Date: Wednesday, 14 August 2002

Sunrise Road is a wide two-lane strip of blacktop without any lines,
though the road looks almost newly paved. Majestic trees, both conifers
and deciduous, grow a short distance off from the road, seeming to widen
out and thin out further north and pack closer and denser to the south.
Now and again, a mailbox and the beginning of a driveway can be seen on
either side, and the glimpses of houses you sometimes catch through gaps
in the trees are impressive. Sunrise Road is known as a place where
nature-lovers with a lot of handy cash live. However, interspersed between
the grand new homes, the occasional old farmstead can be seen. Through the
widening area of open land to the north, you can see the grey concrete
structure of the I-90 overpass.

The road runs north toward I-90, and south into the woods. On the eastern
side of the road, a gravel lane extends to the east before turning north
and running parallel to the road.

The day has cleared up and become a fairly tolerable summer day, and so
once the 4Runner makes it out to Sunrise Road and clear of the dust and
dirt, Rhiannon opens the driver's window, allowing the breeze to flow in.
She's driving far slower than usual--a sedate 30 mph--and seems entirely
at ease as they leave the Farm.

Salem has the front passenger seat pushed as far back as it will go. He
watches the scenery go by, arms folded across his chest and quieter than
usual, his expression pensive.

A frightened brown rabbit darts across from the underbrush into the road,
stopping dead in the middle of it as the 4Runner approaches. Rhiannon has
plenty of time to swerve around it, though.

Rhiannon's Toyota 4Runner: 1993, dark blue, snowboard rack on top,
front-mounted winch, tow package, rear-mounted full-size spare tire, and a
modest set of offroad tires. It's well-used but in good shape. The
interior is clean, and it boasts a quality stereo system complete with
multi-disc changer.

Rhiannon glances aside to Salem, then indicates the stereo with a tilt of
her head. "Feel free, by the way. Since we're both so talkative."

"Hmm?" Salem's blind side is toward the kinfolk, and he has to turn his
head almost all the way toward her to look her way. "Ah, fine. In the mood
for anything in particular?" He turns the radio on and flips
experimentally through channels.

Rhiannon shakes her head. "Anything's fine. Well, alright, I'd appreciate
it if we avoided trance for the time being, but aside from that." She's
watching the road dutifully enough, but there's an absent-mindedness to
her expression, as if she can't keep from thinking about something.

"Rabbit," Salem notes, apparantly in non sequitor. Like almost everywhere
in America, the choices of radio seem to be between country, top 40, more
top 40, NPR, and top 40. Fortunately, the public radio station is playing
some interestingly spirited blues.

Rhiannon grunts, indicating she's heard the warning, and taps the breaks.
She attempts to time it so she drives over the rabbit, rather than running
into it with the tires.

The rabbit unfreezes and darts further away from whatever was chasing it.
That 'whatever' comes bounding out from the side of the road, snarling and
snapping at its prey. Muddy, dirty, sickly- everything negative in the
dictionary applies to this wolf. It limps as it tries to chase the rabbit
down, an injury in its left paw. Bad timing and lack of speed places the
wolf where the rabbit had been...and it's a great deal too large to go
under the blue truck. The roar of the engine brings the wolf's head
snapping up to stare at the Walker's; they can get a clear view of
frightened blue eyes for an instant.

Salem glances back up from the stereo controls just in time to see that
the rabbit has, apparantly, turned into a wolf. "The hell--?"

"SHIT," Rhiannon hisses and she reacts to the much larger obstacle. She
spins the truck's wheel in a hard turn to the left, then hits the breaks.
Rather than potentially flip the tall SUV, it locks the front tires and
sends the rear end spinning around, stopping the majority of the forward
motion. The 4Runner leans precariously on the passenger's side but rights
itself after a second, and now sits perpendicular to the street, which is
thankfully empty.

There's a sickening crunch and thump that confirms the wolf didn't move
out of the way. Salem could probably see the yellow head go down
underneath the vehicle as it spun; he was hit broadside, then swept under
the truck. The wolfcub lies there, stunned, as the vehicle tips in the air
for a moment; then howls in agony when the right back tire comes down on
it's other forepaw with an audible crack.

A snarl escapes the Glass Walker, more in reaction to the abrupt movement
and getting jostled around against the seatbelt than in any real anger.
Then he's moving, yanking himself out of the restraints and pushing open
the passenger side door.

Imagine the color white so soft it's like the world blurs around the
edges. This lanky wolf's fur is soft and long, like a Golden Retriever's
coat, only a creamy sort of white. In fact, he resembles a Retriever in
many ways. His muzzle and face are snow-white with a black nose (save for
the dried blood on his muzzle), and past his eyes the color darkens
slightly to a light, almost golden cream for the rest of his body to the
very tip of his tail. Plenty of foresty debris is caught up in his matted
coat. His paws are cream-colored with yellow-brown claws, which are rather
dull, as claws go. His teeth are white and sharp, fangs gently curving
weapons- he could bite much better then scratch.

	His underbelly is snow-white, however, and on his chest, crooked
and just slightly off-center, is a snow-white heart in the cream-colored
fur. His tailfur is long, and knotted with burrs and brambles. This
wolfpup's not very big, perhaps it's his youth. He weighs somewhere from
65-75 pounds, mostly fur and bones- his ribs aren't easily visible but
once seen it's hard not to notice the lean, hungry look in this feral
animal's eyes. As cute and cuddly as his appearance is at first, his
behavior is that of something wild and trapped. His tail is tucked and
cream-colored ears are flat against his head, ready to run at any time.

"What the fuck was that a dog?" Rhiannon growls, taking off her seatbelt
and shifting the truck into park in a single fluid motion. She hops out
and leans over, taking stock of the damage. "Madre, poor little bastard,"
she murmurs as she looks over what is apparently not a dog, but some sort
of wolf.

The wolf is snarling madly, struggling to get out from under the truck,
but is pinned tight. The only free limb it has is its tail and one hind
leg, which thrash around madly. HURT! HURT! HURT! the wolf shrieks. It
tugs again at its crushed forepaw, which crunches a little bit more.

Salem swears curtly in Serbian as he eyes the damage, then remarks,
sourly, "The Lupus are going to be unhappy. Shit." He doesn't look at all
sanguine about the extent of the wolf's injuries; his face twists into a
grimace.

"Damnit, gotta get offa him. Can you guide me?" Rhiannon asks, already
heading back for the driver's seat. "Just shout, or wave, or something."

Salem nods, backing up a few steps from the truck and the trapped animal.
"Go ahead."

Rhiannon rolls the 4Runner forward slowly, not bothering to turn it for
fear things will just get worse.

Salem waves an arm once the animal's paw is free. "That's it!" Once
Rhiannon's stopped the truck, he steps forward again, approaching the wolf
slowly and trying to gauge the full extent of its -- his -- injuries.

The wolf shudders in relief as the tire crushing his leg rolls off; and
yelps and whimpers in pain. There are deep scratches in his hide, strange
bumps that are probably broken ribs. The left paw was uninjured in this
incident- the limo was caused by barbed wire gouging deep into the paw and
joint. The wolf whimpers, struggling to get up, but neither forepaw is
usable.

Rhiannon turns the truck off this time and hops back out, muttering to
herself about wolves and looking both ways before crossing the street.
"You'd think they'd spread the word. Stay away from the Weaverly black
rivers that don't flow, or something."

"He shouldn't have been this close to civilization in the first place,"
Salem says, going down into a crouch just out of snapping range. He frowns
as he looks the animal over more closely. "Hmn. It could be a feral
hybrid. The fur's rather long." He glances up at the kinswoman. "Do you
have a towel or a blanket back there?"

Rhiannon's response is to open the spare tire, then the tailgate. In the
back are a few folded, army-surplus style wool blankets; she fetches one
of these and hands it to Salem. "I've got a kit too, if he needs anything
cleaned."

The wolf can really only manage to roll over, an action which causes it
more pain as broken ribs are jolted. The crushed paw looks a little better
though, even as Salem watches. The scratches on the pelt aren't so
serious, although the blood that welled down his stomach is wet in light
fur.

Salem doesn't take the blankets right away, nor answer Rhiannon's
statement about the kit with anything more than a distracted grunt.
Instead, his eyes have narrowed, and he studies the wolf a little more
closely.

Rhiannon glances around Salem, hoping for a clearer look at the injured
animal. "What?" she asks after another minute of silence passes.
"Something wrong?"

As the sharp pain subsides ever so slightly, the wolf lifts his head,
struggles to get up, and flops over again, facing Salem squarely, eyes
frantic and wild. Jaws snap at the Walker's face, nowhere near him. Hurt,
hurt HURT, hurt, the wolf moans again. The mangled forepaw makes a light
*pop* sound, as one bone heals itself.

"He's regenerating," Salem says, in a combination of surprise and
suspicion. His jaw clenches as the jaws snap in his direction, but he
doesn't flinch away. If anything, he leans closer to the
not-quite-really-a-wolf and snarls curtly. ~Calm yourself.~ Even if Cat
can't understand the words, the sharp tone of command is more than
obvious. And the noise is nothing that a human throat should properly be
able to pronounce.

The word regenerating completely alters Rhiannon's attitude. She
straightens up, watching Salem closely and listening for any indication
that she'll need to get out of the way.

Pop. Pop. In a few more moments, the crushed forepaw is good as new, and
the ribs also. Cat stares up at Salem, and closes his jaws in surprise;
but when all but his left paw is healed, he struggles to his feet, shaking
his head and growling.

"No, I don't _think_ so," Salem tells Cat, firmly. He fixes his gaze on
the lame wolf's eyes, upper lip wrinkling away from his teeth. He snarls
commandingly again -- ~Stop. Stay.~ -- and then, without looking away from
Cat, shoots a question over to Rhiannon. "Road clear?"

Rhiannon looks behind herself, down one direction, the takes a step or two
towards the truck's hood and looks that way as well. "We're okay."

The wolfcub takes a step back from Salem, eyes going from Kin to Cliath.
Fear and anger radiates off the weak creature. Salem's order is keeping
him from bolting, but that might not last much longer.

It's a tense situation, and Salem channels a little of that into a quick
transformation from human to wolf, matching the scruffy, scrawny stranger
in form if not in appearance. Ears erect and head high, he steps forward.
No fear, he tells Cat in wolf-speech, a more instinctual and simpler
language than the Fianna-spawned Mother Tongue. No fear, no hurt. Stay.

Cat whimpers, taking another step back, slightly. Hurt, frightened, hurt-
he holds up the left paw to show this strange shape shifting creature.
Hurt, hurt, hurt. Lost.

Salem keeps his gaze steady on Cat, his body language tense. He continues
to keep his speech simple. Yes. Yes, I see. Hurt. Can you walk to the
trees? Off the hard black river? Safer there.

Interlopers...what a word. A station wagon starts ambling down the road,
towards them. They're still a good several hundred yards away, an elderly
couple in the front seats. They're playing 'Tom Lehrer: Perfect
Collection' tapes.

Rhiannon makes a face. "Hang on," she murmurs to the two wolves, although
she realizes only Salem might have any idea what she's said. Straightening
up so the insignia on her sweats in fully visible, she waves at the
oncoming wagon to go around her truck using the dirt shoulder of the
roadway.

Cat prance/hobbles as best he can, gaze flickering as he notices
Rhiannon's movement. Darker, safer, he agrees, as he starts to turn about,
to go back into the woods.

Salem flattens his ears briefly at the sound of the approaching wagon. He
trots after the limping one, claws clicking on the blacktop.

Mr. and Mrs. Goldenfern come to a slow halt when Rhiannon flags them to
turn. They can't see the wolves, but they notice the truck and its funny
angle. "Are you okay, young lady?" a bespectacled Mr. Goldenfern asks.
"John!" Mrs. Goldenfern admonishes her husband. "She's a po-lice woman!
Not a young lady!"

Rhiannon's face is a mask of politeness and calm as she shakes her head.
"I'm fine, just a small scare for a rabbit and a dog. Haven't moved the
truck yet." She keeps herself angled so she's blocking their view of the
retreating wolves, and occasionally glances at the other directions of
traffic for any on-coming cars.

Cat stumbles into the underbrush, whimpering. A flick of his tail, and the
scrawny wolf is gone from view.

Salem spares another glance back at the road, and then he's gone from view
as well, following Cat. Once they're under cover, he nudges the stranger
with his shoulder and inquires after Cat's identity, somewhat sternly.

"Oh, can we help?" Erica Goldenfern asks, all a-flutter. She nudges John.
"Go out and give her some assistance, Hon."

Rhiannon waves her hand dismissively. "No, I'm fine. The car's fine too,
and the animals have all fled the scene." She gives them both a nod and
turns to go back to her SUV, figuring she's better off pretending to
leave.

John eyes Erica with a sort of stern squint. "As much as I like to be
polite, we -do- have a dinner?" he reminds his wife. Erica glares right
back, then turns off his tape and puts in her own. "Well, then hurry up,"
she huffs. With rolled eyes, Mr. Goldenfern and his wife drive off past
the curious incident, with nary a wiser thought in their heads.

Weak from not having any food in five days, being broadsided by a 4Runner,
and running about two hundred miles in the past three weeks, the golden
wolf half-sits, half-collapses once he's off the road. Lost, lost, lost,
is all Cat can whimper to Salem's reply. Hungry, hurt, lost.

Salem's stern mannerisms relent somewhat, and he eyes the golden one with
pity. He sits down next to the cub. Yes. I see this. Do you remember how
you came here?

Rhiannon sighs with relief as the couple departs, and makes a show of
getting into her car and pulling it along-side the road so she's no longer
blocking traffic. She stops the SUV as soon as it's on the shoulder,
though, and shuts it off--she's not moved more than twenty feet.

Cat struggles to get to all paws again, wild eyes focused on the black
wolf before him. Ran, ran, ran. Afraid. Must run. Not still. Hungry. His
head drops low as he eyes the road to the right, the sound of Rhiannon's
vehicle moving catching his attention. Must run. Not still. Ran, run.

Salem makes a sharp noise of command. No. Stay. Right now, stay. If you
run more, like that, alone, you will not run far. You will stop forever.
Here, now, you should stay. Nothing will hurt you here. Stay, and we can
help you.

Rhiannon waits in her car, trusting Salem will let her know if she should
clear out, or, if they'll be picking up another passenger.

It's easy to see the rational part of the wolfcub- whatever rationality is
left to him -wants to accept the Walker's offer. He puts one paw forward,
to take a small step forward. But it's the left paw, and as barbed wire
digs deeper into his paw, the sharp pain drives Cat past whatever trust he
had built towards Salem. With a snarl, he tears away, breaking into a
hobbled run as he tries to go past the Ahroun. Must run! Flee, flee, flee!

Salem utters a curt, sharp growl and gets to his paws quickly; with four
good feet, he easily catches up and intercepts the limping cub. He lopes
alongside Cat, butting shoulder to shoulder, then rears up to hook a
foreleg over the cub's back, to bear him bodily down onto the ground.

Rhiannon catches sight of the movement in the brush, but stays put.

It's not much of a contest, the bigger and more battle-hardy wolf takes
Cat down easily. Cat howls in anger and fear, batting both paws and
snapping his jaws at Salem as he ends belly-up on the ground. Let go!
Hurt! Lost! The wolfcub stops being coherent as all his world focuses on
biting and getting the black wolf off of him so that he can run away.

Salem bares his teeth, hackles bristling and ears erect. If Cat's running
on instinct, it'll react to the cues of Dominant Alpha Wolf that Salem's
giving off right now. He meets snap with snap; every frantic bite from the
cub comes in contact with the Walker's own teeth, fending him off. His
growl bubbles deeper, more insistant. Still! Lie _still_! Now!

Cat stops trying to rip out Salem's other eye, whimpering and showing his
throat in defeat. Don't hurt, don't hurt, let go, he cries, left paw and
its barb-wire bracelet waving about pathetically. Run, run, run. Never
stop. Run.

Salem closes his jaws around the cub's throat, his fangs hardly brushing
the skin. Then he growfs, irritably. Quiet. He turns a critical eye to the
barbed wire, studying the extent of the damage, seeing how tightly the cub
is entangled in it.

The barbed wire is wrapped around the paw once, digging into the soft pads
underneath, and spiraling up tightly around the joint. It seems impossible
to have gotten there on purpose, but it's easy to imagine a crinos hand
entangling intself in a fence, say, and then wrenching free. The
regenerative ability never had a chance to kick in for very long, with Cat
ripping wounds anew every few seconds.

Salem flattens his ears. He growls quietly in the cub's ear, again telling
him to be still and quiet, and transforms again, slowly, to the brutish
strength of the near-man. Keeping the cub pinned with his body, he reaches
for the tortured paw.

Cat's ears flatten against his head, eyes wide with fear as Salem shifts
into something...something. His shoulders twitch, like he wants to
struggle and run away, but he doesn't dare. The left paw jerks out of
reach once Cat can tell that's what Salem's reach for. Hurts, hurts, he
whines.

"Yes, yes, I know," Salem says, somewhat testily. "Hold still, and I'll
_fix_ it." He turns his head, fixing his one good eye on Cat's pair. "You
_do_ understand English, don't you? Lupus don't deal like that in wolf
form. Or are you Metis?"

Reluctantly, Cat lets Salem get ahold of his paw. Frightened blue eyes
watching his every move. He doesn't answer the Walker's question, though
from fear or lack of understanding is unknown.

Salem doesn't say anything more. Not right now, anyway. Carefully, he
works at disentangling the barbed wire from the cub's paw. He grimaces a
few times as the barbs stab into his own flesh, but getting bloody fingers
doesn't distract him from his task.

Cat does more than grimace. Cat howls in pain and confusion as the wire
digs a little deeper, then pulls away from him altogether as Salem frees
his paw. He wriggles a bit, but in a few agonizing seconds the pain is-
gone. The left paw flexes in Salem's hand, experimentally. No hurt, Cat
rumbles in surprise.

Salem puts the tangled twist of barbed wire aside. His own wounds stop
bleeding, scab over, scar, and then vanish, all within a breath or two.
"No hurt," he agrees, then eyes the wolf pinned under him critically. "Can
you understand me?"

Let go, let go, Cat chuffs, beginning to struggle underneath the Walker.
No hurt, now must run. Flee. Run. If the cub understands, he gives no
sign.

Salem spits out something irritable and probably foul in Serbian and
twists back into a wolfish shape. His jaws snap again, on the air near
Cat's ear. Stop. _Stop_. What do you run from?

The golden wolf is quickly losing the energy to stay awake, having spent
most of it on the rabbit and now the rest of it in this struggle. Run.
Chase. If I stop, he comes. Can't stop. He sleeps. While he sleeps, I run.
Must run. If I run, he sleeps. It doesn't make any sense, but Cat's head
slumps to the ground, eyes wide as he stops struggling entirely. Must run.
Must run. He sleeps. Keep running.

Salem's ears flatten back as he listens, sorting through the cub's panic
to the meaning beneath. Who? Who sleeps?

Cat's left paw stretches outward, trying to reach something only his wild
eyes can see. He. He sleeps. With a last burst of energy, the wolfcub
scrambles to his paws and lunges towards Salem, but not at the Philodox.
Something to the Walker's left, which the wolf is focused on. He wakes!

Salem snorts, then snaps his attention in that direction. He hadn't
_sensed_ anything sneaking up on them...

The crazed wolf's jaws snap on empty air, paw slicing through nothing. He
crashes to the ground, limp and still, completely exhausted. After a
moment he begins to blur, shifting, changing...bones changing size and
shape, fur losing color and length and melting into skin. A dirty,
unconscious figure lies curled up on the ground.

Salem, seeing nothing, snarls irritably at himself and turns sharply back
to the cub, expecting an escape. He pulls himself up short, seeing the
transformation, then reverts to human form himself, mouth drawn into a
tight grimace. "Well."

The Glass Walker eyeballs the pitifully waifish, naked boy that the wolf's
become, then leans down and scoops the cub up in his arms and starts back
toward the SUV.

Rhiannon glances up from the reading she was doing, and immediately casts
the worn paperback into the backseat when she sees that Salem is
carrying...a person, and not a wolf. She hops out of the SUV, moving
quickly but with calm, and opens the passenger-side rear door.

Salem bundles the unconscious boy into the back seat and climbs in after
him. "Do you still have those blankets?" he asks. He's all business now,
and completely calm.

Rhiannon's response is to pull out another old army blanket, heavy and old
but free of holes or tears. It's a thick, green cotton, easily several
feet long and wide. She unfolds it and hands it to Salem, then begins
fetching another.

Cat makes no murmur, no movement. The boy would appear to be dead if not
for his shallow, strained breathing.

Salem shrugs out of his jacket and bundles it into a pillow for the boy's
head, then drapes the blanket over the small frame. "Someone's been
chasing him," he says, without looking up. "Or at least, he _believes_
that he's being chased."

Out of habit, Rhiannon immediately glances over her shoulder at the
surrounding wilderness, and even examines the road. "Any indication as to
what?" she asks as she rearranges a few things on the back seat so they
won't roll around--a hefty maglite, some books, and some maps.

Salem shakes his head. He pauses, regarding the helpless boy, the absently
brushes the cub's overlong hair out of his eyes. "Hmn." He looks up at the
kinfolk and shakes his head. "No. Just 'he'. We probably won't get any
more out of him until he wakes."

Rhiannon grunts, and looks at the boy for a moment. She sighs with
resignation. "Alright, I guess we're probably better off...taking him
somewhere. Your place?"

Cat's eyelids flutter when Salem brushes his hair away. But they don't
open. Just a reflex.

Salem nods, his mouth twisted into a pensive half-grimace. "Yes. My
neighbors don't ask questions." He shuts the door as gently as possible
and climbs back into the front passenger seat.

Rhiannon nods and goes back to the front of the truck, hopping in the
driver's side. She turns the stereo off, not wanting to risk waking the
kid up, and rather than driving in her usual style she continues the
sedate pace of earlier.

Red Mill Apartments #219

This one-bedroom apartment is small, sparcely furnished, and kept at a
level of cleanliness and order that borders on the obsessive. A
greenish-gray couch, obviously secondhand, holds court in the main room,
accompanied by a low coffee table and a nearly empty bookshelf. In the
kitchen nook, which is separated from the living room by a stomach-level
counter, everything is gleaming and put away. The bathroom's cramped, and
the bedroom's just big enough for a twin bed, an end table, and a dresser.

At odds with the strict cleanliness of the apartment is the obvious
presence of cockroaches; one or two can occasionally be seen scurrying
from Point A to Point B unmolested by traps, poisons, or sprays. Indeed, a
small plate with fresh canned cat food has been set in a corner near the
kitchen nook, apparantly just for the benefit of these insects.

Salem carries a blanket-wrapped Cat up to the cramped, second-floor
apartment, still in his shirtsleeves. His keys are in his jacket, which he
asked Rhiannon to carry upon arriving at Red Mill. His arms full, he
glances over at the kinswoman and nods at the closed apartment door. "Will
you do the honors?" The hallway's, fortunately, empty.

"No bombs, no poisonous needles to stab me if I do it wrong?" Rhiannon
asks wryly as she unlocks the door and swings it open to allow the
Philodox and his charge into the apartment.

Salem snorts. "I'm not _that_ paranoid," he says, with dry, dour humor. He
was restless all the way back, glancing over his shoulder at the sleeping
boy in the back seat. Now, he carries Cat into the bedroom and sets him
down on the neatly-made bed.

Rhiannon smirks at the reponse, and gives the hallway a quick inspection
before shutting the door and locking it. She sets the keys down on the
counter, narrowly avoiding a few roaches that scuttle by, and finally she
joins Salem in the bedroom. "Did he have a name?" she asks after a moment.

Salem takes a seat at the edge of the bed, studying Cat's face with a
thoughtful frown. "None that I could get from him. He was nearly
hysterical. Frightened."

Rhiannon hmmms thoughtfully. "Well...probably a run away, question is
where from. Banged up like, he had to have been running for a while,
without shifting to get rid of that wire." She frowns. "And chasing down a
rabbit like that. He can't possibly know how to hunt."

A frown flits across the unconscious boy's face, like he was trapped in a
bad dream. Cat makes a noise, like he was trying to speak, but his lips
don't move, so the sound is muted and doesn't form into any word. He is
still far from awakening, at least naturally.

Salem's gaze is still on the cub, and the signs of bad dream prompt a thin
grimace. "I imagine not." He rubs at his mouth, then says, "There are some
smelling salts in the bathroom. First aid kit, on top of the medicine
cabinet."

Rhiannon quits the room and, after a little rummaging, returns with all
the mentioned items. The smelling salts she hands to Salem, and the kit
she sets on the floor, out of reach of the bed. Just in case the awakening
is sudden and...unfriendly.

[Salem reconsiders the smelling salts, though, and just lets the exhausted
kid sleep. Awww.]