Currently in Saint Claire, it is partly sunny. The temperature is 60 degrees
Fahrenheit (15 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the
southwest at 17 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.22 and rising,
and the relative humidity is 66 percent. The dewpoint is 49 degrees
Fahrenheit (9 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waning Crescent Moon phase (32% full).

Studio(#2560RFJ)

The studio is airy, elegantly modern and full of light: a large,
high-ceilinged square room with almost an entire wall of windows. All the
space is crowded with canvases in storage and others in progress, rolled
works propped up in one corner, easels here and there with new canvas or
finished work. Sometimes the place has two or three pieces in various stages
of development--though usually, one large work dominates the space just
before the windows, behind the green velvet-upholstered couch (which is
quirky and curving, a work of modern art on its own). There's a colorful
Kilim rug under the coffee table--and that table is a sculpture of recycled
blue and green circuit-board and shiny aluminum. Another big canvas--this
one a darkened cityscape--hangs from the ceiling on chains rigged to
runners, similar to those for rack lighting. The work seems to block off one
area for sleeping, since a large queen-sized futon can be seen behind it.
The walls around the bed are painted with swirling color, undersea tones
predominant; they gradually grow quieter as the organic patterns grow out
into the rest of the room, and angles replace curves, until the mural morphs
into a mix of oceanscape and circuitry.

A small, compact bar and kitchenette, a stereo unit, and a plain-lined,
sparely-appointed bathroom complete the artist's workspace.


He wakes to the smell of coffee, and the vague sputtery noise of
percolating. It's late morning, almost noon; the light streams in and makes
narrow patches under the windows.

Salem opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling for a good three or four
minutes. Then he gives in to the inevitable, and sits up, stifling a groan.

The apartment is utterly quiet, except for that odd sound of the coffee
machine going. A vague murmur of protest comes from the direction of the
futon, in its corner.

Salem rubs at his eyes and examines his watch, grimacing as he notices
exactly how late it is. He glances over toward the futon.

Rina is curled up tightly in the grip of a nightmare, her back turned toward
him, shoulders and one arm bare above the tangle of the sheets. It isn't a
pleasant sight. Crisscrossing lines of scarring mark her upper back, and one
shoulder bears a carved X and the roughened circle of a gunshot exit wound.
Her exposed arm seems to have an odd tracery of lines on it, dark against
the skin.

The lean shoulders twitch, and her balled-up body huddles into the shelter
of the blankets.

Salem stares for a moment, then mutters, "Shit." He swings his legs off the
couch, tossing aside the blanket in the same motion, and rises, padding
sockfoot quickly across toward the sleeping kin. "Rina," he says, and then
kneels down, reaching out to grip one shoulder. More loudly, he repeats,
"_Rina_."

The closer view is unsettling. A tracework of scabs, whorls and spirals and
lines carved lightly into her skin, marks the length of both arms. None of
them are glyphs, but the brand on the back of her neck is: a sign he isn't
familiar with, that looks like a symbol for some sort of bird. She flinches
from the contact, crying out sharply--then she scrambles awake, half-sitting
up, wild-eyed and gasping for breath. It takes a moment for the terror to
recede, for her breathing to slow, for the dark gaze to find the unexpected
face of the scarred man. Fear drains away, replaced by blank confusion.

Salem, being Garou, has seen his share of horrific scars, but that doesn't
mean he's impassive at seeing them on Kin. His hand withdraws sharply as
Rina bolts awake, and the half-moon sits back on his heels, regarding her
with a kind of wary sympathy. "Nightmare."

She looks away awkwardly, and sits up, one hand clutching the sheet to her
chest as she curls both legs beside her. A swallow tightens her throat, and
then she whispers, "Sorry. I don't usually wake people..." She draws a
breath, and seems to settle herself with it, steadiness coming over her like
a mask. The dark eyes, still shadowed with fatigue, look over to him. "Didja
get any sleep at all?"

Salem grimaces, lips pressing into a thin line, and stands up. "Some," he
says -- though, like her, he's got those dark circles under his eyes. He
makes a half-hearted attempt to smooth his hair back away from his face and
then turns away, giving Rina some privacy as he goes to examine the coffee
machine. "And you didn't wake me."

Wrapping up in the sheet, she swings her legs over the futon's edge and
perches there. "Oh." One hand scrubs at the back of her head. "You can
shower if you want."

Salem scratches at the stubble under his chin. He half-turns back to her,
blind side toward the futon; he can't quite see her. "Mmh. Tempting, but no.
I have some things back at the motel." He pauses a beat, then asks, "Can I
get you some coffee?"

Rina takes a breath, and lets it out in a sigh. "Sure," she murmurs.
"Black."

Salem nods and, with some stiffness, just a hint of awkwardness, rummages
until he's able to produce a couple of mugs, pouring unsulled hot coffee in
both. He recrosses the studio to give Rina hers. "How long?" he asks.

One hand sneaks out from the toga of sheet, to take the cup and bring it to
her lips. Her eyes close a moment with the simple enjoyment of drinking the
heavy, bitter stuff--and then she swallows, and looks at him in confusion.
"What?"

Salem sits crosslegged on the floor, hands cupped around the warm mug. For
the moment, at least, he seems calm. Bone-tired, perhaps, but calm. "The
dreams?" He takes a sip, carefully.

Rina's expression darkens, the nightmare falling across it like a physical
shadow; her gaze slides away, veiled by dark lashes as she ducks her head.
"A long time," she answers uncomfortably. Something twists at her mouth, and
a tightness comes to her jaw; for a moment he senses it, an unsettling
buried rage.

Salem grimaces, his gaze dropping to study his own dark reflection in the
coffee mug. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked." There's a note of
self-irritation there.

Rina gives a tiny shake of her head. "It's all right." She swallows, and
looks across to him, worry surfacing in the dark eyes. "I-- I'd rather talk
about you."

Salem glances up rather sharply, and his face closes. The neutral mask isn't
entirely perfect; the events of the past week have eroded that. He pushes to
his feet, taking a quick swallow of coffee as he does so. "I'm fine. Hardly
the first time I've lost sleep," he adds with an edge of bitterness, pacing
restlessly back toward the couch. "The caern, and then the... the
safehouse." He stops to take another sip, using the pause to steady himself.
"I'll be fine."

Rina watches him with wary eyes. "Did something happen, when they--attacked
us? Or is it just from losin' a home?" Her voice is cautious, soft.

Salem exhales a breath, his back to her. "Yes. And no." He shakes his head.
"I'd... I'd really rather not talk about it." Changing the subject, he asks,
"Might I use your phone for a moment?"

Rina catches her lower lip between her teeth, invisibly. "Yeah, no prob,"
she murmurs. "It's in the kitchen." The worry darkens in her eyes, as she
watches him.

"My cell was in the house when it exploded," Salem says, by way of
explanation; he's tense, clearly wishing to talk about anything _other_ than
his personal issues. He finds the phone, picks it up and dials. "Voicemail
still functional, though," he adds, in a mutter.

Letting out an explosive breath, Rina drinks down her coffee. Then she grabs
up some clothes and, still wrapped in the sheet, heads for the bathroom.

Salem very carefully doesn't look back, focussing his attention on the phone
with an intensity that's a bit overmuch for so uncomplicated a task. Thirty
seconds of silence pass. Then more.

The water runs, behind the closed door of the bathroom; obviously she's
decided to give him a few minutes to himself.

The silence stretches on. The phone being replaced doesn't make much noise;
neither do socked feet while heading back to the couch. The next thing Rina
hears for certain, over the sound of running water, is heavy, quick
bootsteps across the floor, and a curt, frantic knock on the bathroom door.

The water shuts off abruptly, and when she opens the door she has a maroon
bathrobe wrapped around her dripping form. Dark, anxious eyes look up at
him. "What?"

The ex-Ronin looks like he's gotten a nasty shock. Coat, hat, and boots are
all donned, though the latter are unlaced, uncharacteristically sloppy. That
weary calm earlier? Gone. The self-composure's holding on, but barely --
underneath it, he's gone a shade or two paler, and a small jaw-muscle
twitches. He's wound tight, and speaks quickly. "I have to go. Tell John--"
He takes a breath. "Tell John to check his voicemail."

Rina pales slightly at the sight of him, but doesn't dare to speak. Her
throat tightens in a swallow, and the worry is thick in her eyes. She nods,
and after a moment musters words: "If you need anything," she says firmly,
"call me."

Salem stares at her for a long moment, and in those tense seconds, something
disturbingly similar to suspicion flickers across his face. He leans
forward, one hand on the doorframe, and asks, very firmly and quietly,
"Rina. Have you knowingly consorted with the Wyrm?"

Her skin goes a shade paler, at that, and she draws back the slightest bit.
The answer comes first as a quick, mute shake of her head--but there is
something in her expression, a sickened terror.

Salem stares at her for a moment more, intently, then straightens up and
takes a step back. "John should know where to find me," he says, and then
heads for the door at not _quite_ a run.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The voicemail, left at 5am that morning:

The message begins with 30 seconds of mad laughter and insane giggling. A 
single, male, raspy, whispery, sinister voice speaks over the giggling 
background that has quited down. "We're comin' for ya, Salem." A variety of 
voices join in a chorus of human "ARF! ARF ARF! ARF! ARF!"'s. The voice 
comes on again, giggles are still in the background. "Thursday night, bucky 
booooooooooooooooy!" Snickers and snorts erupt, then get muffled as the 
man's voice gets close, personal, and intimate sounding. "See ya real soon." 
*Click!*

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