It is currently 19:50 Pacific Time on Wed May 22 2002.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is a cloudy day. The temperature is 60 degrees
Fahrenheit (15 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the
west at 8 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.16 and steady, and the
relative humidity is 51 percent. The dewpoint is 42 degrees Fahrenheit (5
degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waxing Gibbous Moon phase (73% full).


Harbor Park -- The Meadow(#194RJ)

One of the last bastions of green left in the city, mottled and withered
grass and weeds covers the earth like a badly stained carpet, with the
construction work turning what is left into just bare dirt. The vegetation
seems marginally healthier the further it is from the river and much
healthier towards the central area of the park around the fountain.
Construction work is ongoing here: a raised earthen berm about five feet
tall is being built all around the park perimeter, with two breaks each at
the Bridge Street entrance and the First Street end. Wooden posts are being
erected at regular intervals all along the earthen wall, while tasteful iron
gates and fences are being added at the entrances. Overpowering the scent of
living vegetation are the exhaust fumes from a busy street to the west and
an unpleasant stench from the Columbia River to the east. From the street
view or river view, the park is now isolated, as if it existed apart from
the city. People in tall buildings have an excellent view of any goings-ons
for now, though. In the center of the park, a small glade of six tall trees
and a flower bed surrounds the fountain.

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 and the city of
St. Claire.


Salem enters the park with a determined, tense stride that slows as he steps
off the streets and into the meadow. His sunglasses are off, and with one
good eye he scans the park with an air of automatic but distracted
vigilence; his mind's a million miles into the land of preoccupation.

Glissa has two children, one on each hand, leading them across the grass.
The elder is a determined-looking girl of six or so, the boy a year or two
younger. Both sport little blinky lights on their trainers, and are dressed
in denim overalls and T-shirts; the mother, as always, is frumpy. "And this
is where your father's friends used to make things grow..." she's saying
cheerfully.

[Glissa] This short, roundish woman in her mid-thirties peers at the world
benignly from behind enormously thick glasses which are sliding down her
faintly freckled nose. Her fox-colored below-shoulder length hair frazzles
mischievously and gets in the way, as do her wavy bangs. She usually wears
turtlenecks (rich earthy colors ,blues, burgundies and greens seem to be
preferred), jeans, a miniature bronze Minoan goddess pendant, and hiking
shoes. On the ring finger of her right hand is a simple gold band, set with
a gleaming star emerald. In cold weather or evenings, she sports a green
woollen cloak with a bronze clasp cast in the shape of two oak leaves
connected to an acorn. Her accent is decidedly east coast, her smile rarer
than it once was, and her manners rather more polite and guarded, although
still affable. She is easily distracted and sometimes stares off into space
to ponder, forgetting such minor matters as the rice boiling over. When she
speaks, it is with great earnestness and enthusiasm. She also walks stiffly
and with a badly-concealed limp which cannot however entirely account for
her clumsiness.


Distracted as he is, the Glass Walker can't quite help but notice the sight
of mother and offspring, and his walk halts abruptly as he takes in the
view. His face becomes a study of mixed emotions -- mild surprise, habitual
suspicion, and a certain undertone of wistfulness. He shakes it off quickly,
features settling into a mask of neutral courtesy as he starts walking
again, his path angling to intersept the family.

The older child shrieks as her little brother stoops down to pluck and throw
grass at her. Glissa loses hold of their hands as Julie twists free to swat
at him, and Mikey takes off across the lawn, giggling. "Michael!"

Salem hesitates, then breaks into a jogging run, long legs carrying him
easily on an intersect course with the runaway preschooler. It's hardly a
reassuring sight, considering the ex-Shadow Lord's sinister appearance; he
looks more Boogey Man than Good Samaritan.

Michael is fast enough to suit his blood, weaving his way across the grass.
Julie gives a shriek as the boogeyman leaps out and runs back to her mother,
who to her credit starts towards Michael with far more alacrity when she
sees someone bearing down on her child. The boy goes sprawling and begins to
howl.

Salem pulls up short, and Glissa has the rare opportunity to see Salem look,
bluntly speaking, embarrassed. Embarrassed and self-annoyed, to judge from
the grimace that pulls at his mouth. With quick, sharp movements, he reaches
into his coat and flicks out the dark glasses, putting them on. It's
something to do while Glissa retrieves the bawling child.

Glissa moves a little more slowly, giving the man a determined, wary look
that is not exactly the usual fear of humans unnerved by his presence. She
stoops stiffly, raising Michael and gathering him against herself, while
Julie plants herself behind Mom with her lower lip jutting out, expression
wavering between sullen and scared. Glissa puts her arms around Michael,
stroking his hair. "It's okay, sweetheart. Mommy can protect you." Then she
gives Salem a disarming smile. "Thanks."

Salem, his eyes hidden now, gets his face back into something more in
keeping with his usual felinesque dignity. "You're welcome," he replies
automatically, and then adds, "Though I'm not sure what for."

Michael continues sobbing, and Glissa pauses to whisper in his ear. He
suddenly goes still and quiet, leaning against her. She ruffles the boy's
poof of brown hair. "Heading him off. He's got a good pair of legs." She
eyes the man measuringly. "Like his father."

"I see," says the Glass Walker, who obviously doesn't, quite. His hands fold
together behind his back. "Ah, Jack Salem, by the way."

Glissa holds out a hand even as he tucks his away. "Have we met?" she
inquires. "At a social function, or..." Her eyes dart westward, across the
river.

Salem unclasps his hands and steps forward to shake -- like a vampire that
can't enter a home without invitation. He catches her glance, and the
direction of it, and his brows furrow together in thought. "I don't
_believe_ so," he says, slowly. Warily.

Glissa gives his hand a firm squeeze. Dumpy she may be, but the girl has
spunk. "I must be thinking of someone else," she says absently. "Sorry. Oh--
my name is Ms. Nicholson."

Glissa adds, "and this is MIchael--" who is now staring wide-eyed at Salem
and utterly still-- "And Julie." The girl edges a little more behind her
mother, seeking cover.

Salem gives each child a solemn, polite little nod, and then tells their
mother, "I apologize for startling you. I don't, mn, have a very good
relationship with children." There's a wry edge to his words.

Glissa chuckles drily. "Can't imagine why. You come here often, eh?"

"As often as I can," Salem replies, hands vanishing into the pockets of his
long leather coat. "A little bit of peace in the urban jungle, you know?"

"Absolutely." The woman sighs. "I used to live out in the woods east of Kent
Crossing, you know, but I sold the place after my husband died. I miss it
sometimes. The city's no place to be raising pups."

"'O's 'e?" Julie suddenly demands. "Shouldn't talk wif stranners."

Salem's mouth thins. "No... I suppose not. Not lately." He arches a brow
down at Julie. "And if no one talked to strangers, how would one make any
friends at all?" he asks her. "Hm?"

Glissa's face changes, the first flash of real anxiety bringing her cheeks
and mouth taut. Ah, she may seem relaxed, but she's as jumpy as a fish. "Has
something happened in the city? But I thought that..." she stops, and clears
her throat. "I thought the police had been doing a better job lately," she
appends, as if that were not at all what she mant to say. "At least, there's
less news of muggings here in the papers. Is Harbor Park safe?"

Salem turns his shadowed gaze back to Glissa. "The gangs still avoid the
park, as far as I've seen," he tells her. One corner of his mouth quirks
upward, wryly. "Something about the 'vibe' of the place." More solemnly, he
adds, "As for the rest... hrmf. It's no worse than it's always been, I
suppose, but..." He hesitates, glancing down at the little girl again,
briefly. "Let's just say that I've been feeling pessimistic about the future
lately."

Glissa nods almost imperceptibly, then gives a shaky laugh. "Well, you know,
sometimes the news gets you down. But look! Julie! Show him what you showed
me today!"

The girl looks at her mother dubiously, then takes a few steps away. She
begins to dance in a circle. "Ring around the rosie..." She stops, and looks
flustered. "Moooom." Her mother laughs. "All right, all right. Mr. Salem,
join us...oof...come along, Michael." She takes her children's hands again.

Salem's eyebrows reach for his hairline. "Pardon?" He gives a remarkable
impression of a man flustered.

Glissa nods towards Julie and Michael, the former still eying the man
dubiously, the latter bobbing on his toes, sobs forgotten. "Rosie, rosie!"
he begins to sing softly. "Take their hands," Glissa explains. "Like this.
And then we dance in a circle. It's a--" she pauses, looking at him
carefully, and then ventures with a brilliant smile, "It's sort of a rite of
death and rebirth. Children play it. It's just a game to them, of course."

"Ye-es," says Salem, drawing the word out into two syllables. "From the
black plague, isn't it?" Bemused, almost warily, he unpockets his hands and
takes those of the children -- carefully, like he's afraid he might break
them with a touch.

Glissa smiles wanly. "Well, yes. It was children playing at a time when
things were kinda rough, you know. It didn't touch their spirits. They made
a game of it. And they got through, and the plague went away, and children
still sing it."

"Come ON," Julie says, stamping her foot. She takes Salem's hand with some
authority-- Michael seizes a finger only-- and takes the lead in the little
ritual, circling widdershins. "Ring around the rosie--"

Salem certainly knows the words, though he joins in on the recitation only
if the others do. He has the strangest look on his face, a kind of 'what the
hell am I _doing_?' kind of expression. One might think he'd never played
games or something.

Julie makes up for it with gusto and grace, dancing like a wild thing, or as
near as she can while practically hoisted off the ground by the grown ups.
Michael is a little more random, apparently thinking the main point of the
whole tihng is to fall down right from the start. So he dangles from the
adults' hands and has to be dragged, giggling, feet stumbling along in the
grass. Glissa sings with her children, quite unabashed, a tender smile
touching her features. "Pocket full of posies..." "we all fall DOWN!" Both
children collapse in paroxysms of laughter.

Glissa totters a bit more gingerly to the ground, evidently none too sure of
her knees. She laughs with them, eyes very bright.

Salem's dignity would surely prefer him to remain upright, but he resists
the temptation and falls to his knees in the grass. He almost smiles, even.

Glissa gives him a satisfied look. "Why, you did that like a pro, Mr. Salem.
See? You're not so bad with chi--" she breaks off as Michael, still
giggling, decides to perform a little male bonding by crawling up Salem's
arm.

Salem tenses visibly; the moon's all wrong for sudden attacks by
rambunctious children, but he keeps his cool remarkably well, smiling wanly
at Michael. "Cute," he remarks.

Glissa comes to his rescue, prying the paws off gently. Little fingernails!
Michael's small for his age. "Come on, sweetling, that's not uncle Seekie."

"Groob!" Julie giggles suddenly.

At that, Glissa turns sharply, nearly dropping Michael as she sets him back
on the ground. "Julie! Now, you know that's a bad word."

Salem tilts a look at Julie suddenly, and then arches a brow at Glissa,
studying her anew. "Is it? I thought I was up to date on the latest vulgar
slang."

Kaz makes her way into the large, open meadow to the east.

Glissa chuckles at Salem. "I think it's her word for booger. Now, Julie, how
many times have I told you..." The girl stares at her, face turning sullen
again, while Michael gives the inevitable, "Sis is in trooouuuuble..."

Kaz wanders, down by the river, flute in hand. She doesn't yet notice random
loud children.

Salem makes an understanding 'ah' sound, though he doesn't seem entirely
convinced by Glissa's explanation. He studies her face for another moment,
and then turns to Michael to ask, evenly, "Do you _like_ gloating at your
sister's misfortune?" He remains unaware of the Gnawer's entrance.

Michael shrinks back in mid-jeer, eyes going wide again. Glissa stops her
lecture to look down at her son in concern, then glances up to Salem,
nodding with a faint, "Ah." She leaves Julie be, then. "Michael, why don't
you show him patty-cake?"

Kaz stares at the water for a few long moments, and then launches into a
brief version of the Ode To Joy. Quietly and meditatively.

Salem quirks a wry half-smile. "'Patty-cake'?"

Glissa glances towards the sound of the flute, momentarily distracted.
"Joyful, joyful, we adore thee-- something something," she murmurs along
with the flute. Michael helpfully demonstrates, scrambling to his feet again
and holding his hands up. "Patty-cake, patty-cake--"

Once Kaz finishes playing, she looks around, as if only just noticing she
has park-mates. She squints slightly, says, "Huh," to herself, and heads
toward the little knot of people. It's hard to tell if she's more focused on
Salem, or Glissa.

"...God of glory, lord of love," sings Salem, finishing the line. His
singing voice is quite good, a smooth tenor. Only then does he actually
_notice_ the flute-playing and turns, pulling off the sunglasses and looking
toward the music's source. "Oh he--" Remembering the little pitchers, he
cuts off the swearword abruptly.

"Sawem's in troooouble!" Michael crows, noticing the slip.

Glissa shakes her head slowly. "You probably came out here for a moment's
peace from the stress of work," she murmurs. "I'm so sorry." Then she
pauses, peering at Kaz with faint recognition.

Kaz looks from Salem to Glissa to Michael, as she comes closer, and then
back to Salem. "Hey," she says, "Don' mind me. I was just playin'."

Salem gives Michael a rather wry look, then shakes his head. "The apology's
unneeded," he tells Glissa, quite sincerely, and then -- with all dignity
possible -- nods a greeting to the Gnawer. "Evening, Kaz."

Kaz adds, innocently, "An' you was playin', too, Salem. Weren't you?"

Glissa smiles brightly. "Yes, and here he was telling me he wasn't good with
children." MIchael is still standing there with his hands up, clapping them
experimentally. Julie circles around behind Glissa again, watching the woman
with the flute. "'oo's dat?" she asks her mother softly.

Salem has the look of a cat that's been caught in a compromising position;
he'd be stuffily cleaning his whiskers right now, if he had them. He meets
Kaz's eyes for a good several seconds, then clears his throat and remarks to
Glissa, "Usually, I'm not."

Glissa says less vapidly, "I believe that's... oh, I forget her name." She
reaches for Julie's shoulder, giving it a sharp squeeze. The girl glances at
her and bites her lip, then turns and gives Kaz another look.

Kaz says, almost indignantly, "Oh, come /on/. Play patty cake with the kid,
it ain't like /I'm/ gonna f-go and /tell/ anyone about it."

A flash of irritation passes across Salem's face as he glances at Kaz again,
and then, with all pleasantness, he turns to Michael. "Patty-cake?" he
prompts.

The boy holds up his hands helpfully to demonstrate the claps. "Patty-cake,
patty-cake, baker's man..."

Kaz looks oddly proud of herself. Then she glances at Glissa and mutters,
"Long time no see, yeah? 's Kaz."

Salem follows the child's lead, echoing the words solemnly. "...Bake me a
cake as fast as you can."

Glissa mouths the name. "Kaz. And you're a..." she glances towards Salem and
says, stating the obvious, "a musician, right?"

Julie continues to stare at Kaz warily. Michael, meanwhile, is as mercurial
as his deranged namesake, and has already forgotten his terror in order to
exploit this new playmate to the fullest. "Butcher, baker, candlestick
maker, cobber, tinker, salesman, witch--" apparently the baker has several
customers not in the original rhyme at all.

Salem, exploitable indeed, it seems, falters in the rhyme, clearly ignorant
of this particular variation. But he keeps up with the mutual hand-clapping
well enough.

Kaz crouches down, laying the flute gently on the grass. "Hey, kiddo," she
tells Julie, gently. She seems, womanfully, to be trying not to watch Salem.
"He's one too," she says, casually, "so you don' gotta go bein' paranoid
about that kinda sh--stuff. But yeah, I'm a street musician. Mostly flute,
lately."

Julie smiles skeptically. "Hi." 

Glissa merely nods, her own manner cautious, but kind. "I expected as much.
Any man wearing that sort of glasses and giving off 'I will kill you' vibes
like that is either one of you, or I'd be dead thirty minutes ago."

Salem's torture goes on for some minutes, since Michael opts to make up a
few more bread-consumers as he goes. "Hacker, porkiepig, spaceman,
bug-killer--" but finally runs out of steam. A few more claps later, and he
stands on tiptoe to hug Salem, as far around as his arms will reach.

Salem tenses up for half a heartbeat, then cautiously hugs the boy back --
again, he seems worried that he'll snap the child in two or some such thing.
Then, stiffly, he scruffs the kid's hair, or tries to.

Kaz continues not to watch Salem. She shrugs expressively at Julie, then
notes to Glissa, "So yeah, he's kinda into control, too."

Glissa observes all this with a certain amount of pride, but Kaz's
explanation makes her blanch somewhat. "Oh." She beckons gently to Michael
to come back to her. "I thought you were all just cranky. Kaz, is...
something going on now?"

Kaz blinks, and explains, "I mean, he's just into control so he don' gotta
be /more/ cranky." But Glissa's question makes her go quiet for a moment.
"Yeah." The one word is full of distress and meaning. "How'd you find out?"

Salem again gets an almost wistful expression, just for a moment, as Michael
returns to his mother. Then it's gone and he focusses on the other
grown-ups. He squints at Glissa, then tilts his good eye toward Kaz.
"Family, then?"

Julie says in a low voice, "Mikey can't sleep." She presses her cheek
against her mother's shoulder.

The woman looks up at her steadily, compassion in her eyes. "I have not.
Except... I went to do ritual one night, out in the woods where I used to
go, and I had a terrible, terrible feeling. The Goddess..." She drops her
eyes, blushing. "Little Michael has nightmares he can't remember, but I do.
Something about storms, and a tower falling down into shadow. Utter ruin. I
saw my husband's grave, which I have never been allowed to visit, and I saw
someone chipping away his name with a chisel."

Kaz tells Salem, "Strider," and then does a double take. "The fuck?" It
slips out, and she adds, hastily, "Sorry. D'you remember any more of it,
ma'am, we been havin' a lot of folks who got connections to Gaia havin'
dreams like that."

Salem nods an acknowledgement and then turns a look toward Glissa that's
first surprised, then scowling. Not at her directly, though; his glance goes
toward the river, and beyond it.

Glissa bites her lip. "I... um." She falls silent, thinking a long time, and
then shakes her head. "It was just this big black stone tower. It was
falling down and down. Black clouds everywhere, I could barely see it. And
then... a clawed hand, and the stone, and the chisel. I couldn't read the
writing, but I know the glyph for his tribe." She twists the bottom of her
sweater. "And I know it was Michael's. What's /happened/?" Julie slips her
arms around her mother's neck; Mike Jr., yawning, sits down in the grass to
watch some ants.

Kaz looks as if she's trying to memorize that. "Thanks." And then she says,
"Y'know them Dancer types? Pardon me while I heroically don' swear 'cause
your kids won't like it, but anyway, we got invaded, with a sneak attack,
and they took over our thrice blessed and terrifyingly beautiful Caern. The
Walk's fallen, and we are, in the shattered remains of our overconfidence,
bereft, broken, and in a /guerrilla action/ to take it back. And visions may
be relevant. They may not. But there've been a lot of them." Apparently,
lack of swearing improves Kaz's vocabulary.

"A lot, and similar," Salem adds. "The tower falling, for example, I've
heard before. Granted, Fearless Leader says that they haven't tainted the
caern yet," -- and Salem seems dubious of the veracity of this -- "but it's
only a matter of time."

Glissa's mouth slowly falls open. "Dear Gaia," she whispers. Suddenly her
eyes fill with tears--anger, too, the stress of being near Salem finally
beginning to take his toll. "He /died/ for it, they all died, that place...
gods..." she breaks off, swallowing. "Fearless Leader. Brian still running
the place, then?" There's a certain flatness in the question.

Salem's mouth twists dourly, and he folds his arms across his chest, staring
at the grass. "No. Scurried back to Ireland, didn't he?" He looks to Kaz for
confirmation.

Kaz swallows. "Ma'am. B'lieve me. I know. I've had packmates that died,
friends, closer than close. And I can't... I can't /do/ anything but fight
to take it back, and curse the f--" She stops, casts a hunted glance at
Julie, and says, "Curse their names all throughout this place. It will be
/changed/. /My/ name on it." Then she blinks. "Brian? Not him. He left.
Ireland, yeah. Some Gaian named Robert. French dude. Don't think you've ever
met him, he was stuck out at the Caern.

"Robert, eh. Whatever happened to that sweet lady--Andrea Watson? She's
probably dead too." Her voice begins to shake. "/Damn/ you." Apparently the
kids are not a concern, although both cringe as their mother begins to cry,
and Michael begins to tug insistently on her hand. "I helped you buy it when
you were in need, I faced Dancers too, years ago, years and years... for
you... and you /lost/ it? What right do you have to go on living when you've
lost your caern? What right? Michael said he'd have to die, if the caern
ever fell, and now--" she breaks off, burying her face in her son's haystack
of hair.

Click. "Oh, look, fuck /you/, lady. I'm sorry, but your kids are gettin' an
earful, becuase fuckit, I ain't /up/ to this right now. I been huntin'
fuckin' Dancers, I been scoutin', I'm fuckin' /tired/, and I am goddam
fuckin' /not/ gonna let this stand, because fuckit, they took over while I
was off diddling my toes protecting fucking Regan Street, and I /will/ die,
to get it back, if I have to, but I /ain't/ gonna sell myself easy, and I
/ain't/ gonna do down alone. So fuck you an' the horse you rode in on, if
you think we're just sittin' here whistlin' Dixie."

Salem lifts his head, his upper lip twitching away from his teeth, at once
recoiling from Glissa's teary vehemence and -- for just a moment -- visibly
enraged by it. He grits his teeth and clamps down on the latter reaction,
shoving the beast down by force of will. By the time Kaz finishes her
speech, he almost -- _almost_ -- looks calm again. Almost.

Glissa whispers, "Well, good for you." She takes a ragged, dangerous breath,
and then suddenly wilts, still keeping one arm around her son and her face
hidden by his hair, so that her voice is rather muffled. "I'm sorry. Dammit,
I don't understand any of this. I never have. I... I'm sorry."

Kaz's voice is a little ragged, herself. "I don't either, ma'am. Just, we're
confused about different parts. As for Andrea? She's around. She just..."
Her mouth twists a little. Clearly, this grates on her. "She just decided
she ain't warleader. She says she's a mystic type, not a tactics type."

Glissa swallows. "Oh." She finally sits up, face tearstreaked, and gathers
Julie to herself as well. The children are terribly silent, but their
expressions are not shocked... it's the solemnity of young ones who have
seen such things before. "Thank goodness. She was very kind--" she bites her
lip, looking up at them. "I should go. I should never have come here looking
for you. It... it just felt like I ought to. But humans and Garou don't mix.
We just don't. I'm sorry."

Salem mutters something curt in Serbian, sounding irritated, and then gets
to his feet, brushing bits of grass off his jeans. "I should be going
myself," he says, rather stiffly. His good mood's gone the way of the dodo.
His eye sweeps over the children, then to their mother. "It was,
nevertheless, a pleasure meeting you, Ms. Nicholson." It sounds like he
means it, too, despite looking like he could bend streetlamps with his teeth
for sheer pissyness.

Glissa chuckles sadly. "Yeah. Take care of yourself, Mr. Salem. I guess you
know how."

Kaz bites down on her lip. "No," she says, almost whispering. "We do. The
mix, it's not an easy one, but I became Fostern, living on the premise that
Kin and Garou can live and love together. As I understand it, you lived, for
a long time, on that premise. I ain't gonna fuckin' give it up just because
we're ragey an' you ain't. Specially not when you're /right/."

Salem hesitates, looking like he might say something else, but instead just
dips his head in a stiff little bow and stalks off.

Glissa smiles shakily, but the doubts have returned. "I... um." She looks
down at her children. "But they're kin. Gaia help me, /they/ are kin.
Michael's Garou, they think. But me... I'm just a witch. With a foolish,
wonderful husband whose heart was bigger than his sense."

Kaz gives Glissa a long look. "Whatever," she eventually says. "You're a
witch that's right."

You struggle your way out of the park, climbing over the rusted chain-link
fence and head onto the paved street in the west.