Relax, Dammit

[hazlogs]

Date: 7/28/02

Currently the moon is in the waning Gibbous Moon phase (74% full).

Currently in Saint Claire, it is a cloudy day. The temperature is 68
degrees Fahrenheit (20 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in
from the southwest at 10 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.19 and
rising, and the relative humidity is 70 percent. The dewpoint is 58
degrees Fahrenheit (14 degrees Celsius.)

Location: Rat and Raven Main Room


A relaxed atmosphere characterizes this room: less rowdy than a bar, less
formal than a restaurant, the pub is filled with a friendly hubbub that
spills out from tables and the bar itself. Several tables are scattered
across the floor, each with room enough for two or three people at a time
to walk between them. The tables are a dark wood, kept clean by the
waitresses bustling around to accept orders. The patrons range from low
twenties to their mid-fifties, or thereabouts, both male and female.
Paintings decorate the wall, one each of the 'mascots' of the bar, a rat
to the left of the door, a raven to the right, both depicted with a
nobility not commonly offered to, at least, the rat. The other paintings
include a three-masted ship, sails spread to the wind, that matches the
tiny ship in a bottle behind the bar.


[Salem]

          Tall and dark, he stands a few inches over six feet, a striking
and rather dangerous-looking man in his late twenties. A mane of black
hair, well past shoulder-length, frames a hawkish face, the left side of
which is twisted by scars; apart from this disfigurement, he's quite
handsome -- albeit in a devilish, saturnine kind of way. His face is one
designed for brooding and cynicism, and the neatly-trimmed, short black
beard makes him look all the more satanic. His left eye is dead white,
lost within the tangled jungle of scar tissue that covers the left side of
his face; his good eye is dark brown, not quite black. In short, he has
the look of the very devil about him, or of a Christ figure gone bad.

          A hip-length black leather coat hangs open on his tall, athletic
frame; a gray t-shirt is visible underneath, tucked into a pair of black
jeans. His attire, though worn loose for comfort's sake, is kept clean;
it's casual, but not messy. His feet are encased in a pair of black combat
boots that have been well worn in. Something hangs from a cord around his
neck but is tucked under his shirt, out of view.


[John]

        This imposing individual manages to convey an air of latent
violence (even when apparently relaxing) and moves with the athletic grace
of a natural predator. This, combined with his appearance, screams
'Danger' to most people, and should inspire caution even in those more
hardy.

        His tall (6'5") and well-built frame is clothed almost entirely in
black. A light, weathered trenchcoat, comfortably-sized jeans, and a
tight-fitting t-shirt covered by a long, heavy jacket. The only splashes
of colour come from signs of a chain around his neck, a steel belt-buckle
in the form of a wolf's-head, and the occasional buckle or button on his
boots, pants or jacket in steel. Finally, both hands are gloved, though
the glove on his left hand has been carefully tailored to leave all but
his little finger bare. This finger doesn't separate from the fourth.
Ever.

        The initial impression is usually enough to ward against a closer
inspection of his face, but those curious enough observe the face of a
young man (perhaps mid to late twenties?) made old by scars, besides a
certain something about the eyes and set of the jaw. The angles and tone
of his face hint at northern European descent. His face is framed up top
by black, close-cropped hair, and his eyes shine out from this visage in a
brilliant, icy, blue. This man could be considered highly attractive if it
weren't for the numerous scars on his face and body. A large, savage claw
mark mars his right cheek, and a deadly pale white line emerges from under
his hair, reaching down towards the right eyebrow. There's occasionally a
break in the grimness as he habitually touches a silver band on the fourth
finger of his right hand.


John stalks into the bar first, with a somewhat reluctant Salem near
behind. The Elder heads directly for the main bar without pausing to scan
the interior at all, by the looks of it.

Salem is indeed reluctant; he follows the other Glass Walker at a tense
prowl, hands folded into his coat pockets, the lines of his face tight. "I
haven't had a drink in over a year," he notes to John, almost as an aside.

As John leans against the bar, eyeing the attendant predatorially, he
rumbles, "Mind if I ask why?"

Salem rests his elbows on the bar; with an unconscious instinct of
caution, he positions himself with his scarred -- and blind, and therefore
less protected -- side toward John. He hesitates on the answer, then
shrugs curtly. "Decided to give it up with the cigarettes. Right before I,
mnh, changed jobs."

"Cigarettes was a good call," the Ahroun notes mildly. "Don't have to
drink, y'know. Just wanted to get you out of that fucking apartment.
Somewhere where there's some life." And there is indeed life here...
rather unsubtly edging away from the two men, and torn between horrified
fascination, and looking away for their own comfort. The bartender arrives
with the distinct impression that it's best to serve the one who's glaring
at him. John orders scotch on the rocks, and then arches an eyebrow
expectantly at Salem.

Salem wrestles with the decision for about half a moment, looking dour.
Then he exhales a breath, not quite a sigh, and gestures vaguely. "Make it
two."

The bartender fills the order with haste, only partially eased by the
significant tip left by the Ahroun. Then tends the /other/ end of the bar.
John hoists his glass in a lazy toast. "What to drink to? New cubs?
Surviving recent shit? Future plans?"

Salem lifts his glass and tilts his head, favoring his good eye as he
studies the amber liquid within, almost glowering, as though it was an
enemy ready for the throating. "The future."

John simply nods, and takes a sip. "The future, then." Then another sip.
Silence.

Salem, the defiant, contrary bastard that he is deep down, simply drains
the glass in a single swallow. He sets it down with a grimace, stifling a
cough.

John arches an eyebrow as he sips patiently and quietly. "Well done," he
says dryly.

Salem rasps, "Fuck you, Smith," his tone aggressive but -- to his
packmate's ear, anyway -- without any real ire. He clears his throat and
turns his head so he can fix the other with one sharp eye.

John simply shows signs of the beginnings of an amused smile, as he shakes
his head and sips his own drink. "No smoking or drinking, huh?" he muses
curiously, as he drinks.

Salem toys unconsciously with his glass of ice cubes, tilting it slightly.
He shifts his gaze away from the Ahroun but doesn't look toward the
bartender. He nods once. "It wasn't easy."

John gives a faint sniff, and shrugs dismissively. "Curious, Jack. What're
you doing with your time?"

Salem tilts his head, then starts listing things, counting off on his
fingers as he does so. "Patrol, for one. I know we don't have, mnh, formal
territory, but I like to keep an eye on the neighborhood. Clean-up out in
the woods. Teaching Quentin, who I've been thinking about moving out of
Jeremy's place, since he's getting spooked. Repo." He pauses, looking down
at four extended fingers, the thumb only still folded against his palm.
"Hmn."

John eyes Salem sideways, waiting patiently with drink in hand. He sips.

Salem's lips thin, his expression taking a dissatisfied turn, although any
one of the activities he's mentioned are enough to eat most of anyone's
day. "Feed the cockroaches. Clean the apartment. Keep both these tasks
from being mutally exclusive." His shoulders twitch into another shrug,
and he studies the ice in his glass. "Why do you ask?"

John sucks on a tooth and looks back to his drink, thoughtfully.
Expression turning grimmer. Eventually he says casually, "Didn't think you
were doin' so well at all, for a while there. When things were tense. Had
some've us a little worried."

Salem's jaw clenches, muscles tensing visibly in his face and neck. And
now he _does_ look down toward the bartender, his body language turning
withdrawn -- as it usually does when someone asks after his health. "I had
difficulty sleeping," he answers tersely. "That's all."

"Sure," John murmurs lightly, sipping at his drink and eyeing Salem
sideways. A wry twist comes to his expression. "Jesus, Jack, look who
you're fuckin' talking to."

Salem turns toward his alpha, his expression tight and guarded. He meets
the other's gaze for a second or two, then looks away, breaking the stone
face with a sharp exhale, his mouth twisting into an expression of
distaste. "Very well. All right. Fine. _Fine_. I have nightmares, and I
don't particularly like to talk about it. When... things happened, they
got worse. And the fucking visions didn't help."

John hitches a shoulder in a shrug. "See? What was hard about that?" He
sips again, draining the glass, and then looking to the bartender as well.
Expression still grim.

Salem gives the other Glass Walker a sour look. "Malone would have loved
you."

John tilts his head up at the bartender, getting drinks quickly refilled.
Same ice - John insists. He sips at his again. "Never heard of him," he
says flatly.

Salem swallows only half the glass this time, and it goes down with less
fuss than the first, his throat reminding itself how to handle hard drink.
"Mnh. He was Don of the Walk when I first came to town. Same moon as
yourself. From Chicago originally." He takes another swallow. "Metis, too.
Not that you'd really know."

John nods a few times, expression tightening subtly. "What was his
deformity?"

Salem gestures toward his own face. With his blind side toward John, he
doesn't notice the change in expression. "Partly the eyes. Had wolf eyes,
so he wore sunglasses all the time. 'Shades Malone." He pauses to take
another sip, not looking at anything in particular. "The rest... mnh. He
wasn't actually male."

John's expression turns even more sour. "Uh-huh," he says, with finality.
A diversion - "You got any hobbies?"

Salem turns rather sharply to eye John, frowning. Something in the tone of
that 'uh-huh' doesn't sit well with him. But he lets it go and takes
another drink, his mood taking a downward turn. "Hobbies?" He snorts. "Who
the hell has time for hobbies?"

"Everyone should," John rumbles. "Or you spend your life fucked up in the
head, without a personality." He sips. "Gaia's actually in favour of us
being 'people' of sorts."

"'Play?'" quotes Salem sourly. "'I hardly know the meaning of the word.'"
He downs the rest of his drink.

"Makes you weak. Susceptible. Rigid in your thoughts." John's murmuring
softly, still only sipping. "That's how they get you."

Salem's grip tightens on the glass, fingertips turning white with
pressure. "Weak?" His voice is quiet. Dangerous.

The Ahroun simply remains silent, sipping. Neither acknowledgement or
disagreement.

Probably for the best; the halfmoon's voice had a nasty edge of potential
violence. In the face of John's silence, though, he reigns it back in and,
very carefully, lets go of the glass. "Hrmph."

John simply remains silent and lifts his glass to his lips. No liquid goes
in, though - the glass just hovers over his lips, as he begins to speak
lowly, in a dull monotone. Reciting something from memory? "Increased
heart rate is a major hazard of security and defense forces all over the
world. It decreases combat visibility, hearing, and response times.
Adrenaline exacts a heavy toll when it's finished hotwiring the body, as
well. Calm and relaxation are the most crucial elements of a pre-combat
situation. Rest keeps the body performing at its peak, allowing for proper
allocation of internal resources. Mental stimulation is necessary to keep
emotional and mental health from atrophying."

Salem fixes his good eye on the other Walker. His expression has turned
stony again, and he has nothing to say in response. He just regards John
steadily.

John takes that sip, now, licking his lips when he's finished. "In
addition, what the fuck do you plan on bringing back to Gaia when you -
inevitably - get turned into a corpse?"

Salem's hackles would be up if he were in a more lupine shape; a small
muscle twitches in his unscarred cheek, just under the eye. His voice,
however, remains even. Tense, but even. "First of all, I don't plan on
becoming a corpse anytime soon. Secondly, as far as I'm aware, our tribe
_doesn't_ 'come back', and if they did, I doubt that it would be in time
for the Apocalypse."

John snorts faintly, swirling his drink around in its glass. "No-one plans
on becoming a corpse," he mutters. "And I believe in redemption."

Salem's eyes narrow, the dead one squinting almost closed. "So do I."

"Then what do you do to achieve it?" the other asks, almost rhetorically -
his eye is only on his drink. Which he then knocks back. The bartender
receives another glare.

"Fuck you, Smith," Salem growls, and this time there _is_ a hint of anger
in his voice. He keeps his voice pitched to a low snarl. "If you were
anyone else, I would kick your ass. If I was still an Ahroun, I would do
it anyway."

"Very human of you," John notes politely. His eyes slide sideways to get a
good look at the Ex-Ahroun next to him. Thoughtful.

"Fuck you," Salem says again, breaking the stare to look angrily toward
the bartender. "The Ahroun isn't what you want. He's a fucking loose
cannon."

The bartender - increasingly nervous - refills glasses very quickly, and
reminds the two 'gentlemen' in a stammer, "That's three, right? Just
checkin'..." before scurrying off to the other end of the bar.

John eyes his refilled drink. "It's possible to not be," he says flatly.

Salem tosses back the drink in a single angry swallow. "I'm not renouncing
back, if that's what you're asking."

John's eyes narrow. "No. Wouldn't ask it," he grunts shortly. Then frowns
a little. "Just wondering if you think being a Philodox means being
completely devoid of a social life."

Salem rubs at a particularly thick ridge of scar tissue, a crooked line
that runs from his ear, up across the cheekbone, and over the eyesocket.
"I read," he says shortly. His voice doesn't slur, but there's a vague
hint of Eastern Europe creeping into it, very faintly. "Gibson."

[Er, lost a pose.  John asking Salem what Gibson writes.]

"Cyberpunk," Salem answers, frowning over toward the bartender.

The door opens and shuts, and Rhiannon comes in from outside, her usual
attire augmented for the cool day by a leather jacket. She's also carrying
a ratty old backpack, and seats herself at a table after snagging a
waitress and ordering something in a low voice. She produces a large,
hardbound book from the bag and sits at the table heavily before opening
it to a marked page.

The Elder, at least, doesn't seem to notice his kin's entry. He nods a few
times, and sips at his scotch. "Just Gibson?"

The bartender gives Salem a worried, questioning look.

Salem, unsmiling, taps his empty glass with a finger. Wagon? What wagon?
"Some history. John Toland. Wrote a book about the fall of the Japanese
empire during World War II." His lips thin. "I was reading it the first
time I met that little pratt Jonathan. The little git took one look and
told me I should be reading Sun Tzu instead."

Rhiannon glances up from her reading, recognizing at least one familiar
voice. She half turns and, spotting Salem and John, abandons her table and
stout volume in favor of crossing the room to stand on John's side.
"Gentlemen," she says in a low but easy voice.

As the bartender approaches to fill Salem's glass, John gives a low, dark
chuckle. Mood warmed by the alcohol. "He was a little pratt, wasn't he...
At least he had the decency to end up cleanly someplace where we didn't
have to look after the remains." The bartender's eyes widen at the
overheard snatch of conversation, but it's normal - he studiously ignores
these two men.

With Rhiannon's approach, and the sudden distraction to the Walkers, the
bartender beats a hasty retreat. John arches an eyebrow, smiling very
slightly at the kin woman. "Evening, Ms. MacKenzie."

Salem glances up at the kinswoman. He lifts his glass slightly, grunting
something that approximates a greeting.

The title causes Rhiannon's lips to twitch in a manner that could indicate
a smile, or perhaps a smirk. "Ms?" she asks, her voice indicating she's
amused. "Don't think anyone's called me that in years." The waitress,
having tracked Rhiannon down at the bar, arrives with her drink, then
quickly removes herself from the proximity of the two Garou.

John murmurs smoothly with a soft smile, as he inclines his head. "There
are few other titles worthy of a lady of your bearing." He winks and
hoists his glass in a silent toast to the kin next to him. He doesn't seem
to be acting drunkenly - the small amount of inbibed alcohol is nothing.
Just slightly looser than usual.

Salem takes a swallow of his scotch, his expression dour and moody. He
swirls the drink around in the glass, letting the ice cubes clink against
each other and their glass prison.

Rhiannon can't restrain a slight laugh, and she lifts her own drink in
silent acceptance. "Well, I've known a lot of people who'd disagree, but,
I won't argue it." Her poison of choice is far too fizzy to be any type of
proper alcohol, and the glass is also filled with ice--it looks like it's
probably a soda.

John takes a moment to wink at the woman again, smiling and sipping some
more from his drink. He looks sideways at Salem, frowning slightly as the
Philodox swirls the remnants of his fourth drink. Despite the apparent
ease of at least one of the two black-clad men, it's almost as if some
invisible force were propelling people away, encouraging them to keep wide
if they need to pass by.

The Walker elder doesn't have to worry for long about the melting ice
cubes in Salem's glass, because a moment later, the ex-Ahroun drains the
lot.

Nicodemus pushes open the door to the restaurant/bar and slouches across
the room, laptop tucked away under an arm. The goth, timing seemingly
impeccable, lands a corner booth that was just vacated and had its table
wiped and cleaned off. He slumps into it, back against the wall and facing
towards the main entrance to the establishment.

Rhiannon spares the new arrival a quick glance, but soon looks back at
John and Salem, taking a drink. "So. How the hell are you two?" she asks
casually.

"Absolutely dandy," Salem mutters, sounding mildly disgruntled. Not to
mention a bit more Serbian than usual.

John looks sideways at Salem, frowning slightly. "And about ready to
switch to water," he adds mildly.

"Is that an order?" asks the halfmoon.

"I'll drink to that," Rhiannon murmurs, sipping from her soda again.
"Scotch?" she guesses, eyeing the glasses curiously.

Nicodemus pops open the laptop. The back displays a skull and crossbones
superimposed over a biohazard sign. His sharp features are bathed in a
sickly light from the display and he taps casually at the keys while
waiting for service.

John gives Rhiannon a short nod, sobering up significantly as he nods in
acknowledgement to Salem. "As well as staying away from this stuff for the
rest of the week," he adds, warily.

Salem lifts his right hand to his temple, touching two fingers there in a
sardonic salute. "Fine."

Rhiannon raises her eyebrows, but doesn't bother prying. "Well if you're
looking for a good buzz, or to get hosed, Scotch is a fine choice," she
confirms, despite her own choice of beverage.

John shakes his head slightly. "Nah. Social thing. Male bonding, and all
that." He looks sideways at Salem, and notes lightly, "Didn't work." He
doesn't exactly sound disappointed, though.

Nicodemus looks up as a waitress comes over to take his order. He stabs
his finger at an item on the menu, makes a few additional comments, and
that's that. She wanders off to do waitressish things as Nicodemus' gaze
drifts over the room, quietly alighting briefly on one person or the
other.

Rhiannon chortles. "What're you gonna try next? Skiing?" she asks, mostly
joking.

Salem squints over at his elder. "You forgot to pass out the script. I'm
terrible at improvising."

Watching Salem quietly for a moment, John stops narrowing his eyes with a
force of will, and shrugs dismissively at Rhiannon. "Tried it. Wasn't much
fun."

"Snowboarding?" Rhiannon attempts. "Whistler's just up around the border,
pretty kick-ass place I hear. I'm itching for winter so I can give it a
try."

Salem bares his teeth briefly at the other Glass Walker, but there's
nothing serious about the gesture, and it's gone in a moment.

Nicodemus resumes tappity-tapping on the laptop, whiling away the time as
he waits for dinner and/or drinks to be served.

John wiggles his glass, and does a quick survey of the room. Nicodemus
draws a faint frown - not the usual type of customer - but the gaze keeps
moving. Taking in the mood. "Snowboarding sounds fun. A bit more
challenging?" the Ahroun suggests.

Rhiannon waves her hand a little in a so-so gesture. "It depends on how
you view skiing and the like in general. One thing's for sure, you don't
have to worry about two long pieces of gear fucking you up." She finishes
off her soda and manages to coax the waitress back over to refill it, then
continues. "I never was good at skiing, though. The board, that's more my
thing."

Salem broods over his empty glass, then shakes his head and pushes it away
from him. "Fishing," he says.

The waitress weaves through a cluster of tables and deposits a salad
before the goth. "Box to go?" Nicodemus asks, despite the salad being on a
plate already. Any argument is saved for later or behind the scenes as
trio of bills are slid across the table in advance. The waitress collects
them and is off yet again. The goth closes the laptop's display, shutting
the machine down and packing it away as he prepares to jet.

There's a silence from the Ahroun for a while. And then his face brightens
with a gradual, quiet smile. "Huh," he notes, with faint amusement, and
then finishes off his drink. Crunching the ice in his teeth asbently, he
looks at Rhiannon. "You're probably not into fishing?"

Rhiannon watches Salem shrewdly. "Lake or stream?"

Salem's gaze is on the little ship-in-a-bottle; both elbows rest on the
bar. "Lake," he states firmly.

John smiles slightly, shaking his head as he puts his glass down. "I gotta
jet. You two have fun." He shoots Salem a look and notes wryly, "Consider
that an order. Be a gentleman and escort the lady home, when she's ready?"
The Ahroun rises, putting money down on the bar.

"Yes sir." Rhiannon's smile is wry at the thought of needing an escort
anywhere, but she does shake hands with John.

Salem touches his temple with two fingers in another vague salute.
"Understood. Be seeing you." When processed through an Eastern European
accent, however slight, the latter phrase gains a more sinister aura.

John inclines his head and continues smiling thinly as he turns to stalk
away from the other two Walkers. He shoots Nicodemus an absently curious
look again, as he exits. Goths. Huh.

Rhiannon watches John go, and as she looks over the room her gaze lingers
on the lone goth before she turns back to Salem. "How's the kid doing?"
she asks absently, keeping her phrasing vague.

"Hm?" Salem's toying with his glass again in a way that suggests that, if
not for John's order, he might be persuading the bartender over for a
fifth. "Ah. He's fine. Excellent. Thinking of moving him out. His
roommate's getting edgy."

Rhiannon sighs, scratching her head. "Yeah, he's not really the kind to
live with...kids. He can have my second room for a while, if he needs to."

The waitress returns with a styrofoam box and leaves it on Nicodemus'
table. The goth scrapes the salad off into the box, folds it closed, picks
it up, stands, and makes for the exit.

Salem eyes Rhiannon consideringly, then shakes his head. "Rather not
impose. You already have one, don't you?" He rubs at the side of his neck,
his gaze wandering back to the bottled ship. "No, if it's necessary, I'll
move him in with me."

Rhiannon shrugs. "Jake's around only when he wants to be, and I imagine
he'll move in with cito, once he manages to get himself something
reasonable. But, if you're sure." She polishes off her soda, and glances
back at the ragged backpack and book to make sure they're still there.

Salem considers it, mulling it over for rather longer than he normally
would. "I'll talk it over with him," he says at last. His eye strays over
to the bartender, then shifts back to Rhiannon and her freshly empty
glass. "Are you done?" the Philodox asks frankly. "Because if I stay here
a moment longer I _will_ order another drink, and John can go fuck
himself."

Rhiannon grunts. "I can't imagine you're less of a rotten drunk than I am,
so we'll leave and save both ourselves the temptation." She drops her own
payment on the bar and sets the freshly-empty glass on it, then heads back
to her table for the book and bag.

Salem fishes out his wallet, counting out payment and tip in the time it
takes Rhiannon to fetch her things. Then he pushes to his feet, carefully.
"I'm not drunk," he tells her. "Not precisely. One more, I would be.
Perhaps. But not now."

Rhiannon gives Salem a once-over, and his claim to somewhat-sobriety goes
unchallenged. "I'll take your word on that one." She tips her head in the
direction of the exit, and says, "I've got my truck, so, I don't need too
much of an escort. Need a ride?"

"I came over with John," Salem replies. "So, yes. That would be lovely."

"My only requirement is that if you feel the need to expunge your drinks,
you let me at least pull over," Rhiannon says flatly, laying down the law.

Salem grimaces, insulted. "Even if I _was_ drunk, which I'm not, I
wouldn't be _that_ drunk." He starts for the exit; though neither
stumbling nor staggering, he's not moving with the same rigid control that
he usually displays.

Rhiannon smirks at Salem's back. "You've forgotten how I drive," she
murmurs, mostly to herself as she follows him out of the pub.

Salem doesn't catch the remark; he heads outside, pushing his hands into
his coat pockets and humming something to himself. Sounds like 'Ode to
Joy'.

[Rhiannon drives Salem home, drops him off.]