Maj at the Pool Hall

[hazlogs]

Currently the moon is in the waning Crescent Moon phase (23% full).
It is currently 18:13 Pacific Time on Thu Sep 17 1998.
Currently on this breezy and cool summer  in the general St. Claire area, it 
  is 55 degrees Fahrenheit (12.8 degrees Celsius). The wind is coming from the 
  south-southwest at 8.55 mph. The ground is dry. Skies are clear with a small 
  chance of precipitation.

Magister(#3859Pce)
          Too thin, too intense, and far too damned quiet -- at seventeen 
  years old, Magister already has the look of disturbed genius, though most 
  people think he's just disturbed. He's about five and three-quarters feet 
  tall, at most, and perhaps a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet, a 
  narrow-featured, skinny youth. Narrow, wire-framed glasses over deep-set 
  brown eyes add to the "starved intellectual" image, and his long-fingered 
  hands sport fingernails that have been bitten to the quick.
          Hair so dark that it's nearly black is shaved close along the sides 
  and back of his head, with the top left much longer, though still far too 
  short to put into a ponytail. On the whole, he's somewhat attractive, but 
  only to those who happen to like the "thin weird guy with glasses" type.
          The kid wears a lot of black, which generally suits him. Black 
  jeans, dark gray t-shirt, black eighteen-hole Doc Marten type boots. A 
  "Happy Noodle Boy" pin is fixed to the left lapel of his black trenchcoat. 
  The back of the coat bears the brooding image of Johnny the Homocidal 
  Maniac, his eyes hidden in shadow, torso wrapped in mummy gauze, and arms 
  crossed like a Pharoah's over his chest, the blades of wielded knives 
  pointing downwards. 

You push open a door and enter a pool hall.
Pool Hall(#3490RJ)
Pool tables dominate the space of the hall, hardly yielding any space for the 
  motley crew of players chalking their sticks and eying the brandy bottle at 
  the bar lining one wall. The dust and scratches on all surfaces save the 
  green velvet lining the pool tables indicate this hall as skimping on 
  maintenance and cheap on cleaners. Its lack of flashy videogames and surplus 
  of toothless kibitzers underscores its appeal to the older crowd. No natural 
  sunlight is permitted into the hall, its lighting provided by bulbs swinging 
  from the ceiling.
A recent 'renovation' to the hall has caused many splinters and embdeed bullet 
  holes, adding much to the aged atmosphere. Ruddish stains, dark and ominous 
  even under the lights, refuse to be washed out of the floor. A dart board 
  brightens up the walls with its red-and-black scheme, and a moosehead looks 
  down on the proceedings.
Mounted from the ceiling, a television blares its glaring brightness and 
  noises.
A set of double doors, one locked, the other unlocked at the whims of the hall 
  manager, lead out to the street. Unobstructive doors behind the bar 
  undoubtedly lead to storerooms.
Contents:
Brennain
Sally MacKay
Obvious exits:
Outside  

From afar, Sally MacKay's not behind the bar, she just brought Bren a drink 
  and is at the side of the room with him. A few of the tables are in use, but 
  it's not too crowded.

Never turning from his study of the other drinkers and pool players, Brennain 
  answers Sally with an indifferent shrug. He turns his back on the girl, and 
  tips the mug to his lips again, quietly looking about the place in interest. 
  His eyes seem to stray back to the bulletholes every so often.
Magister pauses in the doorway, rather poking his head in and giving the place 
  a look 'round, as though half-expecting someone to jump out and card him.

[Brennain]
This man of mid-height stands as tall as he can manage, shoulder-length dark 
  hair worn down and loose. His dark eyes make a startling centerpiece for his 
  ruggedly handsome face, his thin lipped mouth spoiling the image just a 
  little. His skin is weathered, and ruddy; it is obviously the complexion of 
  one that spends a lot of time out of doors. Brennain's build could be 
  described as 'athletic' by most, 'impressive' by others.
He wears a tight black t-shirt, the material ripped in places baring his chest 
  to the air. Four narrowly spaced slashes, like those that could be caused by 
  the claws of a wild animal streak down the front of his chest. Around his 
  neck is a thick black leather collar, with a metal nametag and a pair of 
  keys attached to the d-ring. A battered black denim jacket, with the sleeves 
  rolled up, a pair of ripped black jeans and some tatty black boots complete 
  the picture.

The blonde shrugs, looking unsurprised by Brennain's actions. "Give a yell if 
  you need another drink or a table." She collects a pair of used cups as she 
  passes them, then adds over her shoulder to him, "Name's Sally or Mustang, 
  either's cool." As always, the kinswoman looks to the door as it opens. 
  "He-," she starts to greet the new person, then her smile twists into a 
  smirk. "Hey, I know you," she tells Magister as she circles back behind the 
  bar.
Upon sight of Sally, Magister almost turns around and walks out. Almost. The 
  kid's face freezes into a tight half-grimace. "No, you just think you do."
Brennain's gaze snaps to the newcomer as he arrives, his eyes taking in every 
  detail as the jangling of his collar fades to silence. He acknowledges 
  Sally's remark with a curt nod.
"Nah, I know," Sally sounds quite confident of that. She leans forward across 
  the bar, watching him. "So you play? Want a table or what?" Now that 
  Brennain is taken care of, he loses most of her attention.
Magister shifts his backpack higher onto his shoulders and walks in, letting 
  the door bang shut behind him. "I just came in for a coke," he says, tones 
  guarded.
"We got Coke," Sally answers, her smirk spreading to her eyes now. "C'mon 
  over," she waves him closer, then reaches for a glass. Turning her back to 
  the room, she fills it with ice.
Brennain turns his attention to his beer, as he plays with the small change in 
  his pocket. He seems harmless enough, mining his own business, and the dark 
  mood that he came in with looks like it's clearing up a little. His head 
  jerks up sharply at the sound of the ice clinking in the glass, then he 
  relaxes as he realises what is actually happening behind him.
Magister's glance passes over the rest of the room, pausing briefly on the 
  hardassed guy with the collar. But only very briefly; the kid clearly 
  doesn't want to start trouble. Wordlessly, he heads for the bar and sits 
  down on one of the empty stools.
Glass of ice in hand, Sally heads down the other end of the bar to fill it 
  with soda, then returns. "One Coke," she says as she places it before him, 
  napkin following soon after and bowl of stale, salty snacks nudged closer to 
  him. "So you play?" she asks again.
Magister can grok the stale salty snacks thing, anyway. He takes a handful and 
  makes a couple disappear, washed down with soda. "Play?"
Brennain puts his mug down on the bar noisily, and walks in Sally and 
  Magister's general direction, hands in pockets. "Hey," he grunts. "Got a 
  rest room?" The question is phrased just a little harshly.
Magister tilts his head, eyeing Brennain sidelong, his expression immediately 
  turning wary.
Sally's amusement grows as he questions the question. "Um. Yeah, play." She 
  points to the tables behind him and offers helpfully, "Pool?" Her pointing 
  finger just swings instead of lowering, indicating the direction. "Yep, 
  right there. Just do me a favor," she adds with a playing up of the 
  poor-overworked-barsmaid routine, "Jeff's out sick. Again. Don't make a 
  mess, I'm the one who has to clean that place up tonight."
Magister turns away, chewing down on a few more salty snacks, avoiding 
  Brennain's eyes.
Snorting in disgust, Bren stalks in the direction indicated by the kinswoman, 
  mumbling something under his breath along the lines of: "Me? Make a mess? 
  Yeah, right." He shakes his head and disappears into the men's room.
Sally watches the vampire go, then shakes her head. "Fucking Jeff," she 
  mutters, then moves away from Magister. "Yell if you want another one."
Magister makes a noise that's probably meant to mean 'yeah, sure, okay'.
A loud noise from the direction of the bathroom, followed by muffled cursing 
  can be heard, then quietens after a moment or so.
Magister keeps his head down. It's a survival trait.
"Fuck," Sally repeats, louder this time. She looks at the bathrooms a moment, 
  as if willing the guy inside to be good by the power of her stare alone.
Brennain pushes the door open as he leaves the room, and makes a beeline for 
  his beer again, scowling at anyone to cross his path as he rubs at his 
  forehead gingerly. "Stupid place to put the balloon machine," he grumbles.
Sally watches the man come out, following him across the room with her eyes. 
  Once he reaches his beer she asks conversationally, "Everything okay in 
  there?"
Magister tilts his glance sideways, trying to eye the man without being 
  obvious about it. He jerks his gaze away if it even looks like Brennain 
  might *think* of looking at him.
Brennain nods an affirmative to the barmaid, and rolls his eyes. "Didn't see 
  the freakin' machine on the wall. No damage, really." He lifts the mug to 
  his lips again, and continues. "More's the pity."
Sally nods, her smile returning. "Cool. Hey, you ready for another yet? Or a 
  game? I think someone," she tries to catch Brennain's eyes before she 
  indicates Magister with a glance, "is looking for a partner."
Brennain's mug is still almost full as he picks it up and follows Sally's 
  glance. "With him?" Bren asks incredulously whilst gesturing at the skinny 
  kid. "He'd have more luck as a cue than a player," he remarks with some 
  distain.
Magister gives Sally a look that would turn unicorns to stone and gulps down 
  most of the rest of his coke. "I don't play pool."
The kinswoman gives Brennain a smile of thanks before tossing back her hair 
  and leaning onto the bar's top, angled towards the cub. "You should learn. 
  ...especially if you're gonna start hanging out here."
"I probably won't," the kid retorts in a mutter, before gulping down another 
  swallow of coke. "The staff are real assholes."
Slamming his mug down on the side of the pool table, spilling a little, 
  Brennain nods at Sally's words and picks up a cue. "Mustang's right, kid. 
  Hang around here, and you've got to shoot pool." His mouth stretches in a 
  grin as he chalks his stick. "S'not a hard game, unless you play for 
  stakes." He points the cue at Magister. "What'd you stake on a game, kid?"
Magister sets his glass down and gets to his feet, one hand digging into the 
  right front pocket of his jeans. "I don't bet," he says automatically, and 
  then, "How much for the soda?"
Sally laughs at the insult. "Aw," her blue eyes sparkle with enjoyment over 
  her little game with him. "Does that mean no tip?" Brennain gets an all out 
  grin now as he joins in to double team the Garou cub. "Yeah, c'mon. You 
  should learn to play. Never know when you'll need it."
"Buck-fifty," Sally tells him with a sad little shake of her head at his soon 
  to be departure. "And don't forget to tip your serving staff!" she adds with 
  a grin.
Brennain passes the cue from hand to hand, then spins it once. "Yeah, Sally's 
  right. Learn to play, kid. It's fun, and it's easy." The leech's grin grows 
  a little wider as he makes his private joke. "C'mon, kid. I don't bite." He 
  winks, and shrugs his shoulders. "Not unless you ask me to..." His mood 
  seems to have lightened considerably with the current distraction.
Magister tosses down a couple of crumpled one-dollar bills. He acts as though 
  every alarm has started ringing in his head; maybe he's just easily spooked. 
  "No, thanks," he says, and starts heading for the door.
"Y'all come back anytime now, y'hear!" Sally calls after him, faking a (bad) 
  southern accent. She watches the kid go, then laughs a not-too-pleasant 
  chuckle. "Next one's on the house," she tells the vampire.

You step through the front doors to the street.
Regan Avenue, Downtown
Tenements, small businesses, and tiny restaurants line the street. Heavy metal 
  bars encase the glass fronts of the stores. Battered cars, almost falling 
  apart with rust, are parked haphazardly here and there along the sidewalks. 
  People travel in groups, here, wary of the small gangs of young boys at 
  street corners. Several blocks have the same dull repetitiveness, from Fifth 
  Street all the way to Twelfth. Only the graffiti marks a difference between 
  the blocks, the occasional rudeness sometimes broken up by light colors and 
  strange designs.
Obvious exits:
Pool Hall  South  North  East  West