It is currently 00:12 Pacific Time on Sun Jan 26 2003.

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

Currently in Saint Claire, it is partly sunny. The temperature is 54 degrees Fahrenheit (12 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the east at 10 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.21 and falling, and the relative humidity is 71 percent. The dewpoint is 45 degrees Fahrenheit (7 degrees Celsius.)

Temple

This building, obviously an ex-church of some kind, provides a slightly raw acoustic for the pounding music--muffled only by dusty velvet and tapestry hangings on the stone walls. Pillars march down the nave, which has become the main dance floor; a black-pipe grid about fifty feet overhead holds the fixtures and dark-colored lights that sweep the mass of dancers. It's evidently quite the nouveau-goth hangout of St. Claire--boasting more piercings per capita than the punkest of thrash clubs, and more decaying brocade than Anastasia's Antique Emporium downtown.

The sanctuary at the far end of the building is still cordoned off, often used for "entertainments" of varying type and quality. At other times, exhibitionists crowd the higher stepped platform of the sanctuary, or dance on the smaller raised areas around some of the pillars along the nave. A cube of chainlink fence to one side of the sanctuary houses the CD spinner and DJ of the evening. One side chapel holds the main bar of the club; the other chapels along the sides of the church serve as seating areas, filled with castoff furniture in dark colors and the occasional unlit candelabra or swath of dark fabric. Tattered, stained velvet sofas and settees, tucked into the little 'rooms', provide conversation areas somewhat shielded from the noise. The back chapels, arranged in an arc behind the sanctuary, provide dark places for the Nachtskinder to play, exchanging their money for sex, drugs, and other vices.

The arched double doors of the main church entrance lead back out to the street. The wood panels are tall and imposing; only one of them usually can be opened. A bouncer stands beside it at a tall podium.

In both corners, enclosed staircases lead up to the second-floor galleries--balconies from which those less inclined to dance can watch the writhing below.

Industrial, electronic, and trance... tonight is a busy night at the Temple. The parking lot is crowded, home to a brisk trade in 'party' drugs and apparently a street-fight match of some sort; he passed a shouting circle of men surrounding two combatants, on his way in.

He even paused to watch it, briefly, studying the confrontation with a critical, jaded eye; then he passed by with a grunt, flashing his ID to the bouncer and immersing himself into the club itself -- steeling himself for the brunt of sound and vision the way a man will just before diving into freezing waters.

The young and the energetic pack the place, crowding the bar and the dance floor; he best dancers spill up into the sanctuary. That much, he is prepared for.

In this crowd, the unsmiling Glass Walker is the odd man out, but his body language is all arrogant confidence; he walks through the sanctuary and toward the bar as though he's meant to be there, and damn anyone who suggests otherwise. His gaze travels over the dance floor as he passes it; he skims the crowd in a habit of alertness, keeping aware of his surroundings.

Rina dances under the Presence lights, one of the few. The best. Writhing in smoke and shadow, in the beams of illumination that shoot through the fog, she lets the beat's pulse become her own. There is no room for restraint, in that spiraling ecstasy.

Rina

Dark-brown eyes, touched with amber, look out from a pixie-sharp face. Rina's skin is fair, but not quite pale--a light Mediterranean olive from generations of pure Italian ancestry. Her black-brown hair is left just long enough in the front to fall almost into her eyes; the butch cut tapers to an army-short buzz at the sides and back, hardly more than a velvet fuzz covering the nape of her neck. Her chin is delicately-boned, her mouth small, the line of her jaw well-defined. Her eyes have a shadowy, bruised look, either from fatigue or the artful use of makeup; save for that Gothic touch, she might have stepped from a pre-Raphaelite painting. She can't be more than twenty-five or so, but in that youthful face the eyes are cynical, brooding, world-weary. Athletic grace and a certain streetwise confidence show in her movements, but there is often an element of tension as well.

Low-slung pants of charcoal-grey PVC hug the tight muscles of her legs. The shiny vinyl descends into black leather thrash boots, fastening down the outside with silvery buckles: steel-toed club stompers with sturdy square heels. A cropped shirt of snug dark-grey spandex pours over her upper body, outlining the well-cut muscles of her arms and back; a deep V-neck and black racing stripes down the arms give it a techno edge. The hip-hugging cut of the jeans and the cropped shirt bare her midriff, displaying a word written in flesh: ANGEL, cut into her skin, the scars raised and slightly pale. The 'G' encircles her navel, accentuating the silver ring through it.

Her short-cropped pageboy is twisted and tangled, streaked with silver; metal punches down the outside of her right ear, graduated rings from cartilage to earlobe.

A traditional biker jacket in black leather, at least two sizes too big, adds a layer of toughness to the petite woman's attire. Several patches of electrical tape and a small plate of discarded circuit board patch a few holes and rips in the leather: the front and back of both shoulders, and a spot near her waist on the left. There are more additions to the traditional biker body armor: scraps of circuit board, metal spikes and rivets, and a pair of mismatched vambraces that make her look like some sort of Mad Max knight errant.

She wears two rings, both a silvery white gold. Her right hand bears a single diamond framed by two smaller ones, the decorative work on the ring elegant and subtle, perhaps Art Deco. On the left she wears a simpler band decorated with letters and scrollwork.

Salem pauses as he spots her and remains motionless for a few moments, letting the crowd flow around him -- the press of bodies never getting too close -- as he watches. When he resumes his path toward the bar, it's with a slower step; he takes a seat where he can keep her in view.

She turns in widening arcs, her head thrown back, wrists carving patterns through the smoky air. Incense is more prevalent here, with clove-smoke a close second. Reddish light pulses across her, illuminating the eloquent turn of a wrist. Wilder than he has seen her... crowd gives her more energy, the pounding music lends her speed.

Somewhere in this, Salem gets himself a drink -- nothing stronger than club soda tonight -- and his watch upon the club in general devolves into a more focussed observance of that one figure under the lights. She's difficult not to watch; he shifts uncomfortably once on the bar stool and keeps his expression forcibly composed.

The music seems to alter the passing of time... trancelike, changing only ubtly from track to track.

Rina never takes a partner; there are two who approach, and in the end she leaves the lights to avoid them, he eyes half-lidded as she weaves her way toward the bar.

Maybe he's disappointed that she remains alone, and maybe he's relieved. It's hard to say. He straightens, taking a swallow from his glass, watching her move. The stools on either side of him are empty, though they weren't when he first sat down.

Rina tangles with Paige, as she reaches the bar--but even he gets no more than a kiss and a few words. The dark eyes are hazy, shining as she takes a bottle of water from him. For a time nothing else exists, in her world; both hands around it, she drinks the bottle down without lowering it.

Salem's eyes narrow. He drains the last from his glass and gets up, leaving the empty on the bar as he makes his way over toward Rina and Paige; his approach isn't stealthy by any means, but he's coming up behind the woman and her friend is likely to spot him first.

Paige sees the man, and his eyes widen the slightest bit; he takes a step back, and swallows. Without even a word, he turns and disppears into the crowd.

Rina's eyes remain closed for a moment after she empties the bottle, and as she lowers it and swallows, she takes a deep breath. "Much better..." The dark eyes flicker open, and then her brow furrows slightly; she searches for him, but it does not take long for her to forget.

Salem smiles faintly, but takes thin triumph in Paige's retreat; there was no real challenge there. Reaching Rina's side, he touches her shoulder. "Having a good time?" he asks her, only just loud enough to hear over the music.

Rina turns quickly, to look up at him with wild eyes; the light in them only gets brighter, rivaled only by her smile. "Jack! It's such a good night I din't think it could get better--" The words are just a tiny bit fast, her gaze just a little too restless and intense.

Salem blinks, taken slightly aback by the force of her... good cheer. He manages a faint, rather guarded smile. "I won't ask. I _assume_, though, that whatever you swallowed wasn't red."

The brilliant smile stays, as she shakes her head; the fingers of one hand 'walk' up his chest, and she chants with a hint of slyness in her tone. "A B C D E..." Her eyes follow the movement--but while her hand settles on his chest, her gaze lifts to meet his. Such a light, in those dark eyes. "Come and dance with me."

Salem shakes his head and takes her hand, moving it away from his chest. "I don't dance," he says firmly.

Long distance to Rina: Salem buries the discomfiting sense of deja vu. And there's no John to bring her home and hand her off to.

She presses close, body to body with him, a fey light in her grin. "You should learn," she says lightly. An arm slides around his waist; she tis her head back and lets it roll, her eyes half-lidded. "I could teach you."

Salem's discomfort becomes more evident, leaking through the crasks of the bland mask. He manages to keep something of the thin little smile, though it's strained. "I suppose that you could. But not tonight. I'll be glad to walk you home, though, when you're done."

Rina lets out a frustrated breath, and her brow furrows slightly. She does not quite pout up at him. "All work and no play, makes Jack a dull boy..." One heel begins tapping the beat, the slightest hint of movement felt against him--but her arm is a little looser around him, and she does not force the issue. Her smile cannot stay away for long--but this time it is a sly thing, full of mischief. Her free hand comes up to touch his cheek. "And you shouldn't be dull. You're not, at all..."

Salem snorts. "Shows how much _you_ know. I'm _extremely_ dull. Or an asshole, depending on who you ask." He disengages, taking her arm from around him. "Go dance. I'll watch."

That makes her laugh, shaking her head. A finger taps him on the nose. "Y'not dull. I know. Seen pictures." Her grin is irrepressible, and even his rejection cannot hold her down for long; she is quite clearly flying, tonight. She spins on a heel and starts back toward the dance floor, distracted along the way when a pretty goth-boy slides an arm around her waist.

The unfamiliar young man leans down to speak close to her ear; whatever it is, it makes her laugh, and then she is twisting out of his grasp.

Salem blinks a bit at her last remark, a flash of consternation across his face. She's gone before he can ask, though, and his reluctance to step onto the dance floor is clearly stronger than this somewhat worried curiosity. Bemused, he watches her go, watches her evade the prettyboy -- with some satisfaction -- and fling herself back into the whirling maelstrom.

From time to time he can even watch her dance--when she isn't off in the shadows. The Ecstasy seems to help, making her wilder, less restrained. He is certainly not the only one watching the spectacle, either; there are friends, enemies, and leering voyeurs.

Salem does not remain at the bar for the whole time; he wanders the crowd, never letting the dance floor out of sight and keeping an eye on the crowd as much as the wild nymph out on the dance floor. His expression falls into the carefully schoolled, neutral mask, guarded and alert.

Rina whirls through the sanctuary, and at one point is caught by the arm. The man is tall and thin, with pale blue eyes and a shock of white-blond, close-cropped hair--almost reminiscent of John, with a Slavic cast to his features. He takes an elbow, firmly enough that she is spun around to face him. For a moment the two are still, and then he leans down to speak to her; then he is walking away, pushing his way through the crowd.

Rina closes her eyes, and sinks into the trance of dancing again, reaching for the lights and letting the colors flash across her face.

Salem stiffens, and for a moment stands quite still. He almost, _almost_ goes after the blond man. He settles, though, for letting his gaze follow the stranger until he's lost in the crowd, and then he's back to watching the kinswoman again, from afar, restless as a panther behind bars.

The blond stranger seems to head for the back of the club, the dark hall that circles behind the sanctuary.

Rina stays under the spill of light, focused on the hanging, lit amber lamp that hangs over what would have once been the altar. She spins beneath it, her head thrown back, her arms curving up to trace intricate weavings in the air above her--like a skater, almost.

Ecstacy or no Ecstacy, she deserves to dance, deserves to be wild, to be happy -- even if it's chemically-induced -- to forget, to be free for a few precious moments. And as tense as he is within the noisy, crowded environs of the Temple, Salem reins in his impatience and the urge to drag her off the dance floor and back to the studio and safety. Finishing a circuit of the main club area, he ends up again at the bar and takes a stool there. He orders another club soda, glancing away from the dance floor briefly as he pays the bartender and accepts his drink.

When he looks back, she is gone from the sanctuary.

Salem freezes for a moment, then curses himself, in Serbian, for a fool. Leaving his drink at the bar, he gets up and pushes through the crowd again, searching.

He catches sight of her, a glimpse of her steadying herself with a hand on one the pillars, about to disappear around it--toward the side aisle, and maybe the back chapels. She is looking in that direction, anyway, wavering dazedly on the edge of the chaos.

Salem quickens his pace, making a swift path through the crowd -- which parts before him -- and catches up with her. His hand falls on her shoulder. "Haven't you had enough of that, tonight?" he asks. Apparantly, his tolerance will only go so far.

Rina turns to look up at him, wild-eyed. Something strange crosses her face, a memory of the real, warring with the euphoria and energy of the drug. One heels taps with beat, moving her with the rhythm; she is almost like an impetuous child. "I want-- I want to dance," she says, twining her other hand with his.

"Why don't you sit down and drink some water or something first?" Salem suggests, urging her away from the pillars and back toward the sanctuary. His face remains bland, his tone of voice patience, but his body language is tense.

Her hand tightens in his own, and she steps closer to him, looking up into the scarred face. The grin is wild, touched with something between flirtation and childlike enthusiasm. "I /am/ kinda thirsty... Then will you dance with me?"

Salem winces; it's a subtle change in his expression, but one she, of all people, would probably catch. "I don't dance. I am not _drunk_ enough to dance." He's leading her toward the bar, toward a spot of relative stillness. "Next to you, I'd look like a complete fool. Trust me, you're better off."

Reluctantly, she allows herself to be tugged along behind him. "You'd look fine if you wouldn't glare like y'do, and I could show you..." She slides an arm around his waist, fitting herself into the space at his side.

"Maybe another time," he replies, attempting to placate her. Didn't he say something similar at the rave, so many months ago? His arm encircles her shoulders.

Pressing close, she rubs her cheek against him, taking a deep breath and murmuring something--whatever it is, she sounds happy, at least. There's energy in her strides, barely restrained.

Salem gets her to the bar, hopefully without further incident, his body language carefully restrained. He orders a bottle of water for each of them -- the thick gathering of sweating, writhing forms in the Temple makes for a heated environment -- and asks her, "Who was the man who grabbed you earlier? The blond, I mean."

Long distance to Rina: Salem . o O ( Damn, it's hot in here. )

Rina stays glued to his side, pulsing slightly with the beat. She shakes her head quickly. "Don't know... I forget his name, I din't wanna dance with him."

Salem hands her one bottle of water, then opens the other for himself. "He just wanted to dance?" He eyes her, warily, dubiously.

Rina flashes an almost lupine grin, and then swigs down several swallows of the water, closing her eyes as she drinks. She was evidently starving for it, by the way she throws it back.

Salem grunts, a low 'hmph' noise, and takes a sip of his own water, barely touching it. "You're incorrigable," he remarks, half irritated and half amused.

Rina swallows the last of the water and giggles, a sound he has almost never heard from her. She slides a leg against him, then, and the dark eyes return to his face, bright and fierce with mischief. "Yeah and?"

Salem shifts his weight subtly and offers her his bottle of water. "And nothing," he says, after a beat. A wry smile tugs lightly at one corner of his mouth.

Tossing the empty one to the bar, she takes the offering and drinks down a swallow or two. "Mmmmhm." She grins up at him, as if she's clearly won the argument. More disturbing is the leg that has somehow wrapped around one of his, and the way her breathing moves her chest against him.

Salem keeps a straight face as he shifts his weight again, edging subtly away from her. He's sweating slightly, but it _is_ rather hot in the Temple tonight. He reaches out to take back the bottle so he can have another mouthful of water; the bottle's been chilled, at least. "Perhaps we should go outside. Get some fresh air."

She looks torn for a moment, the excitement of the club tugging at her.

"Or you could go dance a bit more," Salem offers, taking another swig from the bottle. "Cooler outside, though." It's not difficult to tell which he'd prefer.

Rina shakes her head quickly. "Nah," she says. "Let's ditch, go f'r a walk or somethin'." The brightness is still there in her eyes, a look that makes him wonder where she might take him, or what situation her madcap state mind land them in.

No Garou gets anywhere in life without taking dangerous risks. And certainly not those originally trained as Ahrouns. Salem swigs down another mouthful, then caps the bottle and straightens up. "Lead-- ah, go ahead. A walk sounds perfect."

Long distance to Rina: Salem watches Jack catch himself before going, "Lead on, MacDuff..."

The bartender is watching them, and as Rina walks away someone ends up with a very strong Screwdriver. He calls out, "Angel, I hate to see you go, but I /love/ to watch you leave, baby!"

Laughing, Rina tugs Salem by the hand, the two of them weaving through the labyrinth of people and tables, finally reaching the door.

One of the bouncers, a taut-faced but polite man, red hair making him look like an Irish thug, stops her at the door and reminds her to get her jacket; he's already sent someone for it, he says, and it'll just be a minute. When he looks over to Salem, giving that evaluating look at first, a measure of understanding shows in his eyes. He, too, seems to have a slightly protective attitude toward the young woman, and there is a sadness that darkens his small, mirthless smile.

The oblivious Kin flirts with him a little, teasing him about asking out the coat-check girl instead of giving his partner such a chance... and she introduces the two men, names and words nearly tumbling over each other with the effects of the drug. The jacket is delivered, in fact the bouncer helps her into it, practically without laying a finger anywhere ungentlemanly.

Out into the street, and the cold night air hits like a brick wall or a block of ice, evaporating sweat from the skin and replacing it with clammy Washington fog.

Salem slips the capped water bottle into one of the big side pockets of his coat, shaking his head slightly as they pass out of the club and its chaos. The relatively quieter street, for all its wet chill, is more welcome. "You all right?" he asks, glancing sidelong at her; he buttons up his coat quickly and tugs on his gloves.

Rina hugs the jacket close around her, nodding quickly. She looks almost feverish, in the dull light of the streetlamps. Those bright, uncanny eyes look over to him, as she spins once and then links an arm through his. "Where d'you wanna go?"

"Back to the studio, eventually," he answers. Gloved hands vanish into his coat pockets, but there's still plenty of arm for her to twine herself to. "But we can take the long way back. Maybe stop somewhere for a coffee. If you like."

Rina scrubs a hand through her hair. "Cool, sure, sounds great..." Her gaze flits from place to place, taking in everything around them without really observing. She spends about ten strides looking straight up, though, suddenly captured by the sight of the moon.

Salem remains quiet for much of the walk, and its late enough that the streets are nearly empty. After some time, he looks sideways and down at her face again and asks, "Did you have a good time tonight?" His gaze is searching, quiet.

Rina's shoulders lift as she shivers, suddenly pressing herself closer. Her eyes are still focused on the sky, and the clear bliss in her smile is a beautiful thing. "Still am," she whispers. "Isn't she pretty, tonight? So ... all silver and gold and glowy."

He hesitates a beat before answering, in a murmur, "Yes, she is." His gaze flicks upward at the moon, almost as an afterthought.

As they pass through the pool of a streetlight, she suddenly steps ahead of him and turns, setting a hand on his chest to block the way. "Stop--" That hand runs down the leather, as she looks up at his face in the light. He has seen that look before, even without the drug: a hungry, burning, consuming look that comes when she is painting or drawing something, or when she seems to drink in whatever she sees. "There," she whispers.

Salem blinks a bit -- once, twice. He holds quite still, staring at her with a bemused frown. One eyebrow lifts, the right. "...Hrm?"

Her hand keeps running over the jacket, as if to smooth away imaginary wrinkles. She shakes her head quickly, the smile fading into something slightly less wired. "Shhh. Not all frowny, like that. You can Spock at me all y'want, though. Maybe I'll start callin' ya that. It's your new deedname."

Salem snorts, relaxing. "I've been called worse," he says, wry. "_Much_ worse."

She almost laughs, the laugh turning at the last moment into a smile, altered only by the clear evidence of the drug in her eyes, bright and wild. "You're so..." The remainder is only a shake of her head, and then she steps in, closing the distance between them and sliding both arms around him, rubbing her cheek against the cold leather of his coat.

Salem makes a little 'hrmph' noise, but there's no real irritation in it. Mouth curved into a faintly wry expression, he runs his fingers over the back of her head, scruffling the short-short hair. "Come on," he says, after letting her hug him for a moment. "It's fucking freezing out here. Let's move."

Rina shivers when he rubs against the grain on her hair. She holds him tight, briefly, as if to cement the bond; then in an instant she turns to drag him onward, resuming her place at his side. Her arm htreads through his again, and she leans close, her head sometimes resting against his shoulder until something catches her attention.

Salem skips the coffee-and-donut place; there are police cars and yellow crime-tape around it and a buzz of activity, all viewable from a distance and easily avoided by shifting to the next block over. He doesn't offer any more conversation.

By the time they reach Rina's building, the winter chill is gnawing at their bones like members of a certain tribe.

Rina talks all the way home, about all sorts of things; sometimes, in fact, he isn't sure what exactly. But she is happy, at least, and secure in the warm glow, even if that glow is chemically produced. She runs her hand along the chainlink, all the way up the stairs, and says something about the birds that makes him notice the sound once more, the twitters and chirps piped into the stairwell. It's all utterly fascinating, to her, but she never seems to take her attention entirely from him--there is always a hand touching somewhere.

On the landing, she gives him another hug, her arms staying loose around his waist when she finally lifts her head. The wildness is still there in her eyes, as she searches his face, drinks in the sight of it. "Hey, Jack," she says softly. One hand untangles itself, and comes up to trace the scars.

Didn't he mention, once, that he liked to see her happy? He did, didn't he? And, somehow, the pill-induced chatter doesn't seem to bother him, nor test his patience. But he's stone cold sober, emphasis on the 'cold', and though the long leather coat is warm enough, his face is tight, the skin chilled.

He gazes back at her, somewhat wary, but not overly so, as the walk's been without incident and the Temple's heat seems, now, a million miles away. "Hmm?"

Her smile softens, as she touches the scars. "You don't always hafta be cold," she says quietly. "Not all the time." Her fingertips move with the lightness of a feather, almost, and the dark eyes look with that weird intensity again.

Then she moves against him, rising a little, heels lifting from the floor. Hey eyes drift closed as she tips her head and kisses him--gentle, but full on the mouth.

For once, the infamous iron will almost fails Jack. He had time to move away and plenty of warning. As it is, the contact lasts no more than a second before he steps back, and he doesn't return it.

A gloved hand comes up and rubs at his mouth; his composure's ruffled, feathers of the psyche all poofed out like those of a disturbed eagle. "You'd, ah, better go up."

Rina nods, her lips curved in an angelic, closemouthed smile. Her hand touches his, gingerly. "Yeah... I'm all tripped, I need..." She doesn't tell him what she needs--just nods again, seriousness in those dark eyes. "Yeah. 'Night, Jack."

Salem squeezes her hand, then releases it. "Good night, Rina. Sleep well." As the feathers smooth down, he settles back into the familiar amiable-but-aloof courtesy.

Rina nods minutely, and for once does not invite him into the apartment proper. Somehow she opens the door with her back to it, the card finding its slot without her having to look. Stepping back, she leans her head against the edge of the apartment door, and watches him. "You, too." The smile quirks slightly at that, as if she knows, of course, that such a thing is impossible.

Still, some nights are easier than others... not that this will likely be one of those nights.

He dips his head to her in an almost-bow, then turns and heads back down to the street.