It is currently 18:08 Pacific Time on Thu Sep 5 2002.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is a cloudy day. The temperature is 65
degrees Fahrenheit (18 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in
from the east at 10 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.02 and
rising, and the relative humidity is 58 percent. The dewpoint is 50
degrees Fahrenheit (10 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waning No Moon phase (9% full).

Location: The Concrete Bunker

The Walker Ahroun hadn't explained much to the Philodox on his way over.
Only something about a Get cub needing to be watched for a while. John
seems to be keeping his conversation to a minimum, and his mood is dark.
Sombre. The door opens roughly, without subtlety or pause, clanging
noisily against the walls of the bunker as the two Glass Walkers make
their way down the short steps into the structure.

Salem removes his sunglasses as he follows the Ahroun down into the bunker
and stows them into an inside pocket of his coat. If anything, he's even
less conversational than Smith, and his face is sketched into a mask of
cool neutrality.

The only sign of life is a small, pale wisp of a girl seated in the
kitchenette of the well-stocked bunker, poring over today's newspaper. She
blinks up expectantly as the door clangs open, expression placid. Pale
eyes take in the unfamiliar one with a simple, raking glance. No words are
offered.

[Ashley] 
Unimpressive, at a first glance. Though her features are
undeniably pretty, there's a thin, waifish quality about the girl that
seems to drain her immediate surroundings of color. At 5'2", flat-chested,
she could pass for a twelve-year-old, but the look in her eye speaks of a
different age. Everything about her is pale: porcelain complexion,
straw-colored hair, long lashes, and diluted green eyes that shift to blue
in certain light. Posture is impeccably straight, and every move is
deliberate. There's a permanent stillness about her, like the deceptively
glassy surface of a deep lake.

Her clothes make her appear younger than she really is, and are loose
enough to hide most of her figure. The buttoned-up blouse, wool cardigan,
and pleated knee length skirt seem to be some version of a drab Catholic
school uniform. Black stockings are neat and free of runs, and her
sensible oxford shoes are well-shined. The girl's pale hair is bound into
a pair of plaits that reach to her waist.


John does the introductions - still moving inside - with a brief waving
gesture towards either stranger. "Ashley, this is Jack Salem. A most
loquacious Tribesmate of mine. Jack - Ashley. A Get cub I picked up a
couple days ago. She's an Ahroun."

Salem's good eye rakes over the girl with a bland, critical detachment. If
he's surprised at her auspice, he conceals it rather well. "Pleasure to
meet you, Ashley," he offers, perfectly civil. "I hope that Mr. Smith here
has been an acceptable host."

The girl rises from her seat smoothly, tucking the newspaper beneath an
arm to shake Salem's hand formally. She does not, however, state that it's
a pleasure to meet anyone. "He's kept me fed," she deadpans. "Just
barely." Releasing her light grip on Salem's hand, she glances towards the
other man and taps a finger against the newspaper. "I told you they'd be
looking for me."

John tilts his head to one side and folds his arms with a soft sigh. He
shoots the girl a tired look, and notes frankly, "Well if you could decide
on an alibi that you /liked/..."

Salem lifts an eyebrow slightly at the girl's answer, and his mouth
twitches slightly in an aborted smile. He looks sidelong at John. "Does
Owen know about her yet?"

"I was kidnapped," the slight girl answers levelly, pale green eyes
blinking. "That's all there is to it." She sets the newspaper on the
kitchen counter, revealing the second-page article featuring a large color
photograph of herself and the title 'CHICAGO FAMILY FIRM'S DAUGHTER
ABDUCTED'.

Closing his eyes to restore a measure of patience, John pauses a while
before opening them again. He looks to Salem. "Yes. And he should come
pick her up quickly. /I/ don't want to have to deal with this and palm her
off when it's done." He smiles tightly at Ashley, noting, "Don't be
difficult. You know what I mean."

Salem makes a thoughtful, yet non-committal 'mm' sound and folds his arms
across his chest, his attention going back toward the thin, slight little
Ahroun Get.

Ashley looks between the two large men expectantly. "Owen's my... 'elder'
person, correct?"

John nods a few times. "Big guy. Face like car wreck, though he has less
charm. Likes to make sure everyone knows he's boss."

"Typical Get of Fenris, in other words," Salem adds, perfectly deadpan.

The slight girl wrinkles her nose delicately, and lets out half of a sigh.
"And he's not here yet. So what do I do, now?"

The Walker Ahroun moves further into the bunker, toward the little
kitchenette, where he investigates the counter more thoroughly. "Wait.
Learn what you can-- though there's a limit to what we can teach you. Your
Tribe may get pissy if we teach you things the way /we/ see them, rather
than the way they do. The Get are all about pride and sacrifice, where
we're about survival and efficient moderation. It makes for a clash of
perspectives."

Salem shifts his weight, unfolding his arms and letting his hands vanish
into his coat pockets. "Not to mention that we're rather forward-thinking,
and the Get are... more traditional." He pauses a beat and then, as though
to keep things fair, adds, "But enthusiastic in battle."

Ashley smoothes out her Catholic school-regulayion skirt absently as she
watches John. Arching a light brow, she notes, "I'm tired of waiting."
After a moment's thought, she adds, "And I'm not an... 'Ahroun', either."

Narrowing his eyes with a touch of amusement, John leans back against the
wall next to the tiny kitchen and smiles faintly at Ashley. "Your kinfetch
said you were. And if we find an almanac that says you were born under a
full moon... then that's what you are. You'll find that it's all through
you, if you are, though. Abruptness of thought and speech. Directness in
your attitudes. A lack of patience, compared to some. The desire to stand
up for oneself, regardless. An emotional endurance, if not physical.
Determination. Though not the sole providence of the full moon, these are
still the hallmarks of an Ahroun." He tilts his head and gestures
dismissively with one hand, while he folds his arms. "And you have most of
them, I suspect."

Salem looks to have no comment to add to John's speech, though he does
seem interested in Ashley's response.

"I don't fight," the girl states flatly, although she absorbs John's words
with a great deal of thought. A faint frown touches her delicate features,
as she looks back down to the newspaper.

"It's the urge, not the actions, which are influenced by the Auspice,"
John rumbles softly. "Though the actions determine what kind of people we
are. One can always deny their birth moon." His eyes flick to Salem.
"Isn't that right, Jack?"

Salem glances from cub to Cliath, and he holds the other Walker's gaze for
a moment, stone-faced, before turning back to Ashley with a nod. "It's not
something done lightly, but yes."

Ashley looks determined, the line of her jaw setting coldly. "Then that's
what I'll have to do." She glances away from them, and lifts one narrow
shoulder. "I don't even know if I can do that... changing thing, anyhow.
You might have it all wrong."

"Think of it as a kind of spiritual puberty. You haven't changed yet, but
you will. Soon." John's eyes are mostly on Salem, for the Philodoxen's
response, but eventually he looks to Ashley. He suggests softly, "I
wouldn't mention renouncing your Auspice to any of your Tribemates,
though. It's... a dishonourable thing to deny the role Luna assigned to
you. Get are... very uptight about dishonour."

She wrinkles her nose again, this time with blatant distaste. "I don't
think I'll like them much," she observes in her clear contralto. Switching
subjects smoothly, she asks John, "When do I get to meet your fiancee?"

Salem's expression remains perfectly composed at John's words, apart from
a slight tightening in the muscles of his jaw... and that's fairly subtle.
And he has nothing to say about how much Ashley will or won't like her
tribemates.

John's lips thin. "Whenever there's reason to be in the same place," he
remarks sharply, walling up in much the same way as Salem does. A dark
expression crosses his face. "You'd probably get along, though, if you
don't mind her irreverence," the Ahroun adds lowly. Expression faraway. A
pause. "Where's that damn Get?" he mutters under his breath, turning to
investigate the stove again.

Ashley eyes John's reaction with the piercing observation of a
sixteen-year-old. She doesn't add anymore comments, however, and goes back
to scanning the newspapaer.

Salem shifts his gaze sideways, watching the other Glass Walker when his
back's turned. Unsmiling. After a moment, he pushes one coat-sleeve back
in order to glance at his watch. "What time did you ask him to be here?"

A harsh and heavy ominous pounding is heard to thickly reverberate into
the strong steel door.

Ashley lifts her head sharply, pulled away from her reverie over the
paper. "Right on cue," she murmurs under her breath, with an almost
apprehensive glance towards the heavy bunker door.

"Suddenly there came a tapping, as of some one gently rapping, rapping at
my chamber door..." John murmurs. He gestures to the door, with a nod of
his head, whilst looking at Salem.

Salem, regulated to doorman -- typical -- stalks over to let the Get in.

Once the door has been relocated from his path, James steps inside with a
sigh upon seeing the girl who must be his new cub. "Please tell me she
isn't gay." Is all he says for now.

"I think she's straight. But you may find all your current female Get
trying to work on her. Make her fit in," John replies. No... no smugness
there. He pulls himself away from the back wall and unfolds his arms.
"Ashley, Jamethon. Jamethon, Ashley."

Salem arches a brow at the remark and, wordlessly, shuts the door behind
James.

Ashley rises to her feet as the new arrival enters, but her complexion
pales even further at Jamethon's comment. Scowling wordlessly, she steps
forward to offer a formal hand to her new tribemate.


Jamethon Ethan Black is a good size of a man, about five or six inches
above six feet and looking to have about two hundred and ninety or so
pounds on him as well, most of this being muscle. The thick and unshaven
face of this Get of Fenris is a mask of concentration most times, dancing
black eyes that always seem to be peering forward yet still seeing all
around him. Long black hair with the beginnings of greying fading into
view, cascades down his back, wild in form and hanging to just below his
waist. He isn't too fond of dressing stuffily it seems, for all that James
wears is a japanese style loose long sleeved t-shirt, and a pair of loose
but well-fitted gray sweatpants, the shoes on his feet are but cork
sandles. Under his t-shirt, covered up and only visible when the fabric of
his shirt has been removed, on his chest is a massive scar, fleshy and
tortured like an old third-degree burn. A large myriad collection of scars
adorn his visage at other various points as well.


Jamethon glances quickly over his shoulder as the door is closed then
looking back slowly, shifts down to his still ginormously massive lupine
form. Walking forward James, Fights-For-Hope, starts sniffing at the
girl's hand in an interesting way of accepting her greeting. ~Sweat. She
has the scent of athletics on her. Her manner and dress is that of a well
educated young woman. A runner perhaps. Yes, her appearance is false. Her
scent, speaks many more stories.~ With this he circles around her, and
again, before stepping back away to sit and regard her from a slight
distance through lupine eyes.


[Jamethon in Lupus]
This huge beast of a wild wolf stands on thick and muscular legs, the
front two are connected to the rest of the body by heavy broad shoulders.
The beast here is covered almost totally in thick and pure gray fur, save
for a jagged shock of black that starts between his ears and runs almost
all the way down his back. The fur on the massive chest of this wolf is
disturbed by a large scar; Fleshy, tortured, and violently red. Another
visible scar on his form is the cresent moon burned into his lower back
just peaking through the black fur there. More collected visible scars are
laid about practically at random on the Get's body.


Salem folds his arms across his chest and leans back against the heavy
door, watching Get meet Get with a perfectly bland expression.

The girl freezes as Jamethon shifts before her eyes, but offers no further
reaction. She does, however, keep her hand carefully still and
outstretched. Obviously not understanding Gaia's Tongue.

John hitches a shoulder in a shrug. "All people are false, to some
degree," he murmurs. "The difference is the depth of the disguise."
Straightening a little, the Walker Ahroun announces, "Ashley is the
daughter of a wealthy lawyer. She's young, and was headed off to boarding
school for some misbehaviour, when a minor avatar of Fenris appeared
before myself and a Fianna, to fetch her. The spirit noted that she was an
Ahroun, of some pure blood. She has a cool head and shows the stubbornness
typical of her Tribe."

Ashley blinks pale eyes as she hears herself distilled into a few brief
sentences, and throws a quizzical glance towards John. Still wordless,
slightly tense.

John looks calmly to Ashley, meeting her gaze with a thoughtful
measurement. In a blink, one corner of his mouth turns upwards
reassuringly.

Fights-For-Hope nods his heavy wolf head in a quite human manner before
retaking the human form with a minimal amount of sounds of cracking bones,
more a simple and quick blurring motion. "Very well John. You found her,
kept her safe. The spirit that was bound to her was of Fenris... sad, I
would have liked to have met this kinfetch, could have helped me in my
challenge. Any way. Welcome Ashley, to the Get of Fenris." At this point,
his pose becomes more confident and regal, "I am Jamethon Ethan Black,
Fights-For-Hope. Theurge, or Godi as the Get refer to my kind, of the Get
of Fenris here in St. Claire. Once child of Wolverine and Weasel.
Challenger for rank of Fostern and position in the famed and honored
Uktena pack Ouroboros." He smiles calmly now, letting his puffed up
demenor deflate a bit. "Of course... little of that probably means much to
you, just accept it as something that is true for now. We should go. Now.
Is there anything you need or want? We'll be heading out to the woods, and
it will be some time before you are able to return to the city."

The slight girl blinks up at Jamethon, entirely nonplussed by his long
introduction. She manages to find her voice enough to answer his last
question, after a moment: "A really good vegan restaurant, if you don't
mind."

The Walker Ahroun smiles broadly, at that, looking at Ashley with
something perhaps resembling fondness.

Jamethon just blinks for a few seconds, standing silently before. "Oh dear
gaia. Not a lesbian... a vegetarian. I knew there was something..."

Salem doesn't smile. At all. His face remains perfectly straight.

Ashley narrows her eyes to laser-like green slits. "/Vegan/," she corrects
the large man lowly.

John arches an eyebrow slightly at the elder Get's reaction, but simply
stands there, arms folding up again.

Jamethon steps forwards, towering over the small girl, then kneels to be
more or less eye to eye with her. "Ok. It's been a while. Educate me. What
do /vegans/ eat?"

Ashley folds both arms in front of her chest; the posture is somehow less
impresive than when John or Salem does it. "No meat, dairy, or animal
by-products," she states, fearlessly meeting the Get's eyes. "It's a
weight-regulating diet." As though this should explain everything.

"I'd consider giving it a try, if it works," John rumbles mildly.

Salem shifts a sideways look, peering briefly at John with that one good
eye.

Jamethon's eyes widen with anger suddenly flashing through in an almost
illuminating fashion. "Lower. Your. Eyes. Now!" He punctuates each word
with a deep rumbling to his voice.

The girl's cheeks flush a deep, indignant red, and she actually stares at
the large Get with something like shock. "Why?" She sounds incredulous.

Jamethon starts breathing in a labored manner, holding back what he really
wants to do right now. "Because... you are too young to die in such a
painful manner as my mind has just envisioned for you."

Salem's attention is directed back at the two Get. There's a glint of
approval there somewhere in his otherwise stony expression, but whether
it's at the almost-Fostern or the brand-new cub is difficult to say for
sure.

Ashley blinks again, mouth hanging agape for a moment. She looks like
Alice, just gone through the rabbit-hole. "You--/what/?" She obviously
doesn't grasp the finer points of lupine etiquette. Entirely indignant,
now.

Calm, smooth, and low, John murmurs, "The meeting of eyes is a dominance
challenge amongst canine animals, and to some extent it is incorporated
into Garou society. The first to blink or look away is demonstrating
submission to the other. Submit to your Elder."

Jamethon just waits for a moment now, after John explains her next move
seems to dictate the theurge's next move.

The slight girl glances aside at John's explanation, and then looks long
and hard at Jamethon. Something flickers behind her pale green eyes, and
she shakes her head. "This is /so/ not happening," she murmurs, beginning
to turn away decisively. "I'm going home."

Salem remains in front of the door, and leaning against it, an effective
enough obstacle -- even if it were not for the presence of John and
Jamethon. "Not likely," he murmurs, under his breath.

Jamethon grins at this point, as the little girl makes her 'decision'.
"Through who are you going to leave? I would /love/ to see you try."

Exhaling softly as his face falls into disappointment, John murmurs
softly, "We discussed this, Ashley."

Ashley stops short in front of Salem, eyeing him thoughtfully. Her gaze
skips back to John and Jamethon, calculating.

Salem unfolds his arms, letting them rest loosely at his sides. Head
slightly cocked to favor his good eye, he watches the cub without concern,
or even much visible expression.

John simply remains silent, looking away for a moment, shaking his head
slightly.

Jamethon sits on the floor, legs spread open, and closes his eyes. "You
have a lean and smooth motion to you, cub. If you can stand before me, and
get one hit on me without being prevented. I will let you free, to go back
to that sad existance in some boarding school. Being told what to do, not
because it was right, or right for you... but because your teachers revel
in the pleasure of power over the children they fondle in their dreams at
night while they fondle themselves. Or, you will stay here. For a while,
be told what to do because it is truely what is in your best interest...
then eventually and soon, you will indeed be your own person. A warrior of
a race that is older then man. It is your choice. Listen and Stay... or
attack, and perhaps you may leave."

Ashley balks visibly at Jamethon's monologue, but paces back towards him
slowly. He got one thing right--she /is/ graceful, in a thin, light-boned
way. She narrows her eyes at her new elder, and informs him lowly, "I
could hit you without even trying. But I won't." With that, the slight
girl turns away and plants herself on a nearby metal folding-chair. Her
jaw is clenched, but she doesn't look like she's going to make a break for
it.

Jamethon grins at this, eyes still closed. "Oh? A challenge if I ever
heard one. Come on now cub, try me."

John frowns at Jamethon, at the challenge. "Salem. Half-moon. Judge." He
folds his arms.

Salem's eyebrows lift slightly as he glances toward John. Then, with a
shrug, he turns his attention back to the two Get. Observing.

The girl's posture is impeccably straight, and wire-taut. Folding both
arms in front of her, she looks at her elder and simply says, "No."

The Walker Ahroun interrupts. "The ways of Garou honour are unusual,
irrational, and downright bizarre to the practical-minded, Jamethon.
Explain to her what the consequences of actions are, and what they /mean/
in terms of honour, and she may behave in a way that allows her more
honour. There is no glory in defeating a whelp who doesn't know what
they're fighting for."

Ashley twitches visibly at the word 'whelp', but doesn't say anything
else. Glaring at the concrete floor in front of her chair.

Jamethon nods to the cub, glares at John for a moment, and intones towards
Ashley. "Then you either understand your limits, or are afraid. Both of
which are understandable in this situation... I do not take offense. The
challenge is always open however, you may try at any time... and should
you succeed, you will be free. I hope, by that time, you will no longer
desire what you may now think of as freedom. And John, thank you for your
help thusfar, I will however not begin such training till Ashley is far
from here, and in a more wyld environment." This last part is spoken with
a tightened jaw and harsh rumbling in his voice. He stands now, and the
large Get looks down once more at the cub. "Always stand tall Ashley,
always be proud as you now are. You'll learn why you must soon. Come, we
must go... I fear you have spent too much time here already."

Ashley flicks a glance towards John and Salem, frowns, but rises from her
seat with a measured amount of obedience. "..Where are we going?"

Salem's expression is cold. Cold and bland. Smoothly, he takes a step
aside from the door.

John just watches Ashley, tilting his head up slightly when she looks to
the two Walkers.

Jamethon catches Ashley's flitting gaze about the room and turns to lead
the cub out, "First. We will find you a... vegan resturant, take out of
course. Then out to the woods... where your training will begin. I hope I
can indeed trust you to behave if I allow this detour before we get
everything underway?"

Ashley looks up at the larger Get steadily. "I guess you'll just have to
hope I behave," she answers, rather tonelessly.

"Good luck," John calls over to Ashley. Though there's a slight narrowing
of his eyes and a hint of a smile when he adds mildly, "Not that you'll
need it."

Salem stands to one side of the bunker's exit, hands back in his coat
pockets, completely silent.

Jamethon shakes his head with a cold frown. "Not good enough. You must
give your word. Start learning now about that which John calls honor.
Honesty. Fairness. Integrity. Three main facets of a Garou's honor. Being
just and honest. This is a great strength and need to our kind, without
it, we are petty shells of what we would profess to be. To begin this
relationship, Ashley, I need and expect these three things from you. For
now, your word will do... later we'll see about you proving yourself."

Ashley narrows her eyes, but nods briefly. "Fine," she murmurs. "You have
my word." One fist clenches momentarily at her side.

Jamethon grins once more, warming up the large man's face in a way Salem
wouldn't dream of letting occur in public. "Indignant but proper to the
last. I think you will do fine. ...thanks again John we'll be going. Come,
let us get you this food that is going to somehow make you lose weight it
would be unhealty for you now to have." With this, he starts heading out,
glancing back to make sure the cub is behind him.

The girl's narrow shoulders set squarely, and she follows in her new
elder's wake without a word. Or a glance back.

The Walker Ahroun watches the girl and Get leave, and slips his hands into
his pockets - expression fading into grim neutrality.

Salem's eye follows the cub's departure. Once they're gone, he nods once
to himself and then cocks a look at John.

John seems to feel the half-moon's eyes on him, and looks sideways
briefly, before returning his attention to the now-empty doorway. "And so
life goes on. Switch off the gas, I'll get the lights." He turns an eye to
the mess created by a young person living in the space for a few days.
"I'll clean the rest of this up later," he adds quietly.

"Pining?" The one-word inquiry is without inflection, and without waiting
for a response, Salem moves to do as instructed.

"You know me better than that," John replies lightly, heading over to the
front of the room, with its access to the generator controls.

"Hmn," Salem says, neutrally. He glances down at the discarded newspaper,
then moves past it to the gas shut-off switch.

Finishing up, and casting another long glance around the bunker, John
stops to shoot a brief, almost suspicious look towards Salem. Then his
expression returns to neutrality and he moves for the door - stepping out
into the night, waiting for Salem to exit. The lights flicker and fail a
few moments later, to the sounds of the generators whirring down and
resting.

The moon doesn't provide much light, either.

Salem emerges a few seconds after the lights in the bunker die. Joining
the Ahroun outside, he adjusts the way the coat sits on his shoulders,
then brushes something off the left sleeve. Perfectly composed and
outwardly calm.

John doesn't head for the car, just yet, but instead seems to be regarding
the new moon. The moon of those who Question and Challenge the ways.
"She'd have made a good Walker, though," he notes lowly.

"I could see that," says the Philodox, settling his hands back into his
coat pockets. His eye turns toward John, his face unreadable. "I imagine
that she'll make an, mnh, interesting Get."

"It'll depend," John replies quietly, eyes narrowing as he watches the
sky. The horizon, now. "How easily influenced she is. What she chooses to
cling to, and how well she guards that core. It may be that... hammering
at it will only make it harder. And I suspect the Get know how to do
little else... though Jamethon can be sharp at times."

Salem's eyes narrow very slightly, though the poor lighting makes the
change difficult to discern. "How long did you have her down there?" he
asks. It's not a purely casual question, but neither does the former
Ahroun voice any hint accusation.

The Ahroun purses his lips a moment - evidently not giving the question's
motives any obvious thought - and then wets them before replying slowly,
"Two and a half days." There's a pause for a while before he adds, "She
has balls. Stubborn, and largely practical - though her definitons could
do with reworking. Not /too/ quick on the uptake, but there's intelligence
there. I... think she'll wind up quite the warrior. Versatile. Possibly an
abstract thinker."

Salem makes a thoughtful 'mmn' sound. "The balls she'll need, considering
her heritage and her physical disadvantages. The intelligence, too." Broad
shoulders lift and fall in a shrug. "Not our problem, however."

"The insight will be useful when she Rites, and starts making something of
herself," John replies gruffly. His tone eases as he takes a breath and
adds a little more quietly, "But no, I guess not. Not our problem." He
turns, and starts for the van. It could almost be a figment of the
Half-moon's imagination, when John grunts lowly, "Not yet, anyway."

Whether he noticed that last remark or not, Salem doesn't comment on it.
Wordlessly, he follows the Ahroun to the van.