It is currently 19:19 Pacific Time on Thu Aug 8 2002.

Currently in Saint Claire, it's a sunny day. The temperature is 79 degrees
Fahrenheit (26 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the
east at 5 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.30 and falling, and
the relative humidity is 34 percent. The dewpoint is 49 degrees Fahrenheit
(9 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waxing No Moon phase (1% full).


Yellow River Medicine Shop- Upstairs Apartment

The apartment has several rooms, the living room, Lyra's bedroom in the
attic, Meiran's bedroom, the Laundry room/Bathroom, and the Kitchenette.
The living room is one long rectangle, and shows signs of an Asian
influence to say the least. The only item of furniture -not- made of
bamboo, it seems, is the vinyl, bamboo-green sofa placed up against the
wall.

	The floor is tile, colored like white sand, with several
snow-white scratches gored into it. There's an umbrella stand right next
to the stairway, a Zenith television across from the sofa, and a small
CCTV screen above it, set into the wall. Several bamboo-slat paintings are
hung on the walls...women playing musical instruments, tigers prowling in
the forest. In the back of the living room is a small, rectangular dining
table. The wall there is covered in family photos and certificates for
things Lyra did in her younger days, although some of the certificates
have been shot full of holes.

	 To the right of the table, the wall is cut out, with a
restaurant-like counter into the kitchenette. Convienient for passing
plates of food between rooms. To the left of the door is the
laundry/bathroom, and an exit to the fire escape. To the right is a small
hallway, leading to the kitchenette, a full sized bathroom, and Meiran's
bedroom. There are retractable stairs in the ceiling of the hallway,
leading to a small attic room with a large window looking out behind the
shop.


Lyra is sitting on her knees on the floor of the living room, a bowl of
water in front of her. Her eyes are closed, breathing slow- incense burns
in the kitchen. She appears to be meditating, or...Reaching?

Once upon an August dreary, as Lyra ponders, weak and weary... or not. In
any case, there comes a rapping at her chamber door. Rap-rap-rap.
Businesslike and such.

There's a sharp intake of breath as the cub is jolted out of whatever she
was doing; again, her efforts where disturbed. Lyra simply sighs, grateful
she didn't spill the bowl this time. Just to be on the safe side, the cub
picks the bowl up as she stands, places it on the dining table and heads
into the laundry room, for the business of opening the door. "Hello?" she
says loudly, standing before it but not touching it yet. Too bad there
isn't a peephole or anything in the fire escape door.

The voice that comes through the door is perfectly familiar, if muffled
through the barrier. "Lyra? It's Salem."

Something like apprehension, worry, confusion- all gives way to surprise
as Lyra opens the door, slight at first, then upon visual confirmation,
wide open for the Walker. "S-Salem-rhya? I...um...oh, the house is a
mess," the cub blurts out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

Salem takes off his sunglasses as he steps inside. His gaze sweeps the
apartment, briefly surveying the decor, his expression stern but otherwise
unreadable. "Am I intruding?" he asks the cub at last, focussing his eye
down on her.

"No rhya...please, come inside." Lyra quickly heads into the living room,
then kitchen to snuff out the incense. "I wasn't doing anything important.
It's a real surprise to have you stop by, but it's a pleasure." On
'pleasure' Lyra's head pops into existence from the empty space in the
wall that lets those in the living room look into the kitchen. She smiles
brightly at the Philodox cliath. "May I get you something to drink or
eat?"

"A glass of water will be fine," Salem says, slipping the sunglasses
inside his jacket and walking up toward the counter. "You live here with
your... aunt, yes?"

Lyra's smile loses some of it's brightness in the short moment she turns
away from Salem and walks to the fridge, reaching inside for a bottle of
Evian. "Yes, but she's been away for some time," she replies, rooting
around until she's got the bottle in hand and stands up, closing the
fridge. "I don't know where, or when she'll be back. But someday." The
Gnawer cub smiles wistfully as she hands the bottle to the Walker from
across the divider. "Are you looking for spiritual or medical guidance,
rhya?"

Salem's eyes narrow at the question, the blind one narrowing to a mere
slit of dead white. "No," he says, accepting the bottled water and
unscrewing the cap. "Actually, I came to speak to you about a remark you
made at the caern last night."

Nervousness floods the cub, hands clasping and unclasping slowly. Of
course Salem didn't make random house calls... "Which remark in
particular? I...said a lot." Lyra takes a deep breath, trying to steel
herself.

Salem stares steadily down at the younger Philodox, his elbows resting on
the counter. "Does 'oh, bloody honor' ring a bell?"

About 24 hours too late, Lyra's hands fly up to cover her mouth. She just
blinks. "I..." The hands come down, slowly, as the cub tries to speak, the
struggle for an explanation not long. "Yes...I said that. I'm sorry I
did," she adds earnestly, almost desperately. "I shouldn't have been so
terse. I lost my temper."

Salem studies the girl's face for a long several seconds, then says,
"...Which is precisely what a Philodox should not do." His voice is
perfectly even, his body language all rigidly-controlled calm as he takes
a sip of water. "I'm sure that Kaz has taught you the Litany. Has she told
you the Creeds as well?"

Lyra shakes her head slowly, meeting Salem's gaze longer than she might
have in the past. But nothing in her eyes is challenging. "Unless under a
different name, I don't believe so."

"Hmnh." Salem's jaw clenches subtly at the meeting of gazes, whether
challenge be meant or not. "Honor is _everything_ to a Philodox, Lyra,
whether that Philodox is a Silver Fang, a Shadow Lord, or a Bone Gnawer. A
half-moon without honor, or who disregards the importance of honor, is as
bad as an Ahroun who flees battle."

From the cant of Lyra's head and surprise in her eyes, this comes as real
news to her. "But...honor is a way other people perceive a person. It can
get in the way of truth by blinding someone who wants it more than the
truth. I thought justice and peace meant everything to the Philodox."

Salem's mouth compresses into a thin grimace. "You've been misinformed,"
the Glass Walker says, rather coldly. "Justice, yes. Peace? Who told you
that? And honor is no more the way others perceive you than any other part
of a Garou's standing. A Garou who is dishonorable is dishonorable no
matter how well he hides it, or how honorable others think he is. Just as
a Garou who is a fool remains a fool no matter how well he mimicks
wisdom."

"Anneka told me," Lyra says quietly, voice mildly reproving without her
meaning it to be. "She said halfmoons are the peacekeepers and judges. And
honor..." The girl trails off, thinking, finally shaking her head again,
looking frustrated. "Maybe I'm confusing honor with pride..."

"We're judges," Salem says, with finality. "And... yes. Pride and honor
are two extremely different things." He takes a sip of water, then
recites, "'I shall be respectful. I shall be loyal. I shall be just. I
shall live by my word. I shall accept fair challenges.' That is the creed
of honor."

Lyra's fingers play about the zipper of her sweatshirt, more out of
idleness that nervousness. "And I wasn't respectful last night," the cub
supplies ruefully. She wriggles her nose, annoyed with herself. "But,
honor, as it pertains to Bear...she seems perfect! It's such a -shame- to
make dishonor so terrible. It was a long time ago that that happened,
Andrea-rhya said. If Bear really was dishonorable, she would be a Wyrm
spirit by now. How can honor be a good thing if people will turn others
away based on solely on it?"

Salem shakes his head. "There are many spirits who lack honor, yet are not
of the Wyrm. Flea. Coyote. Fox. Even Uktena. Bear is simply one of these.
If a healing spirit is required, Unicorn is just as strong in the healing
arts, and Reforged and Robert have proven that there is no lack of
strength in him."

Lyra listens, the nods, acquiescing slightly. "But Unicorn wouldn't be
grateful for the oppurtunity to be a Totem the way Bear would. Why
couldn't we do something...something..." She reaches for the right word,
and misses a bit. "Innovative? If the Caern is healed and well defended,
will it weaken us to know others consider our Totem dishonorable?
It's...not fair to blame the spirit for something that it itself did not
do, shame it, and then refuse to give it a way to become honorable again.
Besides, what if we -did- work twice as hard to gain honor back? Wouldn't
Bear be all the more glorious then?"

"Bear is not a beggar, Lyra," Salem says. "There are plenty of Garou packs
who follow Bear, and there are even small caerns that do so as well. You
persist in seeing Bear as a poor, helpless, unloved and rejected thing,
but Bear is not a puppy thrown out of a moving car, nor is he a kitten
thrown into the trash. Bear has power, but this does not change the fact
that Bear lacks honor, and those who follow Bear lose honor for doing so."
He takes a drink of water. "Also, you underestimate the potential power of
our caern. To be a caern spirit is one of the greatest opportunities a
spirit can get, and there's no reason that Unicorn wouldn't be just as
happy to join with us as Bear." He grimaces faintly, as if tasting
something bad. "Why else do you think that Wendigo took Little Bear's
offer so readily?"

"I don't see Bear like a poor little animal. I think she's something
grand, and wise, and part of the earth. I just don't want to see honor be
the main reason to disregard her. And I'm a Gnawer of Bone, rhya," she
adds dryly. "When it comes to being judged too quickly, it's hard to beat
my family. As for Wendigo, um." Lyra blinks, gazing at Salem as though the
answer was tattooed on his forehead, then decides it was a rhetorical
question. Abruptly, she changes subject. "Salem-rhya, why is it you don't
see peace as a part of a Philodox's duty?"

Salem sets the bottle of water down, his expression turning flinty, like
granite. "Bone Gnawer or Shadow Lord, Silver Fang or Glass Walker, it
_makes_ _no_ _difference_. A Philodox's way is Honor." He really does
manage to pronounce the capital letter. "Otherwise, he... or _she_... is
no Philodox."

Lyra smiles. "Cheers for gender equality," she says softly. "I can accept
that Creed, I think. It doesn't say 'pursuit of', after all. That would
make it pride, right?" Her head stops its canting, and hazel eyes turn
rather murky as they edge their way along into another color. The cub
notices the lack of response to her other question and resolves to bring
it up again in a few more moments.

"Pride and honor can be easy to confuse, yes," the Glass Walker agrees.

"I'm still confused as to why you don't see peace as a part of a
Philodox's duty," Lyra adds, trying to make the sentence sound like an
innocent statement.

Salem answers, "Justice is our duty. Keeping the Laws is our duty.
Discerning the truth is our duty, as is the punishment of those who
transgress." He hasn't smiled once since during the entire conversation,
and he certainly isn't smiling now. "Occasionally, we are called upon to
act as mediators when two Garou are in disagreement, but this is so that
the matter can be settled fairly, or if there is a challenge involved,
that the terms of the challenge are observed. Peace may be a byproduct of
our duties, but seeking or enforcing peace for the sake of peace is not."

Lyra thinks about that...and nosewriggles, backing up so that she can lean
against the other kitchen counter, and maybe for caution. "With no
disrespect, rhya," she says carefully, "That's a textbook Webster
definition. Anneka said a halfmoon has to think with their head and their
heart. What do -you- think about it, what do -you- feel?"

Salem's eyes narrow dangerously, but Luna's in hiding tonight, and his
anger is well-leashed. "I've just told you." His voice is cold.

Lyra notices the eyes, but hears nothing, or ignores, the chill in the
voice. She watches Salem with a mixture of frustration, worry, and
confusion...or maybe she's just debating the distance between them.
Another abrupt change in topic. "Are you happy?"

Salem's expression changes. It passes almost too quickly to read, but for
the briefest moment, there's uncertainty. Wariness. The question slipped
through like a particularly well-aimed arrow and hit home. Then he
straightens up, and the Gnawer can all but _see_ the walls slamming down
over his eyes. If his voice was cold before, now it's wintery enough to
give Wendigo himself the shivers. "That's none of your business."

Lyra's hands, fingers drumming on the countertop idly, clench around the
counter-edge tightly as she winces, teeth nipping at her lower lip. "But
you are a guest in my home, rhya," she replies, voice gentle and without
tremor. Any worries that Salem will come leaping at her from across the
divider can been seen in how tightly she holds the counter behind her.
"You have been served the refreshments you asked for; I have not been
disrespectful, I think; but still you have not smiled, or relaxed." She
pauses, then continues more softly, "Business is for strangers. Such
questions are asked by friends."

Salem doesn't leap across the divider. Any violence inherent in his manner
is exactly that -- inherent, part of him, and it remains under his firm
control. "I came to offer instruction to a cub who I feel has a great deal
of potential despite her tribe." There's nothing in his tone of voice to
mitigate the insult buried there. "My personal life is quite beside the
point, and off-topic besides."

As Salem hasn't yelled nor attacked her, her two greatest fears, she eases
her grip on the counter-edge. Blood returns into once-white knuckles, and
she holds up on finger, smiling a bit. "Wrong on both, rhya. You said that
seeking peace for the sake of peace is not the way of the Philodox," the
cub repeats, tone growing a bit more lively. She even moves about the
kitchen as she speaks, with unhurried but unfettered movements, preparing
tea. "Then you said that was also how you felt. I feel differently. Yin
and yang, dark and light, half the moon- it's balance. Anneka said the job
of a Philodox is to restore balance to where it was been lost. When
something is balanced, its chi is at peace, so a halfmoon must try to
bring peace."

She sets a tan teapot on the counter, a shiny thing with white swans or
herons painted on, and sets tea leaves inside. "Many weeks ago, I learned
of the bad blood between Jarred-rhya and the Gnawers. Jarred-rhya disliked
Aiyana and I because of it, and Renee and Mama Kaz disliked him. Well,
Renee seemed to dislike all Shadow Lords, but." That fact is waved away
with a flick of her hand, like the cub could will it into insignificance.
"Distrust, anger...very bad energy, Auntie Mei would say. Neither was
looking for resolution, but their own prejudices were influencing cubs. So
I tried to bring peace to the situation and reconcile Mama Kaz and
Jarred-rhya. Some tension between the two has been relieved, and now
Jarred-rhya is more accepting of Aiyana and I. There is more balance than
before. So it -is- a Philodox's duty to bring peace where they can, do you
see?"

Salem's expression remains stony as Lyra speaks. He listens, hands resting
on the counter, his face revealing nothing but that hardness, that
coldness. The unyieldingness of a mountain. "Are you done?"

Let me tell you a story about a mountain.... "Nope," Lyra chirps. The cub
pauses a moment as she pulls her hair back from her face, then lets it
fall free again. Somehow she produces hot water and pours it into the
teapot, colorless liquid turning yellow, then green, smalls wisps of steam
rising. "I asked if you were happy. Mr. Salem, if you are unhappy, there
is an imbalance, bad energy. As a Philodox who seeks peace, duty or not, I
want you to be happy." Lyra smiles brightly, one corner of her mouth
quirked a little higher than the other. Somewhere along the line she'd
crossed over to the divider again, teacup and plate in hand, held out to
Salem. "Tea?"

Irritation flashes across the Glass Walker's eyes. He regards the
tea-offering little Gnawer for a moment, rigid, and then accepts the tea
with the air of someone too polite to do otherwise. "I don't need a social
worker," he says, not drinking it, and the anger that's not on his face is
audible in his voice, like a thin snarl of warning and a flash of fang.
"Nor a therapist. And not from a child."

Indignance, and more than a little disappointment, settles in Lyra's eyes.
Not yet beaten, the Gnawer tries again. "Not even from a friend?" she asks
softly, hopefully. The tremor she'd been careful to keep out of her voice
somehow gets there anyway.

Salem seethes, absolutely rigid, but his first response -- one that would
clearly have been both swift and vicious, cruelly cutting -- is bitten
back unsaid. Though his real reply is more calm and without intentional
hurt, he still sets the tea down as though not quite trusting himself not
to hurl it across the apartment. "You're a _cub_, Lyra."

The said cub can't help but take a tiny step back from the ledge, although
she makes it look intentional as she wipes her hand on the towel that is
run through a ring on the edge of the sink. Dark green eyes watch her
hands dry themselves from imaginary stain. "I know," Lyra says quietly,
not daring to look up.

Salem stares at the young Philodox for several long moments, silently, his
breathing slow and controlled.

Lyra just keeps drying her hands over and over. Whatever resolve or spirit
she had seems to be leaking away. "You didn't answer my question, rhya,"
she says, voice low enough to be a whisper, but seemingly loud in the
all-too-quiet apartment.

Salem lets the silence stretch out a moment more, then exhales a
near-soundless sigh. "You want to know if I am happy?"

A mute nod, as Lyra lets go of the towel and looks up, almost wary.

Salem seems to consider his answer, looking ruefully down at the cub as he
does so. "More or less."

The wariness fades to a small smile. Then a wider one, and a giggle. Lyra
quickly covers her mouth with her hands again, but the smile's in her
eyes, and she's not really trying that hard to hide her laughter.

Another person would start smiling back, would start laughing along with
her. Not Salem. He just continues to look rueful, and after a few seconds
he shakes his head wryly and takes up the tea.

Lyra reigns in her good mood and settles for a smile that somehow remind's
one of a blue jay looking pleased with itself. "A very balanced answer,"
she points out, still grinning. "But I'm very glad to hear that. It means
the charm is working."

Salem arches a brow quizzically for a moment, but only for a moment. "You
mean the nightingale. Yes, I remember."

If Lyra looks any more happy, she might pop like an overfilled balloon. "I
met your newest acquirement, Quentin," she chatters absently, pouring
herself some tea. "He's really a bright pip. Did he get a name yet?"

"No," Salem says, and it's good that Lyra is so brimming over with glee;
she has enough for both of them. The ex-Ronin still looks pretty solemn.
He turns a sharp eye down on her. "Nor are you to run around giving him
one. If he wants a deed-name, he'll choose one, or one of us will choose
one for him."

Lyra mock-glares up at Salem. "Deed names aren't cub names," she chirps,
before taking a sip of her tea. And burning her tongue. "Atch!...meh, em,
anyway, I couldn't give him a name if he didn't want it. I thought maybe
Heart of Gold? Because of his wolf eyes? And his kindness."

Salem takes a sip of tea. "Deed-name, cub-name, wolf-name, there's no
difference. Quentin will take one if he chooses to. Or he won't." He
doesn't seem to think the subject a particularly important one, and the
Gnawer cub might remember that Salem doesn't seem to have one himself. Or
else has never introduced himself with one.

Lyra remembers, suddenly, and with surprise. "Say, Salem-rhya...why don't
you have a name?" Full of questions, she is.

"I do," says the Glass Walker, deadpan. "It's 'Salem.'"

Lyra quirks one corner of her mouth, determined not to let him get off
that easily. "Okay, if that's your wolf name. So your real name would be?"

"_Jack_ Salem." His eye glints, and he takes another sip of tea. Still
without the slightest hint of anything resembling a smile.

Lyra giggles despite trying to look serious. "Come off it, you -know- what
I mean! Very well, Mr. I Live By Webster. What's the name on your birth
certificate? Or did you just pop into existence one day, out of the Umbra
and such." It's clear she doesn't hold much weight in the last scenario.

The corners of the Walker's mouth twitch downwards; the question makes him
more solemn, not less. "Officially and legally, my name is Jack Salem. If
you wish, I'll show you my driver's licence."

Lyra cants her head, blinking, caught off guard by the answer in words and
in body language. Then she's all smiles again. "I get it! You don't like
your middle name, do you?"

Salem drains the last of the tea and sets the cup down. "Lyra, do you know
what a Ronin is, in the Garou sense of the term?"

Lyra's not done with her tea- Salem's finishing first reminds her to try
it again. It's cooler now. After a quick sip, "No, but I've never heard
the word before." Pause. "Is -that- your middle name?"

Salem shakes his head, his mouth twisting into a wry little grimace. "No.
A Ronin is a Garou with no tribe, an outcast. A Ronin has no place, no
standing, no rights, and above all, no name."

"Oh," is all the cub says. Lyra takes another sip, waiting to see if Salem
has more to say about Ronins.

Salem explains patiently, though the grimness of his tone adds weight to
his words, making them heavy, like boulders. "Before I was a Glass Walker,
Lyra, I was Ronin. Before I was Ronin, I was a Shadow Lord."

Silence is loud as the meaning of that sentence bores into Lyra. "Ohh,"
she repeats, eyes widening slightly. "I didn't know you could change
tribes. That...must have been something terrible. Being alone, like that?"
The sympathy and awe the cub has for the cliath is obvious; the extra
respect he's earned suddenly may not be as obvious, but it's there. "I
told Kent-" She means Quentin "-that the only thing worse than losing our
old lives would be having to face the new ones alone."

Salem doesn't seem all that eager to go into more detail about his past,
except to say, "It isn't pleasant, no. In any case, when I lost my birth
tribe, I lost my birth name as well. In Garou terms, that person was dead.
So I took a new name." He pauses a beat, then adds, "It _is_ my legal
name, now. Many people change their names, after all."

Lyra nods, sipping her tea again, which is starting to get too cool.
"Auntie Mei used to say that names were for other people to give you. I
used to want people to call me Suu. But she didn't like that." The cub
shrugs lightly. "Names are a strange thing. No matter what the sound, it
doesn't change who the person is, inside." She smiles a bit, embarrassed.
"Well, that's what I think, anyway."

Salem folds his arms across his chest. "Hmh. Yes and no. Names _can_ have
power. We are Garou, after all, not pure wolves, and we gain the power of
names and labels from our human ancestry."

Lyra grimaces as she downs her cooled tea. "Eh. I still can't help but
feel like a per...human. Just one that can turn into a wolf." She flicks
her wrist, twirling the cup in the air and staring down at the tea dregs
in the bottom. "Renee thinks they're Weaverish and that's it, but. There
has to be something really special about humans, since all shifters have a
human side."

Salem grimaces. "Renee is a jackal," he says sourly. "No offense meant to
the Silent Striders."

Lyra seems taken aback by the vehemence in choice of words, but manages a
quirked smile. "I'm sure Geoffrey doesn't mind. But, um,
Renee's...certainly something. She Rited, did you know?"

Salem nods, his expression still dark. "I'm well aware of the fact. You
can also safely disregard her backward ideas of what humanity is or
isn't."

Lyra arches her brows, bites her lip, and quickly looks at some other spot
on the counter, a classic "Mm, okay..." expression. "Salem-rhya, did Jacob
tell you about the cub pack yet?"

Salem arches a brow, but accepts the cub's change of subject without
comment. "No, but Adrian did."

The dark haired girl cants her head, trying to think. "He...did? Was I
there?"

Salem shakes his head. "This was before we took back the caern. He asked
me for advice about being an alpha."

"Oh, okay." Lyra takes her empty cup and Salem's and puts both in the
sink, running water over them. "What do you think of the idea?"

Salem tilts his head, watching the girl critically. "I've heard worse
ideas," he says, his tone neutral. At least he's not disapproving. "At the
very least, it's good practice."

Lyra beams sunnily at the Walker; it's as if God himself had stepped down
to say 'Good tea.' "I'm glad you think so!" She starts drying off the
cups. "Jarred-rhya didn't like it, too much. I don't think he'll let Raven
join, but. Tomorrow is our first get together, as a pack." Clink, clink,
the cups chime as they are set down. "Can Kent come?"

Salem's mouth twists into a little grimace of distaste at mention of
Jarred, but he says only, "Kent?"

"Kent, Quen-tin," Lyra repeats, wriggling her nose at saying the proper
name. "I stumble over saying Quen-tin sometimes."

"Ah." Salem rubs at his bearded chin for a moment, thoughtfully. "Hmnh.
Has he expressed an interest?"

Lyra smiles as she nods. "He said he'd ask you, but that was this morning.
I think I got to you first. He'd be our second Galliard. Jacob's our only
Theurge. We're trying to get all auspices and tribes."

Salem says, "I don't see any harm in it. He may join... for now."

Lyra seems to be walking on air as she puts the cups away, then heads into
the living room. "Thank you very much, rhya," she says earnestly. "We're
going to clean up the Caern tomorrow, all together. Oh." The cub's just
remembered something. There's a strange pause as she eyes Salem
apprehensively.

Salem's eyes narrow slightly. "What?"

Lyra fidgets, then takes a deep breath, lets it out. "I heard you had a
talking to with Aiyana. About her and Jeremy."

Salem unfolds his arms, then rests his hands, closed loosely into fists,
on the counter. "And?"

"And...um..." Lyra looks up at Salem almost apologetically. "I agree they
shouldn't be having...close relations. But the two of them seemed so happy
together, rhya. I...well, anyway. Jeremy seems to think you were
especially upset because Aiyana is a Bone Gnawer."

Salem leans against the counter, very slightly. "They can be as happy as
they want to be," he says coolly. "As long as they're _platonically_
happy."

Lyra takes a seat on the couch, in the middle, and looks up at Salem with
a rather exasperated expression. "Platonic, at least to us pips, means
-just- friends, so they can't be girlfriend and boyfriend?"

Salem pushes off the counter and faces the couch with folded arms.
"Exactly."

Lyra rubs the back of her neck. "Even if they promised not to have...close
relations?"

Salem's eyes are narrowed. "Right." His gaze holds steady on the cub,
almost expectantly.

Lyra's returning gaze is the look of someone who has only one crossword
left, but can't get the word. "Are you just being as mean as most parents
might be, or is it because she's a Gnawer, and not Miss Dizzy?"

"'Miss Dizzy' is as much a cub as you are, Lyra, and will be dealt with in
due time. And not because of Jeremy." Salem's tone is not encouraging, and
just a little bit dire. "And, to be brutally frank, yes. I told Aiyana to
keep her relationship with Jeremy a platonic one because she is a Bone
Gnawer."

"Oh, well, she's a cub?" Lyra muses, now better informed. Then she pauses,
and watches Salem a little bit longer. Finally, her hand comes away from
her neck and joins its pair in her lap. "Why?"

Salem's face tightens, and he answers her with the brutal honesty of one
who has bad news that probably won't be received well, but must needs be
said. His words are poisonous, but his vehemence is well-controlled.
"Because, apart from a few notable exceptions, yourself and Kaz included,
the Bone Gnawer tribe is a tribe of cowards, slackards, criminals, and
hyenas. Exceptions aside, the best are harmless mutts and the worst have
the souls of jackals. They live in shit and revel in shit, and the very
best praise I can think for them is faint praise -- they're better than
the Shadow Lords."

Eyes widen, breath is caught. Lyra couldn't have looked more hurt and
shocked than if Salem had smacked her in the face. "I..." A slight pause,
as she swallows, looking away from the Walker. "I'm sure Geoffrey won't
mind." Her hands curl on her knees, clinging to the fabric of her jeans
tightly. She falls into silence, hands clenching tighter.

Salem waits patiently for the young Philodox to regain her composure; the
sternness of his expression doesn't budge an iota.

If this discussion had taken place anywhere else, Lyra would have run away
by now. Unfortunately, this was her house. One arm comes up and brushes
across her face, tears soaking into her sleeve before they fell.
"That's...my family you're talking about." It's a quiet statement,
although the cub's voice shakes. "Mama Kaz and Anneka and Aiyana and Yi
are...are -wonderful- human...Garou...I..."

Salem's expression, if anything, hardens further. If he feels any remorse
for causing her tears, he doesn't show it. "I said that there were
exceptions. I think rather highly of Kaz myself. But three Bone Gnawers,
or even six, don't change the character of the rest of the tribe."

Lyra refuses to look back up at Salem just yet, just presses her wrist to
her eyes. Her breathing gets ragged, quick. "I...I don't know who I'm
crying for," the girl admits suddenly, back straightening as she looks up
at Salem with a tearful smile. "Myself, or my family, or you.
Isn't...isn't that silly?"

Salem gets that narrow-eyed, faintly suspicious look that suits his
saturnine face all too well. "Me?"

Lyra nods, looking away again. She takes a shuddery breath, trying to calm
herself, but Salem's words have burrowed far too deep through flimsy
shields. "Hate is learned, and a hate...like that...I'm sorry that
something happened to you...to make you unable to see...the good in
people." Every few words is punctuated with a pause as the cub tries to
stop her tears.

Salem gives his head a slight, sharp shake, jaw muscles tensed. "It isn't
hate. It's experience. You're a cub, Lyra, and one of theirs. You haven't
seen the worst. I have... from both sides, from above and below. If you
don't believe me, ask Kaz about the Man-Eaters, and the Hillfolk cult in
Appalachia. In any case, until and unless I am suitably impressed with
Aiyana's character and satisfied with her motives, she is forbidden to be
anything more than a _friend_ to my tribe's kinfolk. As a matter of fact,
since Kaz _is_ one of her teachers, I am giving Aiyana every benefit of
doubt. I haven't even spoken to her, nor put her to Gaia's Truth, since I
laid my ultimatum. I am _trusting_ her not to go behind my back and defy
me." His tone doesn't lighten at the latter part of this speech; if
anything, it hardens more, and there's a strong hint of dire consequences
should the Walker find out that Aiyana _has_ defied him.

The girl shakes her head and laughs bitterly, a strange sound that seems
too foreign for her. "That's what I told Jeremy," she murmurs, a bitter
smile on her face to match her laugh. "I didn't expect being right would
be so terrible...." Lyra shakes her head again, tears trickling unheeded
down her cheeks from bright green eyes. "Rhya, if Aiyana disobeys...it's
her fault. But..." The cub inhales sharply. "Don't you hurt her.
Just...just don't." The last two words are a whispered plea, not an order.

Salem's eyes narrow. "Whether or not I hurt her depends entirely on her
behavior when I confront her in regards to her defiance. 'Accept an
honorable surrender.'"

Lyra's smile is still there, empty as her eyes narrow as well. "There are
two kinds of hurt, but what would you know of the other? Bloody textbook-"
The cub flings herself of the couch and staggers out of the living room,
leaning against one wall in the hallway where she's out of sight, but not
earshot. Stifled sobs are the only signs she's still nearby.
"Please...please go, rhya. It's late, and...please."

Salem's upper lip peels away from his teeth at Lyra's accusation that he's
ignorant of hurt, but she's got her back turned by that time, and then
she's out of view altogether. Regaining the semblence of unfeeling stone,
he reaches into his jacket, pulls out the sunglasses, and slips them on.
"Very well." Even now, he sounds unrepentant. Just before heading out the
door, he farewells with a cool, "Be seeing you." And then he's gone.