More Teaching

[hazlogs]

7/27/02

Currently the moon is in the waning Full Moon phase (80% full).

Currently in Saint Claire, it's a sunny day. The temperature is 73 degrees
Fahrenheit (22 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from
variable directions at 5 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.15 and
steady, and the relative humidity is 51 percent. The dewpoint is 54
degrees Fahrenheit (12 degrees Celsius.)

Location: Jeremy's Apartment


Salem's characteristic sharp double-knock is heard at the door.

In the absence of anyone else from the apartment right now, at least who
happen to be awake, Quentin was laying on his back on the floor --
surprisingly, perhaps, not playing video games but rather doing sit ups.
Well, trying to do sit ups. He wasn't doing very well. At the sharp knock
to the door he scrambles to his feet, glancing at the monitor before
walking over to open the door for Salem-- wiping the back of one hand over
his brow, a touch of sweat there. "Uh, hey, c'mon in. I'm the only one
here."

Salem's lips thin as he enters. "Jeremy out again? Hmn." He looks rather
irritable at the fact but shrugs it off after a moment, with some effort.
"Nevermind. Did Rhiannon bring your things over?" He shrugs out of his
jacket as he steps into the apartment.

"Yeah, she did.." Quentin steps out of the way, glancing towards the door
to Jeremy's room and admitting ruefully, "I think all the werewolves
hanging out here bother him a little."

Salem drapes his jacket over the back of the couch, nodding. "It's our
curse. The rage in us can worry some human beings, our kinfolk included,
if it's concentrated." He pauses, considering. "Perhaps we can move you to
Francisco's place, or my own. Hm."

Quentin tips his head in understanding, stepping over towards the couch
and easing himself down to sit upon its edge. "Yeah, Jeremy and Kaz
explained the 'curse' to me pretty much like that.."

Salem nods curtly, taking a seat at the other end of the couch. "Yes. The
greater one's rage, the more that normal people will be affected by it,
and when a place draws several of us over a period of days, the effects
linger. For example, the place where we had the Moot would terrify all but
the most strong-willed human beings."

"So.." Quentin's brow furrows a bit, a frown curving his lips as he taps a
foot to the floor, "..wouldn't that happen here, with everyone who keeps
stopping by?"

Salem leans back against the leather cushions, folding his arms across his
chest. "Eventually. Now, granted, there used to be a Garou living here, my
late packmate Roger, but it wasn't typically a gathering place. _That_,
unfortunately, was destroyed by the Spiral Dancers." He grimaces, voice
growing tight when he speaks of the safehouse's destruction.

Quentin grimaces slightly, giving his head a slight shake. "Yeah.." A
moment of silence, before he finishes with a look over, "I was.. told
about that. Them. After seeing everyone at the moot.. I mean.. all of that
bent on destroying things is a scary thought."

Salem rubs at his beard pensively, his good eye tilted toward Quentin.
"Yes... Speaking of which, I'd like to hear your thoughts on it. The
Moot."

Quentin blinks over a little, and then falls back to lean into his corner
of the couch and nestle there comfortably.. a thoughtful look passing over
his face. "Well, it was.. a bit overwhelming. And a good two thirds of it
was mostly just growling and barking, so I'm not sure what was going on.."

Salem makes a curt 'hrmph' sound. "And that is the other reason I've been
thinking of moving you. Housed with another Garou, rather than one of our
kin, would facilitate your learning the language."

Quentin raises a hand to scratch at his chin a bit, frowning, "It's a
whole language? I figured as much, but.."

"Created by the Fianna back in the earliest days of our race," Salem says.
"Or so it's said. It's best spoken in the crinos form, though the near-man
and the near-wolf forms manage it fairly well also. It's difficult in wolf
form and, I can tell you from experience, murder on a human throat." He
sits forward. "If you'll take glabro, I can teach you a few words right
now, enough to introduce yourself with, at least."

"The Fianna.. they're one of the other tribes, right?" Quentin's
definately relaxed since attending the moot in some ways; the lingering
resentment of being kidnapped and having his life stolen from him seems to
be gone now, or at least better hidden. A shift against the couch, then,
eyes closing and taking a deep breath before shifting slowly into that
larger form, muscle bulking onto normally-slender frame and features
growing more brutish than usual.

Salem transforms as well, pushing to his feet as he does so. Nodding, he
says, "Primarily a Celtic tribe, from Ireland and the United Kingdom. The
White Howlers were their neighbors."

Quentin splays one hand against the couch's arm, pushing himself to his
feet and looking over towards Salem with a curious tilt of his head.
"Nobody's mentioned that last one," he says in slighter rougher tones from
his normal voice, "The White Howlers..?"

Salem's brutish face tightens. "The ones who became the Black Spiral
Dancers. Fools who denied all help when their homeland was invaded and
descended into a Wyrmhole. They died, or came back out in their present
form, and with a generation, had corrupted or slain every other member of
the tribe. They're dead now."

Quentin's heavy brow draws into deeply furrowed lines at that, taken aback
just a bit before asking in wary tones, "..corrupted? Why would.. I mean,
seeing what happened to the others, why didn't they fight back?"

"The ones who did, died," the Philodox answers dourly. "If not when they
were attacked, then later. The Spiral Dancers hunted down them all. The
ones who didn't die were dragged down into that same Wyrmhole and...
turned." His jaw clenches. "Once a Garou turns to the Spiral, there is no
going back. It's said that each one is brought before the Wyrm itself, or
enough of its echo to make no difference. The Spirals are insane, to the
last, and their conversion twists them." He gives his head a sharp shake.
"The most noble, upright, glorious Garou can be turned to the Wyrm this
way. It's... one of those situations where if you find yourself captured
by them, it's best to kill yourself. Then, at least, you return to Gaia,
your soul clean."

A hint of colour bleeds away from Quentin's expression at that
description, a slight shiver working its way down his spine. "Christ," he
mumbles, one hand raising to rub against his brow, "I hope it doesn't come
to that, ever."

Salem takes a deep breath, making an effort to calm himself; talk of
Spirals makes him tense. "If you're careful, it shouldn't. Now. Back to
the language, the ~Mother Tongue.~ We'll start with our tribe. ~Glass
Walkers.~ Or, to be more formal, ~Those Who Walk Among The Glass.~"

Quentin rakes those thick fingers back through his hair, letting his hand
fall back down before assuming a more attentive expression.. albeit one
with a bit of worry lurking behind his eyes. "Okay.." He frowns a bit,
focusing, "Say that one more time?"

Salem folds his arms across his chest and repeats the phrase, patiently.
~Glass Walkers.~

Quentin purses his lips for a moment, and then repeats slowly and
awkwardly, ~Glass.. Walkers.~

Salem nods curtly. "Good. Now, your auspice, in our language, is
~Galliard.~ Your breed is ~Homid.~"

Quentin shifts slightly, arms folding over his chest as he watches Salem's
lips and listens carefully to the intonation-- even so, his pronunciation
is far from perfect as he repeats slowly, ~Galliard~.. "Galliard.. and.."
~Homid~.

Salem's lips twitch; though he doesn't come right out and smile or
anything, he looks pleased. "And as far as your rank, you are a ~cub.~ I,
at the first rank, am a ~Cliath,~ as will you be once you've completed
your Rite of Passage."

"What's a breed, anyway..?" Quentin asks the question with a slight frown,
realizing that he doesn't know exactly what he just said in that other
language.. and then he nods a bit, gathering himself and trying out
more-or-less successfully, ~Cub~. Then he tries 'cliath' but manages to
mangle it beyond recognition, looking back over to Salem hopefully.

Salem repeats the word, again quite patiently. ~Cliath.~ Then he explains,
"Your breed indicates how you were born. Those born human, like you and I,
are Homid. Those born a wolf are called Lupus." He repeats the term in
Garou speech. "And those born of two Garou, like Kaz, are called Metis."
Again, he says translates the term.

Quentin looks a touch startled, "Kaz told me about that last bit, but.. we
can be born like wolves?"

Salem arches a brow. "Yes. In fact, there is a tribe called the Red Talons
which is made _entirely_ of wolf-born Garou."

Quentin blinks a few times, scratching lightly under the line of the jaw.
"Oh.. well.." A pause, and then he admits wryly, "I guess I never thought
of that. I mean.. we can turn into wolves, so why not.."

One corner of Salem's mouth quirks upward. "It's a rare thing in our
tribe. We're a very human-centric group, compared to most others."

Quentin clears his throat before a flush threatens to creep past the edge
of his cheeks, dispelling whatever embarassing thoughts had come up with a
swift, "Anyway, uh, language. Right."

Salem says, dryly, "Right. So, your tribe, auspice, and rank?"

Quentin takes a deep breath, running it over in his mind a few times
before attempting slowly, "I'm a.." ~Glass Walker.. Galliard.. cub~. He
actually manages to get all the words distinguishable and recognizable,
although his accent is absolutely terrible and the timing is all off.

Salem grunts. "You can keep practicing that. I'll be over more often to
teach you, and you can get practice from other Garou as well. Kinfolk...
some of them learn to understand a bit of the language, but it's a rare
one that can speak more than a word or two."

Quentin tips his head in a slight nod, murmuring it again under his breath
before nodding once more. "I imagine," he admits, one hand raising to rub
against his throat, "It's a little hard on the human throat."

"It is," the Philodox assures him. "You can revert to homid form and test
it."

A sigh slips from Quentin's throat as he eases himself back into his homid
form - which, out of all the forms, he has the least trouble slipping into
for obvious reasons - and clears his throat a few times before testing it
out. He gets about half of ~Glass Walker~ out before choking on his own
words and ending up coughing to keep from swallowing his tongue or
something.

Salem nods, having expected as much. "That," he says dryly, "takes a great
_deal_ of practice."

Quentin massages his throat with a few fingers, dropping back to settle on
the couch's edge and grimacing a bit. "Yeah.." Another cough, "..I imagine
it does."

Salem tilts his head, eyeing the cub critically. "Need a glass of water?"

"No, no, I'm fine.." A faint smile, as though to reassure that he's well,
before Quentin admits wryly, "Still don't, um, adapt to changing forms
very well. Need to get used to the differences in each of 'em."

Salem shrinks back down to homid form. "That will come with time and
practice. In particular, you should spend at least some time each day in
wolf form. Though it's not a form you'll use much in the city, its senses
can be invaluable, and similar in strength to what you'd experience in
Crinos."

Quentin shakes his head ever so slightly, not in refutation but in a touch
of wonder at the mention of wolf form. "Yeah, that's.. really.. different.
I fell over like six times just getting used to the tail," he admits,
smirking, "Alicia seemed to find that hilarious."

Salem settles himself back onto the couch. With dry amusement, he notes,
"If it's any consolation, the wolf-born are even more awkward when first
learning Homid. The transition from four legs to two seems to be much more
difficult than going from two legs to four."

"Mm. I s'pose that makes sense," Quentin allows with a bit of a chuckle,
"It's a more.. naturally balanced form, I suppose. Four legs, tail.."

Salem's shoulders lift and fall in a dismissive shrug. "To hear the lupus
speak, it is only another indication that humans are not truly of Gaia."
His sour tone of voice clearly states what he thinks of _that_ little
theory. "They can be quite smug, as you may learn if you have to interact
with them. Common are the uses of 'ape' and 'monkey' instead of 'human' or
'homid'."

Quentin rolls his eyes at that, observing rather dryly, "Yeah, well.. they
can turn into humans too, right? So they're just as much half-breeds as we
are."

"Precisely," Salem says. "But they hate being reminded of it."

"They sound," Quentin says dubiously, "Like real assholes."

Salem shrugs again. "Some moreso than others. The Red Talons are the worst
of the lot. Most of them would wipe out every human on the planet if they
could. Other lupus are just smug. A few recognize the human in themselves
and accept it. A very rare few, usually those who are either born to or
choose to join our tribe, not only accept the human but embrace it. Those
are very few and far between, however."

Quentin nods just a little, pausing a moment before asking, "So what about
the other guys..? The, uh, metis?"

Salem hesitates a moment before answering. "Metis... are varied, and it's
impossible to judge one by another. Some hate humans as much as any Red
Talon, while others simply don't understand either human _or_ wolf
society. Generally, a Metis grows up within Garou culture, which gives
them the advantage of experience. You'll hear it said that they are
inferior, or cursed, or scum not worth speaking to. Some call them weak,
prone to corruption. This is, frankly, untrue. Each one bears a deformity,
true, and every one is sterile, but there's nothing spiritually inferior
about them. They're no more apt to go to the Wyrm than a Homid or Lupus
Garou. With the Metis, it's best to take each one on his or her own
merit."

Quentin's lips purse just a bit, asking rhetorically, "Like Kaz's ears..
the deformity thing, that is." He pauses then, and asks more carefully,
"..during the moot, when they were talking about the Litany, someone said
'..the one line that will not be broken'. So, uh, does that mean that a
lot of people don't listen to the rest of it?"

Salem scratches thoughtfully at his jaw. "If you're asking if the Litany
gets broken, then yes. It does. Every Metis you see is proof of that. Some
laws are broken less often than others. The one about protecting caerns,
for example, or about keeping the Veil. We're not perfect, which is why
there are judges, Philodox, like myself."

Quentin nods slightly, asking then with a curious look on his face, "So..
what do you do, in those cases? I mean, I doubt you have jails and hand
out fines."

Salem folds his arms. "That depends on the severity of the crime. For
example, back when I was first in St. Claire, I lost control of myself
near the full moon and frenzied, breaking the Veil and murdering several
SWAT team members whose only crime was in doing their job." His mouth
twists at the recollection, expression rueful. "I left town for a good
while after that, and when I returned, I put myself up for judgement. I
made reparations to those Garou on whose territory I had frenzied and was
formally ostracized for two months. Ostracism is common in minor offenses,
though we have rites to show contrition as well, and being put to menial
tasks for a certain period of time is also an option... again, for minor
offenses."

Quentin shifts a bit, drawing one knee up to his chest and folding both
hands atop it as he listens to the other man. A slight frown, before
asking, "Ostracism? Like.. being shunned, like what the Amish do?"

Salem nods once. "Exactly. An ostracized Garou cannot speak to other
Garou, nor may they speak to him. For a time, you simply... don't exist."
He pauses. "Which can be somewhat... straining, since we are a rather
social group. In its extreme form, a Garou may be stripped of his name and
tribe completely, turned Ronin and cast out until they either redeem
themselves or find another tribe to accept them. This is _usually_" -- and
Salem puts strong emphasis on the word -- "done when the Garou has broken
the laws in a very serious way, but not so much as to deserve death."

Quentin frowns, leaning his chin to his knee. "If there's so many enemies
and such that we have waiting to take us on.." He trails off, shaking his
head, "..I imagine that'd be pretty much a death sentence, if it went on
long enough."

"Hrmh." Salem rubs at his chin. "It's... very difficult. Many do die.
Others fall to the Wyrm, and are hunted and slain by their former Sept.
And a few do manage to find their way back to Garou society." His tone is
particularly guarded; the subject is more than academic to him.

"Mm. Remind me to behave," Quentin says with a slight shake of his head,
frowning to himself, "I don't think I can go back to the normal world
anymore.. and.. well. I mean, at least with you guys I'm not alone.."

Salem's eyebrows rise slightly, and his expression eases away from the
tense, dour look that was threatening to take over. "Exactly." Glancing at
his watch, he gets up. "I have an early morning tomorrow, so have to be
getting back. Keep practicing your forms, the wolf in particular."

Quentin lifts one hand from his knee to his brow, fingers setting together
and cutting through the air in a militaristic salute. "Sir, yes, sir!" A
slight grin, "Alright. I'll practice that, and the language thing." He
hesitates, then, and offers more quietly and with a slightly sheepish
look, "Um.. thanks. For coming by, and all.."

Salem, in the process of putting his coat back on, gives Quentin a
somewhat quizzical look. It clears after a moment. "You're very welcome.
Give Jeremy my regards."

Quentin ducks his head a bit, "Sure, will do.. have a good one, man."

Salem gives the cub a thin, tight smile, and then departs.