7/20/02

Currently in Saint Claire, it is mostly sunny today. The temperature is 77
degrees Fahrenheit (25 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in
from the north at 8 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.11 and
falling, and the relative humidity is 46 percent. The dewpoint is 55
degrees Fahrenheit (12 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waxing Gibbous Moon phase (72% full).

Location: Farmhouse


A large, dusty SUV rolls along the lane and finally stops at the
farmhouse, parking around one side. Rhiannon hops out and surveys the
farmyard, waiting for Salem to exit the truck before locking it with the
alarm.

"Do you have a death wish, Rhiannon?" asks the Glass Walker as he gets out
of the vehicle. Despite waxing-moon tension, his tone is light with dry
humor.

A rather mundane scene greets Walker and kin: Tatt is perched on the
stairs leading to the porch, eating a sandwich. There's an old-model
Harley of some make propped on the gravel a few feet away, next to an open
box of tools. The Strider herself is riddled with dark grease-stains.
"Ain't this place a little too backwoods for y'all," she calls out to the
new arrivals, squinting in the late-afternoon sun.

Rhiannon offers Salem a sly grin. "I have a terrible fear of dying bored,"
she corrects him. She then waves a hello to the Strider. "Backwoods! I
hike plenty. This is just a farm. Speaking of which, how's farmlife
treating you?"

Salem gives the kin a thin, wry half-smile, then turns his attention to
Tatt; he studies her critically.

Tatt seems more clear-eyed than ever before; her clothes are cleaner, and
she's losing that starved-junkie gauntness. Both forearms are wrapped in
medical tape, obscuring tattoos and scars alike. She cracks a grin and
spreads both hands. "All I need's a few pigs an' chickens, and I'm set,"
she rasps dyly. The Strider lifts her chin in a nod of greeting to Salem,
but her gaze is chilly.

Rhiannon does her best to ignore the looks both Garou are giving one
another, and instead examines the Farmhouse, her gaze finally stopping at
the bike. She gestures at it, and asks with considerable skepticism, "Does
it run?"

One corner of Salem's mouth twitches upward. The icy welcome from Tatt
doesn't have him ruffled; he doesn't even seem surprised.

Tatt watches the kinswoman with a moment of consideration, and lifts a
shoulder. "Well enough," she grunts. "Still needs some work to get it
purring." She tips back a swig from a bottle--root beer, in place of the
usual Corona.

Rhiannon nods, walking close enough to the bike to give it a thorough
once-over. "I used to ride, then I had to lay a bike down once. Got lucky,
nothing more than a broken arm, but mama forbade all motorcylces in the
household after that." Reminiscing over, Rhiannon turns back to Tatt. "I
won't lie, we did come to check up on you." Her voice is apologetic.

Salem folds his arms across his chest. "Hope you don't mind," he says,
deadpan. He doesn't look apologetic at all.

The Strider shrugs again, propping both elbows back on the top step and
eyeing the pair, almost challenging. "Whatever y'say, folks. I don't
expect y'all to trust me."

"Maybe it's got less to do with trusting you, than trusting that this is
at all helping you, and a worthwhile effort." Rhiannon shifts her weight,
and eyes Tatt critically. "So is it?"

Salem seems content, for the moment, to let Rhiannon do the talking.

"Depends," Tatt answers cryptically. "What're we talking about?" The
Strider locks Rhiannon with a level stare.

"The smack, most specifically," Rhiannon says flatly. "Do you want to be
clean? You weren't exactly given much of a choice at the beginning, but
there's nothing stopping you now."

Tatt's expression falls grim, reaction locked away behind her sun-lined
features. "I don't think that's any of yo' /business/, _chiquita_," she
points out lowly.

Salem's expression tightens, his jaw clenching. "That usually means 'no',"
says the Glass Walker, keeping his voice flat.

Rhiannon raises one of her eyebrows. "You put a gun in my face when you're
high and jittery, but it's not my problem?" She sighs, and shakes her
head. "Even if I don't like seeing people struggle with H--and I don't,
lobita, because I've seen it enough--I like having high Garou wandering
the city even less. Makes for a helluva day of damage control."

The Strider opens her mouth as if to retort, but stops herself. She
releases a thin breath and leans forwards, elbows on knees, and takes
another swallow of her drink. "..I quit, aright," she mutters, barely
audible. Those topaz eyes are averted, now.

Rhiannon frowns, torn between hounding her over specifics, or leaving it
at that. "You quit," she echos. "So do you think you'll make it?" The
question is gentle, but firm.

Salem's gaze continues to rest steadily on Tatt, even after she drops her
eyes.

Susan comes wandering from the road, obviously just curious as to who's
about the farmhouse. Unlike in times past, Susan take a rather more
cautious approach, checking carefully to make sure that their is someone
that she recognizes before getting too close.

Tatt moves to scratch at her fore arm, then frowns at the medical tape
that prevents her from reaching skin. "I'm just tryin' to get through
/today/, she mutters, still barely above a whisper. She glances towards
the new arrival, distracted.

Rhiannon nods at Tatt, expression softening considerably. "That's the most
you can do, lobita. It's the most anyone can do." There's sympathy in her
words, but at Susan's approach she looks away, and her features relax into
a welcoming almost-smile.

Susan glances from Salem to Tatt and then to Rhiannon whom she's never
met. With an invisible click, she shifts gears and smiles back at the
woman. "Salem, evening."

Salem glances up, finally shifting his eye away from the Strider. He nods
to the Fianna. "Good evening, Susan." He gestures toward the kinfolk and
makes introductions. "This is Rhiannon, kin of my tribe."

The gears shift again and the no-moon turns back to Rhiannon. "Howdy," she
says taking in the ensignia that the woman wears. She takes a few steps
closer and holds out a hand. "I'm Susan."

Tatt lifts her chin in vague greeting towards Susan. The dark-skinned
woman appears preoccupied.

Rhiannon shakes hands with Susan, and smiles. "Good to meet you."

Susan settles back onto the railing of the porch and runs a hand through
her jet-black curls. "Always good to meet one of our kinfolk -- even if
you're not close tied to my tribe." She layers on the irish lilt that
sometimes drifts into her voice.

Rhiannon tilts her head, and guesses, "Fianna?"

Salem turns toward Rhiannon. "I'm going to go check on Francisco's trees.
I'll meet you back here later, all right?"

Susan glances down at her half-black complexion and grins. "It's the
fair-skin, isn't it? I am Fianna; spent a few years in Ireland, actually."

Rhiannon nods to Salem. "No problem. Make sure he's eating, too." She
tries not to sound too motherly, but it's difficult.

Salem arches a brow, then nods, looking a touch amused. "I will." He
inclines his head toward the Fianna, and then heads off around the house
and into the woods.