Mon Aug 26 2002.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is a cloudy day. The temperature is 67
degrees Fahrenheit (19 degrees Celsius). The wind is calm today. The
barometric pressure reading is 30.31 and steady, and the relative humidity
is 70 percent. The dewpoint is 57 degrees Fahrenheit (13 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waning Gibbous Moon phase (78% full).


After everything that's gone on, Jack Salem simply crashes. The bedroom
door is kept only mostly closed, and apart from several bouts of dreaming
restlessness, he sleeps well past his usual crack-of-dawn wake-up call.

Blue eyes narrow, following a cockroach as it scuttles past a dark nose.
Cat's ears flick in annoyance. He hasn't moved from his spot underneath
the stool, except to shift position when his muscles cramped. There was
something comforting about having a tail, and being furry. But all the
tails in the world couldn't cheer him up enough to go make breakfast, even
as bubbles popped in his complaining stomach.

By the time Salem returns to the land of wakeful consciousness, it's
almost noon. Even with the door mostly closed, lupine ears can detect the
change in the sound of the Philodox's breathing. The bed makes small
creaking noises as Salem sits up and swings his legs over the side. Then
it's quiet for a while.

Cat's head lifts up at the squeak of bedsprings, only to promptly knock
itself into the stool. The cub yips unhappily, backscrabbling out from
under the stool and pawing uselessly at a spot behind his ear. After the
sharp pain at the crown of his head subsides, he pads a bit towards
Salem's bedroom, ears pricked forward and eyes hopeful.

There's the sound of a sigh, and then the bedsprings squeak again as Salem
gets to his feet. Bare feet pad across the uncarpeted floor, and then the
bedroom door opens, revealing a Glass Walker who looks almost as worn out
by too much sleep as from not enough of it. His long hair hangs wild, most
of it pushed away from his face with one thick lock hanging stubbornly
over the scarred side of his face. He stares down at the cub, lips pressed
together into a thin line. He's still dressed in the t-shirt and
sweatpants he donned after the shower yesterday, and they're wrinkled.

It's almost as if he was shy, the way the cream-colored wolf tries to hide
behind the counter and look up at Salem at the same time. Good morning? is
the hesitant greeting. One paw taps the ground softly, nervously.

The Philodox leans against the wall with one hand while the other drags
itself through the unkempt mass of black hair. "My lease," Salem says
tiredly, "does not allow pets. Please shift back."

Cat's ears flatten as he pulls back, behind the counter. After a moment he
begins to blur, shifting slowly as he concentrates, finally reaching
homid. He sits with his back to the counter, arms wrapped around his
knees. "Sorry sir," he mumbles, eyes cast low.

A flash of irritation passes across Salem's face; he grits his teeth, then
stalks over toward the couch and sits down with a grunt. "Come here," he
says, his voice even.

The small boy pushes himself up from the floor and walks over to Salem-
but his eyes never leave the ground. His arms hang limply by his sides,
and his expression is neutral. He's expecting punishment.

Salem leans forward, hands resting on his knees. "Look at me, Cat."

Cat flinches, but looks up as requested. Scared blue eyes meet the
Walker's gaze. His fingers curl slightly, pressing into his palms. "Yes
sir?"

Salem takes a deep breath. In precise, measured tones, he says, "For
reasons that are completely and entirely unrelated to you or your
behavior, I need some time alone. I am not abandoning you. I am not
getting rid of you. I'm just going to let another member of our tribe
house you while I... get some things organized. I'll even be visiting you,
and I will continue to teach you."

The cub's scared expression moves towards something more like distrust, an
unwillingness to believe or accept. "Will I get to come back?" is Cat's
trembling question.

Salem rubs at his forehead. "If you want. Eventually."

Cat still doesn't look like he quite believes Salem, but he reluctantly-
very, very reluctantly -accepts it. "'Kay," is his mumbled reply, as his
gaze goes down to his sneakered feet. "I'll go." There's a pause, and then
the theurge cub looks back up, apologetic. "I'm sorry about...last night."

Salem's mouth takes on a wry little twist. "It's forgotten," he says,
straightening up. He rises from the couch and stretches, grimacing. "Have
you eaten yet?"

Blond curls fly as Cat shakes his head. "No sir," he says softly, toes of
one shoe digging into the floor. "But...I can make pancakes, if you'll let
me."

Salem looks down at the boy, looking slightly dubious. "Only if you're
making them for yourself, too."

Cat smiles a bit, chin tilting upward proudly. "I can make good pancakes,"
he informs the Walker cliath. "And omlettes. And peanut butter and jelly
sandwiches." He cants his head a bit, thinking. "Um...I think that's all."

Salem manages a tired, faint smile at that, then turns and heads for the
bathroom. "Pancakes it is, then."

With great seriousness, Cat heads into the kitchen, pushing his sleeves
back over his elbows. His bangs dangle in front of his eyes as he starts
poking around in shelves and closets for the necessary ingredients.

Everything's there, and everything's neatly organized, too. Salem leaves
the boy to it while he starts the process of returning to something like
his normal well-groomed self.

Clang, goes the griddle as Cat places it on the stove. He reaches for oil
and carefully pours it into the pan, then reaches over and turns on the
stove. There. Now, the pancake mix- eggs and water. Easy enough. In a few
moments Cat has enough of the pale yellow mixture to feed a pack. He goes
about finding a ladle. He'd do something right, even if it -was- just
making pancakes.

Salem's kitchen has enough of a variety of utensils that one may very well
suspect his sexuality, but it's perhaps not wise to wend one's thoughts in
that direction. In the background, the sound of an electric razor finally
clicks off, and the shower starts. It's all quite calm and safe and
domestic. Like hamburgers.

Ladle in hand, Cat starts scooping the mixture up and letting it dribble
into the pan. He has an awkward grip on the ladle, but he manages not to
spill (much). The oil sizzles around the circle of soon-to-be-pancake. The
cub grins at his handiwork, eyes sparkling. He liked cooking. Maybe if the
food put Salem into a better mood, he could ask to play with the Palm
Pilot again.

By the time the pancakes are done, the shower's been turned off and
Salem's made the trip from bathroom to bedroom, pausing briefly to eyeball
the young cook when his back's turned. Then he goes to get dressed and
brush out his hair. The latter task alone'll take several minutes.

Cat eyes his small mountain of golden-brown flapjacks with an inordinate
amount of pride. Yes, yes he made -good- pancakes. He starts getting out
plates and utensils, and then pancakey condiments like brown sugar,
butter, syrup. When Salem emerges, he'll be greeted with a perfectly
arranged table setting on the counter with two pancakes on each plate, and
a smug cook sitting on a stool.

Salem emerges, fully dressed except for his boots, sees all this, and
shakes his head in bemusement. Crossing the floor, he takes the stool
opposite. "Taught yourself how to cook?" he asks.

"Yes sir," is the soft reply. "He liked pancakes." Then Cat bows his head
over steepled fingers, mumbling grace.

Salem, as usual, gives Cat the courtesy of silence during the meal prayer,
though doesn't join in himself. Then he starts in. Even dour, saturnine,
depressed former Shadow Lords get hungry, and he hasn't had anything to
eat since... Saturday evening, before visiting Rina.

Once he's done, Cat waits patiently for Salem to use the syrup and butter
before reaching for them himself. First, though, he sprinkles a liberal
amount of brown sugar.

Silence settles over the meal, broken only by the clink of forks on plates
and the like. Between the pensive Philodox and the less-than-outgoing
young Theurge, there isn't much in the way of light brunch conversation.
The sharp, authoritive knock on the door breaks the spell.

Cat looks up and over his shoulder curiously, fork still in his mouth.
"Mm?" He chews his mouthful of pancake and lowers the fork, glancing back
at Salem.

Salem looks rather sharply toward the door. Then, very carefully, he sets
down his fork, wipes his mouth, and gets up. "Keep eating," he tells Cat,
perhaps uselessly. A squint through the peephole confirms his suspicions,
and his face... twitches, very subtly. Then his expression smooths into
bland neutrality. He gathers himself, then undoes the latches and locks
and opens the door.

The slightly taller Walker Elder stands there, trenchcoat, scars and all.
Though in an effort to appear less intimidating, the shades are gone.
Clear, sharp, ice-blue eyes regard the Philodox briefly, then scan the
rest of the apartment. "Came to meet Cat," he says lowly and smoothly.

The man of the hour blinks as Salem goes to open the door- and blinks
again as his name is mentioned. The cub stays rooted to his seat, fork
making idle patterns on the plate as he watches the two men warily.

Guarded, even wary, Salem steps back to give John room to enter. He
gestures over toward the counter, still cluttered with the meal that's
still mostly in progress, albeit almost finished. "There he is."

"Breakfast..." John notes, with mild interest, as he enters as if he owned
the place. The large man stalks gracefully towards the counter, and the
boy there. Eyes intent on the cub, measuring what he sees. "Morning," he
greets with a ghost of a smile crossing his face. "I'm John. ...Smith."
The last is tacked on as an afterthought. He extends a hand for shaking.

Cat frowns slightly up at the towering man, placing his smaller hand in
the offered one for a very brief handshake. "Your name is the same as
Mister Salem's password," the theurge cub notes idly.

The Elder's head turns slightly, as he looks to Salem with the faint
arching of an eyebrow in query.

Salem is an intimidating son of a bitch, but he seems oddly... subdued, in
the Ahroun's presence. And still guarded; his body language is very
controlled and his expression reveals little. Closing and locking the door
behind Smith, he explains. "I had Quentin come over to give him some
clothes while I was at work."

Cat's fingers go about his fork again, and keeping his eyes on John, he
starts to eat the last of his pancake. No smiles are offered his way, nor
questions. Salem wasn't jumping for joy around this person; and what Salem
did, Cat did.

John nods faintly, and moves around the counter a little, to lean against
it idly, watching the cub. "You like it here, Cat? Settling in OK? Salem
given you the rundown?"

If Cat's looking for help in Salem's direction, the Philodox isn't
providing any. He simply collects his own plate, which is empty, and takes
it over toward the sink. Completely stone-faced.

Blue eyes follow Salem, looking for some sign of what to say- left with no
clues, Cat is forced to go it alone. "I like it here," he mumbles, looking
down at his plate. "Mister Salem told me everything, sir. But I'm leaving
soon."

John arches an eyebrow with surprise - his gaze immediately turning to
Salem in confusion, and a hint of suspicion. He looks back at Cat, trying
to keep himself from frowning. "Why?"

Salem glances up from the sink, half-turning to fix a dark eye first on
the Elder and then the cub. He turns around fully after a moment and leans
against the sink, arms folded across his chest, face tight.

Cat's sneakers knock against the counter again, as he shrugs and looks up
with a half-hearted smile. "Mister Salem says I need other people to train
me now," he answers after a moment. One hand reaches up to bat his hair
out of his eyes, and then he looks back at his now-empty plate.

Concern and confusion line John's features. He looks back at Salem
quizzically. "Who would he live with who can train him in what you can't?
There's Frankie and Leala. I thought... this was a /good/ arrangement."

Small muscles tense and tighten in Salem's jaw. Rather than answer
immediately, though, he turns a look toward the cub. "Cat. Go get cleaned
up."

The blond boy twists out of his seat with plate and utensils in hand with
nary a murmur of protest. The dirty dishes are placed carefully into the
sink, and then Cat disappears into the bathroom. The door doesn't shut
properly- the lock is broken. There's the dull splash of water running.

As soon as the cub's gone, John's eyes lock with Salem's. Narrowed
slightly, and considering. "So when'd you decide he needed to move out?
Last night? Yesterday morning?"

Salem's eye follows the cub's progress. He waits until the door closes
before turning that monocular gaze to John's face. His reply is tight and
cold, completely controlled. "Yesterday. On the way back. Last night
confirmed it." He meets the other's gaze squarely, his voice still pitched
quiet, but no less intent. "_He can't stay here._ Not if he's going to
grow up. Not if he's going to be worth anything."

The Ahroun folds his arms, settling back - prepared for this to get
lengthy. His tone remains mild, however, and his eyes only considering; no
recognizable emotion portrayed even in his eyes. "Explain it to me. In
detail. Where's he going, and what do you have planned for the boy's
development?"

Cat takes his hands out from under the faucet, and watches the water run
for a moment before turning it off. He can hear snippets on the
conversation, if he listens hard enough. He stares into the sink basin,
expression plain, and feeling numb.

Salem looks, acts, and sounds almost entirely like his normal,
cold-as-ice, perfectly-controlled self, like nothing's ever happened, and
nothing ever _will_ happen. Like he has everything completely and utterly
Under Control. "He stays with me, and he'll just continue in the same
habits that his damned father beat into him. He's intelligent, yes,
obedient, yes, completely accepting of his new life, _yes_... but that's
because he's been broken like a damned pack mule. When I told him, last
night, that I was taking him to live elsewhere, he acted like a weepy
child about it. The one bit of spine he _did_ show was to try to run away
into the Umbra... and then, at the first obstacle, he came running back to
me in tears wondering what the bloody hell he did wrong." Some of the mask
cracks a bit near the end; his gaze drops as he lowers his head to pinch
at the bridge of his nose. "He treats me like I'm his damned father."

John narrows his eyes as he leans forward. The words he has in reply are
uncharacteristically rough - the sharp white teeth far too prominent as he
speaks. "His father abused him, rejected him. How is that going to change
for any other you stick him with? You're just tossing him away, you have
no plans for how to /fix/ the problem! You think he wouldn't find
something to latch onto with Francisco? Or Leala? And you /know/ I have a
problem with cubs living with Kin. Jeremy's stupidity in that choice will
be his own downfall, if it ever happens." Pause for a tangent. "Sometimes
I think the boy /wants/ to be clawed to death, as if it would justify all
his fears and resentment. But I'm /not/ going to fuel it by sticking him
with cubs. Same goes for Rhiannon, but for reasons of courtesy."
Straightening up, John rumbles, "/Be/ the boy's father, if necessary. But
be a /good/ one, so he sees a difference. So he can grow. I suspect we're
both orphans. But we were /Ahrouns/. There's a difference."

Salem's hand drops away from his face. He looks back up as John starts to
speak, and his face and body language go absolutely rigid. The moon's
still too close to full, and there's a small twitch underneath his good
eye, a very subtle facial tic. "You suspect wrong," he says flatly. "And
do you really want me responsible for that boy's shit when--" He stops,
the wall slams back down over his eyes, and his voice goes from fire back
to ice. "Is that an order, Mr. Smith?"

Cat doesn't say anything, just sits on the floor of the bathroom and curls
up, leaning against the wall slightly. It was strange to hear people ,
arguing over him. It was like they cared what happened to him...but then
he tunes the voices out and stares at the tile in front of him.

John just stands there, staring at Salem for a while. Expression
quietening, he just... looks. Considering the other man. Eventually, he
rumbles lowly, "Wouldn't mean anything if it was, would it? That's your
excuse, isn't it? 'It was an order'." Another pause, and the Ahroun seems
to be fighting to keep disgust from entering his expression. "How about
you grow some balls and make the decision, you stubborn sonofabitch."

Salem grits his teeth, molars grinding together as the Ahroun's words hit
home. Somehow, he manages to keep from clenching his hands into fists.
Underneath that wall of ice, he's snarling; anger feels better than shame
any day. After a few moments of slow, careful breathing, nostrils flaring,
he rasps, "Fine, then. He stays."

Cat's eyelids begin to droop a bit...mindless staring had a tendency to
make him fall asleep. That was usually his escape from a situation he
didn't like- sleeping. He'll stay curled up in the bathroom until someone
or something snaps him out of his self-induced daze.

John closes the distance between the two of them, but this time not as
quickly as when he was using violence. Instead, there's a warning there -
in posture and eyes, as he leans forward, very close to the one-eyed face.
"Crunch time, Salem," he says tightly. "You can be a man... or you can be
the Dark One. El Diablo. /Make/ your choice and live with the
consequences." It's with a visible effort that the Elder straightens and
smoothes down his coat with an absent gesture. The face settles into a
calm mask of neutrality. "I'm leaving now, Cat," he calls out, to the
bathroom. Piercing blue eyes on Salem's. "I'll come by in a couple days
and we can get to know each other a little better." His voice drops
slightly. "Welcome to the Glass Walkers of Saint Claire."

Salem doesn't move an inch -- if anything, as John stalks closer, he goes
even more rigidly still, more anger leaking out of the corners and cracks
of his tensely neutral expression. It's that stubborn, pure-iron will,
hard and brittle. He doesn't say a word. Not one syllable.

Blue eyes blink as his name is called out, and that's the key to bringing
Cat back to reality. Thinking he'd been summoned back out to the living
room, he crawls out from under the sink and gets to his feet, opening the
door a little to stare out into the living room at the two cliaths. His
gaze goes first to Salem, then to John- and stays on John. "Yessir," he
murmurs softly.

One's as rigid as a post, the other's casually dusting imaginary dust off
a lapel. The casual John gives Cat a brief, faint smile, and inclines his
head respectfully. "Don't worry about speaking up. In fact... can the 'yes
sir' stuff. We're family, here. When you Rite, you'll be a brother in
arms. Not a subordinate. I'll see you in a few days, and we'll talk about
making that happen sooner rather than later, hm?"

Salem slowly, gradually, gets himself back further under control, pushing
down the rage, the humiliated anger, everything. He reaches for calm, and
-- step by torturous step -- gets closer to it. The glint in his eye as he
looks toward John Smith has a hint of murder in it.

The smile and genial request doesn't change the neutral, wide-eyed look on
Cat's face. "Yesi-" he starts, catches himself, stops, and tries again.
"Yes Mister Smith." Okay, not much of an improvement.

Regarding Cat blankly for a few moments, John eventually shrugs faintly
with an 'Oh well. I tried' look, and nods perfunctorily in dismissal as he
heads for the door. The contradiction between his conflict with Salem and
his little speech to Cat seem to escape the Ahroun completely, as he heads
for the door.

Salem still doesn't move. He breathes, inhaling and exhaling with
something that more and more almost entirely resembles perfect calm. He
lets John find his own way out.

Cat edges out from the bathroom, closing the door behind him, eyes
flickering between the two adults. He considers going into the kitchen to
wash his dishes, but doesn't know if getting closer to Salem is a good
idea.

John handles the locks with a speedy efficiency, and nods to Cat
thoughtfully as he slips out. The door's closed... and - irritatingly -
the locks secure themselves, too, a moment later.

A few heartbeats after John leaves, Salem turns an eye toward the cub.
"Congratulations," he says, flatly. "You're staying. Now go clean up, like
I told you to do. I'll take care of the dishes."

Having tuned out to the conversation for the most part, Cat can only
conclude that John was responsible for this miracle. A small smile spreads
across his face, and he quickly dips his chin so that it can't be seen. He
turns about and heads back into the bathroom, sparing himself a glance in
the mirror for a frown at his too-long curls, before getting into the
shower.

Salem waits for the sound of the shower running, then a few seconds more
to give the cub time to get under the running water, and then he turns and
slams his fist into the wall with enough force to split skin and break
knuckles. The pain gets a strangled grunt from him, nothing more. Then,
cradling the hand close to his body, he leans against the counter and
counts to fifty, breathing as hard as though he'd just run a marathon.

The theurge cub gets under the shower water, letting the cold liquid
trickle into his hair and make it even more of a hassle in his eyes. A
muted thump reaches through the door and the sound of water striking
porcelain. Cat glances out towards the living room, worried, but doesn't
move out of the shower.

An eventual shift to Glabro puts the broken hand back to rights. Then,
returning to human form, Salem very calmly and very methodically washes
his hands, cleans the traces of blood from the wall, and starts clearing
the remnants of the meal away.

Cat scrubs himself clean, paying little attention to his hair other than
wish it was cut. Then he turns off the shower, stepping out and wrapping a
towel around himself tightly. He was staying. That was good, wasn't it? It
meant Mister Salem wanted him to stay. Right?

What Mister Salem truly wants is, perhaps, a question to which even Mister
Salem really doesn't know the answer. At the moment, he focusses on the
highly simple task of washing dishes, his face blank.


[Later...]


It is currently 20:10 Pacific Time on Mon Aug 26 2002.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is mostly cloudy. The temperature is 72
degrees Fahrenheit (22 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in
from the northwest at 6 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.25 and
steady, and the relative humidity is 61 percent. The dewpoint is 58
degrees Fahrenheit (14 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waning Gibbous Moon phase (76% full).

Whispering Pines - Jeremy's Apt

This apartment gives a look of high expense, not in the building itself,
but it's contents. The walls and ceiling are painted pure black, and the
carpet matches the darkness, save for some off color fuzz, being that it's
a pretty new carpet. Across from the door in the living area is a large
black entertainment center consisting of a not suprisingly black 42" TV, a
large fully digital stereo system with CD and tape players, AM/FM stereo,
a setting for the TV, and a useless setting called 'phono'. There are
various gaming systems tucked into the entertainment center as well,
baring names like Dreamcast, Playstation and Playstation 2, various
systems with the word 'Nintendo' upon them... 3D0, NeoGeo, and finally
something called a 'colecovision'. This system is complemented nicely by a
high quality Bose surround sound speaker system. Two black leather couches
are on the left and right of the living area, angled at the entertainment
center. A large chest rests on the ground between the couches and the
entertainment center, working as a foot rest. The only sources of light
are the LEDs on the stereo, the TV, and a small blacklight bulb in the fan
in the center of the apartment. A door to the right of the apartment leads
to Roger's bedroom(+view) and the small kitchen is visable on the right
side of the apartment, almost a part of the living room. The kitchen is
lit up by a hallogen lamp, resting next to the front door, pointed towards
it.

There is knockage at the door. A glance at the monitor reveals Rhiannon,
armed with white plastic bags that suggest she comes bearing gifts. Or at
least take out.

A brief look at the monitor confirms the visitor's identity, and Quentin
reaches over to open the door for her. He looks, if anything, tired..
though he offers a faint smile back to Rhiannon as he steps away to let
her in. "Hey. C'mon in."

"Hola, lobito." Rhiannon raises the bags for inspection, and the smell of
thai cooking drifts out from them. "Dinner, if you're interested." She
accepts the offer to come in, and makes for the kitchen.

"Dinner sounds good," Quentin says with a faint chuckle, reaching to close
the door before casting after her, "Hey, uh, can I ask a real frank
question about one of the other tribes?"

Rhiannon sets the bags down on the counter, and gives Quentin an odd look
before nodding. "Sure thing." She rumages for bowls in the cupboard, and
it's soon clear why: one of the bags has a carton of soup in it.

Quentin locks the door, turning to meander barefoot across the carpeting
towards the kitchen. "Is it just me," he asks then, brow furrowed, "Or
does 'asshole' go right along with the phrase 'Get of Fenris'?"

Rhiannon was in the process of spooning the soup (which appears to be tom
yum goong) into a bowl, but now she stops. There's a definite tension to
her, and she shakes her head. Finally, "I'm probably not the right person
to ask about that."

It's at the edge of the kitchen that Quentin pauses, leaning an elbow
against the wall and folding both arms across his chest.. frowning just a
bit. "Alright. Just.." A shake of his head, "..had a little run-in with
Adrian earlier, then Jamethon-rhya came by to yell at us."

Salem, who's been more or less scarce this past weekend, raps on the
apartment door with the back of one knuckle. He's not wearing his jacket
tonight, nor his sunglasses. Just the usual dark t-shirt, black jeans,
combat boots... typical Salem, in other words.

Rhiannon grunts. "I don't know Jamethon, and I haven't met Adrian for more
than a few minutes." It sounds like a clarification, and then she
continues, "When I was younger, a Get smacked me around for, well, turning
him down." The knocking interrupts Rhiannon, and she goes to the door and
opens it as soon as a look at the monitor informs her of who's there.

A slight blink at that revelation, and Quentin frowns deeply at the very
thought of it. "What an asshole. Did someone kill him?" He seems to find
that idea perfectly acceptable.. expected, even.

Salem shows no sign of the raging, near-frenzying beast that Quentin got
to see Friday night, nor of the exhaustion that seemed to claim him later.
Cool, calm, and collected -- as much as a Garou with that much rage on the
near-full moon can be, anyway -- he inclines his head to the kinswoman in
greeting and steps inside. "Kill who?"

"You need to accessorize more," Rhiannon suggests blandly as she steps
aside for Salem, then shuts the door. "Nobody here, don't worry."
Quentin's question draws a sigh, but she does finish the short tale. "No,
but my mother didn't want to encourage too much bad blood. She's alpha of
her pack. They went and found him, beat the everloving shit out of him,
dragged him in front of the Get Elder, and demanded they keep better
control of their cubs."

"Well.." Quentin grimaces slightly, then nods curtly, "That's something,
at least." He's leaning against the doorway leading to the kitchen,
barefoot, both arms folded over his chest. A slightly more concerned look
as he looks over towards Salem, and he greets quieter, "Hey Salem-rhya."

Salem gives Rhiannon a sharp, irritated look at the criticism, a warning
perhaps that despite calm exteriors, the Philodox is in a prickly mood
tonight. He grunts, then turns an eye toward Quentin, regarding him
blandly. "Good evening, Quentin. Keeping busy?"

Rhiannon absorbs the glare casually and returns to the counter. She
resumes spooning out some of the fish soup into a bowl. "It was something.
Never saw his face again." She pauses for a moment, then adds, "It was
also the first time mama let my brother Noah run with the pack."

The front door opens up and two come stumbling in, laughing, holding
hands, bumping against each other as they walk. "That movie /rocked/."
Jeremy says. "Vin Disel whooped so much ass in that. I'm ganna design a
gun /just/ like that, and see how many different kinds of ammo' I can
slide in."

Quentin shakes his head ever so slightly, admitting quietly, "I still have
to figure out more about how the whole.. pack.. thing works." A slight nod
and a tight, forced smile back over towards Salem, "Yeah. As always. I was
out near the caern today taking a run, getting more used to lupus.." As
the door bursts open to admit Jeremy and Aiyana, he winces slightly.

Salem turns, side-stepping away from the door as Walker kin and Gnawer cub
enter. His expression hardens briefly, then goes completely unreadable.

Rhiannon looks up slowly from her soup, recognizing the voices, and she
immediately glances at Salem. She watches him closely, her dinner
completely forgotten.

Aiyana grins, shaking her head a little. "I don't doubt you will, bro, but
what I want is that car. Damn, it was loaded! Course those tattoos were
pretty sweet too. Still need to figure out what I'm gonna get. Maybe
somethin' cool, like a--" Her good mood hits rock bottom -real- fast when
she spots Salem. Her whole body tenses up, quite visibly, and the cub
looks more than ready to haul ass out of the door in no time at all.

"Like a what?" Jeremy asks, turning his head about to catch sight of the
three in his living room as well. He pauses, feeling his hand nearly get
crushed by Aiyana's, then lets it go, clearing his throat. ".. Hi..." He
says, unsurely.

Salem just looks at the pair of them. When he speaks, his voice is very
calm, completely calm, completely calm and even and _almost_ pleasant.
"Movie date?"

Quentin just shakes his head, turning and slinking back to the kitchen to
fetch some food from the take-out that Rhi's brought in. Yep, he'll just
be.. over here. Way over here.

Pleasentries and calm aside, Rhiannon still keeps an eye on the Philodox
as she puts some rice in the soup, and begins to eat some of it with a
spoon. There's measured care in each bite; she appears to be ready to
abandon the food at a second's notice.

Aiyana shoves her hands into her pockets, straightens up, and rolls her
shoulders in what she hopes is a careless shrug. "We were bored, decided
to go catch whatever was playin' at the theater. Sides, who can pass up a
good brainless action flick? Not this Ahroun..."

"Yah, Q keeps saying I need fresh air, so, I got dragged." Jeremy murmurs
as too, slides his hands into his pockets, then shuffles quickly over to
his computer desk, sliding into the chair, and plugging in, so to speak.

"I see." Salem still sounds completely calm, and the way he hooks his
thumbs into the front pockets of his jeans is almost casual. His eye
follows Jeremy's retreat to the computer and then settles back on the
Gnawer cub. "Well. I'm glad I caught you, Aiyana. I've been meaning to
speak to you." He pauses a beat. "In private."

Rhiannon remembers clearly the last time Salem used that phrase. She
narrows her eyes but stops short of giving him a dirty look, and
concentrates on her soup. She does at least offer to the other Kin, "Thai
if you're interested, Jeremy."

Quentin emerges from the kitchen with a bowl of soup cradled in his hands,
making his way along over to the couch while studiously not looking over
towards Salem and Aiyana, and easing himself down onto the couch. The bowl
itself set down on the table, he glances sidelong to Rhiannon and clears
his throat, "Uh, anyway, how've you been, Rhi?"

Aiyana tilts her head to the side, letting out a curious 'mmm?' type
sound. "'Bout what, sir?" She keeps her tone even, relaxed, maybe even
slightly chipper. "My trainin'?"

Salem nods. "That, too." He gestures in the direction of the back bedroom.
"After you?"

Jeremy huffs loudly. "Salem, we're not having sex." A bit annoyed perhaps?
You betcha. The fingers suddenly fly along the keys of his board, striking
the enter key a bit too hard at times.

Aiyana's brave facade falters, just for a moment, as the Gnawer pictures
all sorts of horrible things happening. Such as getting thrown out a
window, used as Salem's personal stress toy, stuff like that. "....sure,"
she mutters after a second of internal debate, giving Jer a look before
moving back towards the bedroom.

Salem's jaw clenches. Then his expression calms again. "Did I ask if you
were?" he retorts, rather sharply. He follows after Aiyana. And surely,
the Philodox wouldn't get blood all over Jeremy's nice carpet, would he?

Jeremy reaches over and taps a button on a small black box next to the
desk, glancing upwards to the monitor that sets above the front door.
Scene changes from hallway to bedroom, shifting his eyes a bit. Just in
case, he'll at least know where to send the bill.

Rhiannon gives Salem one last dirty look as he and Aiyana go into the back
bedroom, then answers Quetin. "Not too bad. Had a very good bust today,
four kees of H. And yourself?"

Aiyana steps into the room and sits herself down on the edge of the bed,
looking warily towards Salem. "What's on your mind, sir?" she questions
softly, folding her hands into her lap.

Quentin's lips twitch faintly. "Eh. 'Cept the thing with Adrian, alright I
guess. Stopped by to check on Lyra, she's back from her trip into the
slums.." He looks vaguely disapproving of the entire idea of the trip,
stirring his soup a bit with a spoon, "..I guess not bad."

Dizzy knocks on the door. Quickly and with a bit of impatience as she
stands there waiting, hatless, crossing her arms.

Salem, if he notices Jeremy's switching of the monitor's view, doesn't pay
any attention to it. He closes the door to the bedroom and stands in front
of Aiyana. For a moment or two, he just looks down at her. Then he says,
"I'm not blind, I'm not stupid, and I'm not naive, and both you know and I
know the difference between the spirit of the law and the letter of the
law. But I didn't come here to try to catch you, and I haven't brought you
back here to beat on you." There's not a trace of ire in his voice.

Jeremy stands up and heads to the door, peering out the peephole. He huffs
softly. What a night. He opens it up and gives Dizzy a quick smile, then
turns around to go back to his chair. "Welcome to the party." He murmurs
softly, flopping back into his seat.

Aiyana bites her lower lip and nods, not pushing the older Garou. At
least, not tonight. "Then, if you don't mind me askin', why did you bring
me back here?" No anger, not much in the way of stress, just a simple
question. "Or do I wanna know?"

Salem takes in a deep breath and then lets it out, slowly. His gaze never
wavers from the Gnawer cub's face. "I asked you back here to tell you that
you don't have to worry about combat training. Or 'proving' yourself to
me. To say that, frankly speaking, I have more than enough on my plate and
have neither the time nor the energy to try to keep an eye on you, when
I'm certain that you're probably going to go behind my back anyway." His
face tightens a bit at this last, then smooths itself again. Calm. He's
perfectly calm. Perfectly in control. Right. "What you do with Jeremy is
your own business... on two conditions."

Rhiannon waves a greeting to Dizzy, and gestures her to the food. "Help
yourself. Thai, though, so if you've got one of those peanut allergies be
careful."

Aiyana's eyes widen a little. Color her shocked. "Two conditions? W...what
conditions?" she manages to stutter out, trying to regain at least a tiny
bit of her composure.

Quentin's green eyes flicker upwards towards the door as there's another
knock, and he raises one hand to gesture vague greeting to Dizzy as she
walks in. The hand drops back down to one knee, and he slants a look back
to Rhiannon before clearing his throat, "Could I ask you for a favor?"

Salem takes a step closer to Aiyana and thrusts a pointing index finger
near her face. "One. You wait until you've passed your Rite. While your a
cub, you stay friends with him. _Friends_. When you can call yourself a
Cliath, you can take things further, if you choose to. Until then... when
I say 'platonic', I don't mean just no sex. And don't quibble over
particulars." He pauses a beat before going on to the second condition.

Dizzy looks past Jeremy, "People are here? Okay. Then I'll make it quick."
She refocuses on the kin boy and points to her unadorned head. "Did I
leave my hat here when I was over the other day?"

"Yah, its on the coat rack." Jeremy says, still shifting his gaze slightly
to the monitor, before clicking it off, huffing to himself. He takes in a
deep breath, then stares ahead at his monitor.

Aiyana nods. "Fair enough," she comments, her eyes darkening a shade in
color. "And as for the second?"

Rhiannon nods at Quentin. The soup has been replaced by a plate with what
can only be emerald curry and rice, and she's going through it with a
speed that suggests a pretty healthy appetite.

Quentin pauses briefly to take a spoonful of soup, swallowing and looking
back sideways to Rhiannon to ask tenatively, "I was wondering if, ah, you
could show me how to use a gun. Sometime." A pause, "I mean, might be
useful to know, someday."

Salem extends a second finger. "Two. That you never lay a _finger_ on him
in violence. Not by intent, not by accident, not because the moon is fat
and he happens to say the wrong thing at the wrong time in the wrong tone
of voice." His face hardens, and he crouches down, putting himself closer
to a face-to-face with the Gnawer cub and both looking and sounding deadly
serious. "Because if you do, _whatever_ you do, if you claw him, or hit
him, or bite him, or Gaia forbid if you lose control of yourself and
_kill_ him, I will hunt you down, and whatever you've done to him, I will
do to you. This is not a threat. It is a promise."

Dizzy retrieves her hat from the rack. "Thanks, I guess." She glances over
the Rhiannon and the food. "No thanks. I'm cool. Thai isn't my cup of
tea," she answers the earlier offer. To Jeremy she asks quietly, "Do I
know her?"

Aiyana growls, deeply, her eyes narrowing. "You honestly think I'd do that
to him?" Her voice is just barely above a whisper. "I know when to back
away, a'ight? I know when I should leave, so my temper don't get the
better of me." She frowns and shakes her head, "I wouldn't hurt Jeremy.
Not now, not ever. He's a friend, my bro, family. He's as close to me as
Lyra is, and like hell I'd do anythin' to either of them. And I promise
you that."

"She's a kinfolk and a US Marshall. Our tribe." Jeremy says softly as he
glances idly towards his bedroom door, then back to the computer screen,
distracted.

Quentin's request doesn't seem to surprise Rhiannon too much. "Sure," she
says easily, setting aside the now-empty plate. "I assume you don't have
one."

"'Course not," Quentin says with a slight chuckle, a bit of a grin
crossing his lips at the agreement. Surprised that she did, maybe.
"Wouldn't be that easy to get one without any ID."

Salem's pointing hand drops, and he pushes to his feet. Aiyana's growl
raises mental hackles, and his gaze remains locked on hers. "Talk is
cheap, Aiyana," he says icily. "And you're young." In his voice is
dismissal over her protests and promises. "Do you understand what I've
said?"

"Ahs, okay. She's not staying here then, I take it," Dizzy comments to
Jeremy. "Okay, then. I've got my hat so I'm, like, off. I'll see ya later,
then."

"... Um.. see ya." Jeremy says distracted as he glances over towards the
door, hearing the knocking upon it. With a sigh, he stands and heads over
to let Dizzy out an to greet the new person. He swings it open, blinking.

Aiyana nods, putting her hands palms-down onto the bed behind her. "Oh, I
understand. Sir. Clearer than crystal. Now," she says, glancing towards
the door, "Am I free to go, or do you have anythin' else to bring up?"

Salem smooths down the front of his t-shirt and shakes his head. "That was
all. You can go."

Rhiannon shakes her head. "Thought I'd at least ask. Never know what John
might hand out to a cub, these days."

Quentin just shakes his head at that, turning away to take another bite of
soup. "Nah. Salem-rhya and John-rhya have been.. ah.." A pause as he tries
to figure out a politic way to continue, before shrugging one shoulder,
"..preoccupied lately, but I still want to keep learning things."

Aiyana pushes herself off of the bed, nodding again as she exits the
bedroom. Once out, she exhales, quite relieved that the conversation went
as smoothly as it did. "Hey, guys, I'm not dead yet!" she comments towards
the living room as she enters, smiling.

"A good thing to learn, then. I've a few you can learn with." Rhiannon
fetches yet more dinner; arresting people must burn serious calories.
"Just stop by any time and we can take a trip to one of the ranges."

"Sure," Quentin replies, his mood apparently lifted a bit from when she
arrived, "I'll do that." A pause, then he asks, "..where do you live,
anyway?"

Salem emerges from the bedroom a moment or two after Aiyana, tucking a
stray lock of hair out of his face and back behind one ear, completely
even-tempered... or at least a facade thereof.

Quentin's brows raise in a slight arch of surprise as he follows the
gesture, admitting rather dryly, "I didn't realize you lived so close.."
The return of Aiyana and Salem from the back bedroom is observed then,
glancing between the two of them a bit warily for a moment.

Aiyana flops herself out on the couch and looks around the room, before
letting out a yawn. "I miss anythin'?"

Salem doesn't pause, but continues across the apartment to the door. He
pauses only to look toward the Walker cub. "Quentin. I'd appreciate your
presence at my apartment in a week or so. You and Cat can both take
lessons, and we can continue what we started on Friday."

Rhiannon looks over both Aiyana and Salem, but since neither of them is
covered in gaping wounds or cursing about the other, she takes it as a
good sign and returns to her conversation with Quentin. "Jacob and Fran
are there with me, when they're not in the Caern." She tells Aiyana,
"Dizzy was here, and left. And there's thai take out up there."

Quentin tips his head in a nod back toward Salem, sitting up a bit
straighter. "Alright. Just let me know when, and I'll be there." A slight
pause, and he grimaces a bit, "..is the kid doing any better? I mean..
combat training when he cringes away from someone raising their voice.."

Aiyana snorts. "Could care less 'bout the first part, but food does sound
temptin'. I might have to grab myself some, y'know, when I'm not in such a
lazy mood," she adds with a smirk.

Salem grimaces faintly. "He'll be fine," says the Philodox curtly, then
heads for the door. He gives a brief, "Be seeing you," and then is gone.