8/1/02

Currently the moon is in the waning Half Moon phase (46% full).

Currently in Saint Claire, it's a sunny day. The temperature is 69 degrees
Fahrenheit (20 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the
southwest at 13 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.01 and falling,
and the relative humidity is 34 percent. The dewpoint is 40 degrees
Fahrenheit (4 degrees Celsius.)

Osprey Circle Fountain

Situated in the center of the grassy mound is a white marble fountain. The
smooth stone of the fountain sparkles and sends off bright shafts of light
whenever a stray beam bounces of its shiny surface. Perched at the top of
the fountain is a soaring osprey. Directly below the osprey, gentle jets
of water spurt up into the air, making it seem like the spray is
propelling the osprey upwards toward the sky. White marble, about a foot
wide, rings the center of the fountain, allowing the formation of a watery
basin. Iron benches sit slightly back from the fountain.

The asphalt roadway of Osprey Circle rings the grassy mound.


Nicodemus is slumped lazily in one of the benches surrounding the
fountain. A Starbuck's coffee steams through a plastic lid near his feet.
He looks to be doing a whole lot of nothing. Or maybe thinking. Probably
nothing.

Salem strolls into the grassy area around the fountain, though the air of
repressed rage turns what would otherwise be a casual motion into a
predatory stalk. He pauses near the fountain itself, studying the stone
osprey for a moment before turning his attention to the area in general.
His eye falls on the slouched goth; he regards Nicodemus, thoughtfully.

It'd be hard to miss someone like Salem, and Nicodemus doesn't. He
eyeballs the Garou while pretending to not be doing so, a feat that
Salem's probably long since gotten used to by now. When Salem begins
eyeballing him, Nick eyeballs right back. Two can play this game.

Salem's posture stiffens at the returned stare, an instinctual reaction
that he abruptly quells, with a faint, grimacing twitch of the lips. Then,
abruptly, as if coming to a decision, he heads over toward the goth.

Nicodemus, possibly unfamiliar with the subtext his look carries with
other cultures, holds the stare for too long. As Salem comes over, he
finally looks away as he leans forward and casually scoops up his coffee.
"Evening," he comments just prior to taking a sip.

Salem, despite best efforts, remains tense, stiff, while Nicodemus holds
the stare. By the time he reaches the goth's bench, however, he's managed
to affect a more casual manner. "Evening," the Garou returns, resting his
palms against the back of the bench. "I owe you," he says evenly, "an
extremely belated apology."

If something could catch the goth offguard, that seems to have done it. He
blinks twice, coffee cup held motionless in his hand, and response with a
succinct, "Huh?"

Salem taps a finger unconsciously against the bench. His scarred face is
quite deliberately bland and quite serious. Whatever's going on, he isn't
joking. "I used to be in the habit of treating people like shit," he says.
"You were one of them."

Nicodemus could probably respond a thousand different ways to that
admission. He raises the cup of coffee to his mouth and takes a sip,
rapidly sifting through memories, reactions, and thoughts. By the time the
cup lowers and he swallows, he has a response. "Why the change of heart?"

Salem tilts his head slightly, considering the question and considering
his own response. "I had an epiphany," he says at last. "A couple of years
ago, to be truthful. But it prompted me to see about, mnh, laundering my
karma." Judging by appearance alone, there's an awful lot of laundering to
be done.

Nicodemus similarly considers the response, giving it more of a going over
and serious thought that the average person on the street might. "That's
good." He places the cup on the ground by his feet. "You, or your soul,
desperately needed it I think." The goth adds quickly to this, "No offense
intended."

Salem's eyes narrow very slightly, but again he represses the instinctive,
porcupine-ish, snarly reaction and merely nods. "None taken," he says,
straightening. "In any case... I'm sorry."

Nicodemus offers the response that's probably expected of him. "Apology
accepted. No harm done." He shrugs as he looks off towards the falling
waters in the fountain. "Not like you've got a monopoly on picking on
goths, either."

Salem's hands vanish into the pockets of his coat. "Mnh. My cousin's
turned into one, recently."

"All out or just dabbling and pretending?" Nicodemus asks, as if there is
some range involved in the whole affair.

Salem considers Nicodemus thoughtfully. "I'm really not familiar enough to
tell. He's got the look, certainly, right down to colored contact lenses.
But his hobbies haven't changed much that I've been able to tell."

Nicodemus rubs his fingers on his forehead. "Just kind of happened
overnight or a gradual buildup to it?"

Salem rummages through his memory. "It didn't seem particularly gradual,
no. One day his wardrobe turned entirely black. Nothing special, just
black." Probably similar to the Garou's own usual attire. "Not long
afterward, it turned... elaborate. Collar, contacts, assorted accesories.
Et cetera."

Nicodemus nods knowingly. "Probably a girl," he explains. "If that's not
his usual thing."

"Hrm," says Salem. He ponders this a moment, then shakes his head. "I know
he was dating the one girl when it happened, though I don't think she was
part of the subculture at all. And he's recently broken up with her."

"Still, he might be trying to attract a gothette's attention," Nicodemus
claims. "Or he might have just discovered the nightlife scene and just
enjoyed it, the music, the people. Honestly, I really wouldn't worry to
much about it. There's only three real pitfalls to watch out for. Bad
drugs, which, you know, are about as hard to score as candy bars
regardless of what group you hang out with. Psychos, which, again, are
pretty garden variety in most groups these days. And blood dolls, which
seems to be largely limited to the gothic culture. But anyone who goes
around drinking other people's blood or cutting themselves so other people
can drink their blood isn't terribly bright to begin with. And it's really
just a subset of the psychos, really. Psychos playing vampires. If he
steers clear of those three things, you've little to worry about."

Salem absorbs the advice with all due seriousness, his gaze resting
unwaveringly on the elder goth. At the end of it he nods acknowledgement.
"Hmn. I'll keep that in mind. Thank you."

Nicodemus gets to his feet, leaving the half-empty Starbucks cup on the
ground. "Like I said, probably nothing to worry about, really. Unless he's
the type to cave to peer pressure." He runs a hand through his hair,
brushing it out of his eyes. "If you need any more advice, you know where
to find me." He begins walking off.

Salem flicks a glance down toward the abandoned cup, a flash of irritation
passing across his face. But his voice remains calm. "Indeed. Have a good
evening."