused, and the ancient-looking refrigerator is usually near-empty.
Obvious exits:
Out  

Salem unlocks the door and opens it, ushering Murphy inside. "Bit of a hole," 
  he says, almost blandly. "But better than the alley."
Murphy looks around the room for a place to sit, or at least stand against. 
  "I've seen worse." is his only assessment.
Salem smiles crookedly and moves toward the kitchen. "To answer your question, 
  I know that the Glass Walkers are guardians of the city and generally 
  believe that the Weaver is a valid force against the Wyrm." There's a sound 
  of an opening refrigerator. "Like a drink?"
Murphy chooses to squat down, resting on his haunches. "Sure, I'll have one." 
  He waits for Salem to come back out of the kitchen. "Okay, you know the book 
  learning answer, but what does that mean to you?"
Salem emerges from the kitchen with two bottles of beer, one of which he hands 
  to the Glass Walker. His face tightens almost imperceptibly, but his voice 
  remains even, his manner polite. "That, I am still discovering." He settles 
  back against a wall and opens his beer.
"Thanks." Murphy takes a sip of beer and then sets the bottle down next to 
  him. "Listen, get past all the titles and honorifics and formalities. I know 
  you know Malone, so I am sure that you are getting an excellent education. 
  But I want to know what it all means to /you/. Then maybe I can try to 
  explain what it means to /me/. Maybe we learn something, maybe not." His 
  voice is encouraging but not patronizing.
Salem lifts an eyebrow, and then shrugs eloquently. His eyes settle on Murphy 
  and stay there, with the weight of Gaia's simmering anger and centuries of 
  breeding behind it. "I used to be a Shadow Lord," he says. "What does that 
  tell you?"
Murphy lets out a low whistle and a little smile crosses his face. His 
  expression says appreciation, not mocking. There is a flash of light in his 
  eyes. He never breaks the gaze, but he does reach down and pick up his beer 
  and take a slow swallow off it. "Well, do you still want me to try and 
  explain what it means to me?"
Salem smiles, cool but friendly, and takes a pull from his beer. "Please do," 
  he invites.
Murphy fishes out his cigarettes and eases down against the wall. He looks 
  around for something to ash in and pulls it over within reach. "Okay, first 
  things first. In order for this to be understandable, you need to know that 
  I play games with words and secrets. Just like any other Walker. But not 
  like the Lords do. I don't do it for me. I do it for us. I'll tell you 
  straight up, though I'm talking like this with you cause of what you are and 
  what I think you can be. I have my own motives, just so we understand each 
  other."
Salem shifts his weight, crossing one ankle over the other as he leans against 
  the wall, saturnine features sharp with interest. "Go on."
Murphy nods, and lights his smoke. "Having you as a Walker makes us all 
  stronger. Having you as a friend or ally, take your pick, makes me feel 
  safer." He flicks some of the ash of the end of his cigarette. "Now as I see 
  it, Lords play their secret games to ensure their own position and station. 
  And knowledge is power. That is why we crave it too. But we do it for the 
  good of Gaia. Now, of all the tribes, who deals with the humans better than 
  we do? No one. Why? Cause we deal with them where it counts. We play in 
  their games of money and power."
Salem nods. The subtle, unending tension in his manner uncoils slightly, 
  though not entirely. Not with the moon at waxing half. "Adaptation, yes."
"Adaption, that's part of it." He eases further down against the wall into a 
  slouch. "Now, the humans are somewhat like we are, they have a hierarchy of 
  sorts. Not as civilized as ours, but there. So we learn how to play their 
  games by their rules so we can manuever into a position where we get to make 
  the rules. The challenge is to play their games well."
"And how well do you play it?" Salem inquires, after taking another draught of 
  beer.
Murphy laughs. "I play it very well." There is a little light dancing in his 
  eyes. Then his levity eases down a bit. "Humans are simple animals. They 
  want to be happy more than anything. So, you learn how to make them happy. 
  With, Malone, with you, with the other Walkers I take care of business. But 
  with others, I play with them, to some degree or another. I learn what game 
  they like to play, and I play it with them."
Salem finishes off his beer and sits down on the floor, back against the wall, 
  legs folded tailor-style. "I have difficulties with humans," the Ahroun 
  admits smoothly, setting the empty bottle down ont he floor near him. "I 
  tend not to make them very happy." Clearly an understatement, that.
Murphy takes another sip off his beer. "Yeah, I noticed that. But you have 
  talent, you just need to find the right game." He flicks his cigarette 
  again. "For example, you ever hear of the protection racket?"
Salem lifts a single eyebrow. "Bodyguard?"
Murphy chuckles and mumbles under his breath, "Oh, Grampa, what you could have 
  done with him." He looks back at the Ronin. "Wrong kind of protection, 
  although I imagine you would be good at that kind. No, protection rackets 
  are a particularly devious game invented by humans. Let's say that I am you 
  and you are a lowly shopkeeper. What would you do if I came into your store 
  and told you I was going to protect your store from harm for a piece of your 
  profits?"
Salem is a finely-honed killing machine, but he isn't stupid. A low chuckle 
  escapes him. "I think I see where this is going." His tone turns sardonic. 
  "Naturally, being an optimistic and rather foolish lowly shopkeeper, I 
  refuse your offer."
"And naturally, as you have already surmised, the protection you are being 
  offered is from me. If necessary, I make a demonstration of why this is 
  valuable. It is a demonstration I do not have to repeat often." Murphy 
  smiles and sips from his beer. "You are, and I say this with all sincerity 
  and respect, one of the toughest, meanest individuals I have ever come 
  across. I recognize that the difficulty of your condition. But there is 
  opportunity as well. Intimdation without effort can be a gift if it is 
  applied properly."
Salem smiles rather crookedly. "Thank you for the compliment. And don't think 
  I'm not well aware of it. It has, however, its downsides." He taps out 
  another cigarette from his pack and lights it.
Murphy nods. "I figured as much. And I doubt that I have told you too much 
  that you do not already know. I am just saying that you need to find 
  something that speaks to your unique gifts." He looks down at his cigarette 
  and then flicks the ash. "For what it is worth, I am offering to help, /if/ 
  I can."
"I appreciate that," replies Salem, with apparent sincerity. "And I welcome 
  your help in the spirit in which it is offered."
Murphy gives his big, oscar winning smile. He raises his beer bottle in a 
  toast. "Well, lets just hope I don't get myself killed in the process." He 
  takes a big swig.
Salem continues to smile, though the expression has a hard edge to it. "I 
  haven't killed any friendlies in this town yet. I choose to believe that 
  this trend will continue."
Murphy laughs at this comment. "Knowing my luck, I'll get to be the first." He 
  takes another swig, finishing his beer. "I think we have about covered 
  everything I wanted to talk about for the moment. Anything you wanted to ask 
  me?"
Salem taps ash carefully into his empty beer bottle. "What do you know about 
  vampires?" There's a titch in a small muscle near his eye as he asks this, 
  but his voice remains steady.
Suddenly, Murphy's whole attitude and posture change abruptly. Salem senses 
  the first flash of anything that approaches Rage coming from the Walker. He 
  just about snarls this "What about the fuckin' leeches?"
Salem's lips thin. Though his own rage shifts upward a notch, he doesn't seem 
  unpleased by the other's reaction. "We may have some in this city," he says 
  quietly, coldly. "Though I haven't heard more than rumors, and then not for 
  weeks. They may be lying low, but somehow I doubt they're gone."
Murphy eases down just a notch and with some composure regains his 
  comportment. There are stormclouds in his eyes, though. "Yeah, I know a 
  thing or two about them. What rumors?"
"Apparently, some of the Bone Gnawers were waylaid by one that could summon 
  shadows to fight for him." Salem inhales deeply on his cigarette again and 
  then exhales, his tension clicking upward another notch. "I told one of the 
  Black Furies to keep a close eye on their kinfolk, but somehow I doubt she 
  truly bothered to listen." He snorts. "Everyone's attention is on the river 
  problem, which is, I admit, an important one. But you might wish to keep an 
  eye out. For mass disappearances and the like."
Murphy drops his cigarette into his empty beer bottle. He considers the 
  situation for a few moments. "How long ago was the fight between the blood 
  sucker and the Gnawers?"
Salem grimaces. "At least a couple of months. It was still winter." The Ronin 
  shakes his head slightly, his expression dark. "I'd tell myself it was 
  simply a rogue, but I don't believe in that kind of optimism."
Freed of their cigarette, Murphy's hands flex and release rhythmically. He 
  seems to be weighing options in his head. "And nothing since then?" he asks, 
  glancing over at the Ronin.
Salem takes another long drag, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs. "Not 
  that I've heard, no."
Murphy says "Our smartest play would be getting the Gnawers in on this one. 
  They can keep track of disappearances much easier than we can, considering 
  most leeches are going to grab homeless and street kids.""
Salem snorts, flicking ash into his beer bottle. "Speaking frankly, most of 
  the Gnawers in this town aren't worth the shit they roll in."
Murphy face darkens just a small twinge at this comment. "Maybe not, but they 
  are able and willing to go to some places that I am not wanting to spend a 
  large amount of time in. And even a Gnawer can get lucky sometimes."
"I'm well aware of their theoretical skills," Salem says, coolly. "But with 
  the exception of one, perhaps two, I wouldn't trust the locals to have the 
  ability to fetch a stick I'd thrown."
Murphy says "Okay, so we leave the Gnawers out unless desperation sets in. 
  What resources does that leave us with outside of your skills and my wit and 
  vivacity?"
Salem grunts. "Very little." He broods on this a moment, then stubs out the 
  end of his cigarette. "Hopefully, I can get in touch with the one Gnawer I'd 
  trust to have some sense, but the girl's been scarce lately." His eyes 
  narrow slightly in thought. "I have a few other contacts, too."
Murphy considers this for a few moments. "Great odds, you want me to call you 
  Butch or Sundance?" He chuckles to himself as he fishes out another 
  cigarette. "Well, I'm in, although my connections in town are useless so 
  far. But I have resources, I can get us supplied with almost whatever we are 
  going to need."
"Good." Salem pushes to his feet, picking up his empty bottle as he rises. 
  "Then we'll keep in touch. If you'll excuse me, though, I like to get to bed 
  early some days." Not quite the truth -- more like the talk of vampires has 
  made the Ronin too edgy to be socialble, and he'd rather be alone.
Murphy says "Not a problem. I can show myself out." He walks to the door, 
  turning at the last moment. "You need me, you call. I call you friend Salem, 
  for all that it is worth." He does not wait for a reply, perhaps so that his 
  offer will not be refused. "Later.""
Murphy heads outside for the hallway, the door creaking as he opens it.
Murphy has left.