It is currently 17:40 Pacific Time on Thu Feb 13 2003.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is a cloudy day. The temperature is 53 degrees Fahrenheit (11 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the north at 6 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.76 and rising, and the relative humidity is 63 percent. The dewpoint is 41 degrees Fahrenheit (5 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waxing Full Moon phase (81% full).

Pool Hall

Pool tables, with one foosball table and an air hockey table hiding among them, dominate the space of the hall, hardly yielding any space for the motley crew of players chalking their sticks and eying the brandy bottle at the bar lining one wall. The dust and scratches on all surfaces save the green velvet lining the pool tables indicate this hall as skimping on maintenance and cheap on cleaners. Its lack of flashy videogames and surplus of toothless kibitzers underscores its appeal to the older crowd. No natural sunlight is permitted into the hall, its lighting provided by bulbs swinging from the ceiling.

A recent 'renovation' to the hall has caused many splinters and embdeed bullet holes, adding much to the aged atmosphere. Ruddish stains, dark and ominous even under the lights, refuse to be washed out of the floor. A dart board brightens up the walls with its red-and-black scheme, and a moosehead looks down on the proceedings.

Mounted from the ceiling, a television blares its glaring brightness and noises.

A set of double doors, one locked, the other unlocked at the whims of the hall manager, lead out to the street. Unobstructive doors behind the bar undoubtedly lead to storerooms.

Already in the pool hall is Alicia, dressed to kill and playing a game of billards, seemingly wiping the floor out of some poor guy. Unfortuantly, that happens to be her husband, Tom, who is learning how much of a sharkie his wife is.

Ebony drifts in quietly, looking like he needs a drink. No rest at work, none at home either. Get out the sympathy violins for the Roachkin, everyone. Still, looking around the room, he spies Lish and Tom, lifting a hand to wave to the Coggie pair.

Maybe he's losing, but Tom still smiles. His head tilts and he says, "I knew a physics major that I'm sure could still beat you." His turn, shoot-and-a-miss. There's a brief sigh and he shakes his head.

Alicia

Here we have Alicia Jackson, a young woman who looks around the age of 20 or so. When in truth, she just turned 17, but that hard look in her eyes could easily be mistaken for older. Slender in form, her body is composed of lean, compacted muscle. She looks quick, but not very strong. Her eyes are a dark brown, curious and wandering, lit up playfully most of the time. She stands of average height, perhaps about 5'6 or so, carrying herself well when she moves. Her flesh is lightly tanned, kissed by the sun from the many years of running with the gangs on the street. Four ear rings adorn her left ear, two more upon the right, composed of small, goldeny hoops. The Galliard's hair falls down just past her shoulders. Once brown and red streaked to those who's seen her before. Now, pale blonde with slightly darkened roots.

Her clothing consists of a pair of baggy, over sized camouflage pants. Black, green, and brown patterns splashed along the fabric. A tight fitting sports bra hug her upper frame, revealing the curves of her upper body, flat stomach and lean arms. She wears a golden hoop in her navel. Knee high boots travel up her legs, firmly laced in each hole. Finishing off, she has a worn, dusty old black trench coat which hangs just below her knees. Her tongue ring is almost always seen, clicking in thought, or when she speaks with that ghetto accent of hers.

Ebony

Ebis "Ebony" Knight is a tall lanky youth of perhaps twenty years, darkly colored by nature, though countering this somewhat via his mode of dress. To look at, one might assume him to be of African descent; his skin is a dark chocolate hue, complimented by near-black eyes. His hair would also be black if he ever let it grow, the young man perpetually seen with a shaved head. Despite his looks however, his accent would instead belie his upbringing in England, Ebony's polite tones something of a constant whatever his mood.

His build is rather tall and scrawny, prone to long and gangly limbs and a slim torso rather than laying down fat or much muscle, though this is partly obscured by the loose clothing he wears. Today sees him clothed in a pair of very baggy purple jeans, a little torn and frayed around the hem where they drag on the floor, half-obscuring a pair of well-worn-in sneakers. Covering his torso is a /bright/ yellow shirt with a short comic strip on it, of a goldfish illustrating it's bad memory. His head, rather than left shaven and unadorned as usual, is now home to a loose woolen hat, coloured in soft orange and blue hues. Apparently, he's one for colour.

Tom

A young man in his early twenties, Tom stands at a little over six feet tall. He has a head of auburn hair cut short on the sides and left a little long on the top. His eyes are a very light blue, almost to the point of being grey and are framed by the handsome features of his face. He's a handsome fellow ranging more toward gentle and boyish than toward ruggedly handsome. His clothes are casual, though stylish. He wears a simple blue pull-over shirt with no design on it, a pair of blue jeans and a pair of sneakers.

"Good, bring 'em on, an I'll take all his money." Giggling, Alicia leans over and kisses his neck softly, arms wrapping about his waist, growling some. "Mine." She states, just to tease, then catches sight of Ebony waving. She brightens up, motioning him over.

Salem pushes open the door of the pool hall and prowls in, a gathering storm on two legs in a coat of long black leather. A filterless cigarette dangles from his lips. As he enters, the Walker tugs off his gloves and casts a humorless gaze over the smoky room.

Ebony heads over Alicia's way, hands in pockets. "Yo, Alicia, Mr Alicia," he greets amicably, not being too familiar with the coggie male. "S'up?"

"Uh-huh," Tom says with a chuckle. As Alicia kind of hugs him, he chuckles and hugs in return. He peers to the others, head tilted a bit and offers waves to...well whoever waves to him.

"Not much. I'm just smoking my baby here in some pool." Alicia leans her head against Tom's shoulder, placing her stick down across the table. Salem then catches her eye and she lifts a hand, waving him over as well.

Salem gives Alicia a nod and heads over to join her and the others, tucking his gloves away into a coat pocket as he does so. "Evening. Who's winning?" He glances at the green.

"She is, for now," Tom replies with a smile. "But I have her lulled into a false sense of security."

Ebony smiles a little to Alicia, then nods politely to the approaching Salem as well. "Up for a game, then?" he prompts, of anyone willing.

Alicia chuckles slightly and rubs over Tom's tummy. "I'm sure you are hon. Any moment now yer' ganna start beating me." Giggling, she picks up her cue stick again, then peers over to Salem. "Uh oh...he's calling you out big boy."

Elisabeth wanders into the pool hall and walks over to the bar, ordering a beer.

Salem arches an eyebrow, his eye going from Alicia to Ebony. "You play?" His gaze is steady, and while the tall Philodox isn't being actively hostile, the full moon adds a definite menace to his otherwise bland expression.

Tom nods, "Oh yeah," he says with a chuckle. "I'm going to make a comeback." He grins a bit and shrugs, going quiet since he's not directly involved in the conversation.

"I used t', at school," Ebony supplies. "Has been a year or two now...might'a lost somethin' along the way."

Alicia steps back from the table, placing the stick down at its side. Hugging Tom again, she leans into his arms and watches the two roaches talk back and forth.

Beer in hand, Beth removes the bottlecap and takes a sip as she looks over the bar. Taking note of the people that seem to be edging away from the pool tables. A faintly amused smile touches her lips, as she notices who is the souce of all thouse nervous looks.

"You should play the winner," Salem says, glancing at the couple. "That is, Alicia. I may take a turn to whoever wins that."

Ebony grins somewhat. "You'll be playin' 'licia then, as well," he predicts to the Elder, turning towards Alicia then. "Have at ye, wench!"

Tom gives Alicia a little peck on the lips (cute, ain't it?) when she hugs him again, then he too watches a moment. "Yeah, I think our game's over and done with now, honestly," he admits with a chuckle. "Go ahead, maybe someone can win more games than I can tonight."

Alicia cuts her eyes over to them and giggles, shaking her head. "I think I'm just going to sit here an hug this guy instead. We've been playing for awhile now."

Nicodemus pushes open the door to the pool hall, slipping inside inobtrusively--he's slightly out of his usual social haunts and treading relatively softly. Undulating waves of fresh air radiate out from the goth's entrance, briefly combatting the cigarette haze before succumbing completely, being assimilated into the carcinogen-laden clouds. Nicodemus scans over the inhabitants of the seedy downtown establishment, eyes briefly lingering ever so briefly on a few souls he seems to recognize before continuing his sweep.

Leaving the bar, Elisabeth makes her way toward the Walkers. "Evening, fancy meeting you two here," she greets Ebony and the Ragey Philodox.

Salem takes the cigarette from his mouth. "Typical," he says, referring to Alicia and Tom's display of young married affection. He cuts a look over toward Elisabeth. "Small city, isn't it?"

Ebony then looks towards Salem thoughtfully, gesturing to the pool table in question. "Looks like it's just you and me, then, boss," he comments observantly. "You breakin' or playin' first?" At Beth's approach, he feigns relief and comments with a grin, "Unless you wanna go head to head with Mr Salem?"

Grunting, Tom shakes his head. He's not quite sure how to take Salem's comment, so, like any smart person, he ignores it. Ignorance equals bliss afterall.

"Go ahead and break," Salem says blandly. "I'm going to get something from the bar first."

Alicia can't help but grin as she gives Tom another good squeeze around the waist, then smiles over to Beth. She's content in just staying quiet it seems, hand slipping into Tom's.

"Certainly seems to be," the Get Kinswoman states in response to Salem's statement. "I'll play pool if someone is interested."

Chuckling, Tom puts an arm around Alicia, his other hand getting taken by her's. Seeings how this isn't his usual crowd, he's clueless in how to act or what to say so gets all silent and brooding. At least he has a good brooding face.

Salem glances from Ebony to Elisabeth and back again, then nods his head toward the Get kinswoman before stalking away from the group and toward the bar. He spots Nicodemus on his way there and pauses to give the goth a brief eyeball.

Ebony racks up the table and hands a cue over to Elisabeth. "Go for it, Beth."

Nicodemus takes a slightly roundabout path to avoid intruding on Salem and Alicia's cohorts, heading towards a corner area pool table where, some weeks before, he'd met with a bunch of south side hoodlums. As he approaches the currently vacant table, he briefly raises his left arm and glances at his naked wrist in a familiar gesture.

Elisabeth sets her beer down at the side of the table, before taking the offered cue and briefly examining the table. Leaning over, she breaks the set and swears softly when non of the balls fall into any of the pockets.

Salem leans against the bar, tapping excess cigarette ash out onto a nearby ashtray as he waits for the bartender to respond to his beckoning gesture.

Alicia leans up and gives Tom a kiss on the cheek, then lets him go, heading over to Nick, raising up a brow. She stops at his pool table and asks. "So, what time is it?"

Nicodemus dips a hand into his cloak and pulls out a metal tin and a gold Zippo lighter. He pulls a black with gold trim cigarette from the tin, lights it, and returns the components back into his cloak with a practiced ease. He moves over to a wall to select a pool stick as Alicia intercepts. "Quarter til," he says as he plucks his choice from the rack.

Nicodemus

At a glance: Goth, male, early twenties, thin, and about 5'4"ish in height--in about that order. A more extensive eyeballing reveals greater details.

Nicodemus is wearing a greatcoat in an 18th Century style that's so dark brown it's almost black. It gives the impression of being travelworn, but without being so. It's unbuttoned and prone to subtly dramatic billowing in gentle or hard winds. Beneath it there's a form-hugging heavy maroon turtleneck sweater. His pants are just plain black dockers, and he's wearing comfortable yet stylish black loafers.

A pair of expensive-looking wire-rimmed glasses rest on his narrow nose. He wears one necklace with a silver skull ornament that has a translucent red crystal inside and a second necklace bearing a delicate silver crucifix. The ornaments and thin silver chains constrast nicely against his maroon turtleneck. His left hand's middle finger sports an artistic finger gauntlet with a couple edges that look sharp enough to double as a box cutter.

The smell of fine incense lingers about him along with an easy-to-miss fainter scent of ozone, as if a thunderstorm might be coming soon.

Elisabeth continues playing her game with Ebony, sinking three balls, before missing a shot and letting the kinsman take his turn.

Elisabeth

The woman before you is tall, standing a height of 5'10. Elisabeth's age seems to rest somewhere between her late teens and early twenties. Her facial features are strong and somewhat rectangular, with slightly raised cheekbones, small chin, and hawk-like nose. Beth's hair is straw-blond, with streaks of darker brown hairs running through it. The woman's eyes are a beautiful ice-blue, perfectly set in her pale face. Physically, the kinswoman is impressive. Regular physical activity, having blessed her with toned muscles and an athlete's grace. Her hands, if one bothers to look at them, are covered in a series of small scars and the palms are toughened by physical labor. On her right hand, a golden engagement ring encircles one finger.

Currently, the woman is wearing a pair of blue jeans, a form fitting white top, and a leather jacket. Her feet are clad in leather boots, the type favored by bikers.

Ebony considers the table, walking around it slowly. He takes a shot, managing to sink one, though alas the white goes down with it. D'oh. He fishes it out and offers it over to Elisabeth somewhat sheepishly.

Salem returns to the game with a glass of beer and settles into a chair nearby. He watches the two kinfolk with an idle, brooding gaze.

Tom smiles at Alicia as she heads off, then resumes his staring into space. Actually, now he's watching the game. Obviously, he's trying to pick up pointers.

Alicia nods her head and gazes over at the Goth a bit, then smirks. She leans forward to whisper into his ear, a lil private conversation.

Elisabeth takes the white ball and places it on the table, before lining up her shot and easily sinking another ball. Looking up, her attention focuses on the Walker Elder. "Something on your mind?"

Salem lifts an eyebrow, then shakes his head and takes a swallow of his drink. "Just thinking." He sits up. "Had any chance to do any teaching?" His glance falls significantly on Ebony.

"Beth's got me on a weights program," Ebony offers, watching the other Kinswoman sink balls. "Aches like fuck, bit...eh, she says it'll work."

Elisabeth hikes a thumb in Ebony's direction. "Him? Yea, I've got stick-boy on some light weights. Move him up to something a little more difficult, when he is ready for it."

Salem nods. "Good," he says, sipping again. "Good."

Nicodemus converses quietly with Alicia for about a minute or two and then nods at her.

Nicodemus and Alicia finish their conversation and then she heads out of the pool hall to parts unknown. Nicodemus, meanwhile, lingers about the pool table still. He plunks a few coins into a slot and a slew of pool balls clunks down, are picked up, and are arranged on the table. As he arranges the balls, Nicodemus keeps tabs on a few things--Salem and his associates, and the entrance to the pool hall. The entryway gets more attention, as if he's expecting someone or some group to come through it.

Ebony racks up the table again, grinning wanly. "Well, that's one game down. Only two t'go before I feel like I /really/ got my ass handed t'me t'night."

Salem, meanwhile, does a somewhat artful impression of a man relaxing as he watches Ebony and Elisabeth finish their game of pool, the Nordic-looking woman easily wiping the floor with the dark-skinned man. As Elisabeth heads out, Salem finishes off his cigarette and smiles thinly at Ebony. "Still feel like a game?"

Ebony grins cheerfully to his Elder. "Sure thing, boss. Y'know, I think you'd make a good pool shark...y'look the part, anyway. Feel like an easy win?"

Nicodemus herds the balls into the triangle thingy and positions them where they ought to go. He strolls lazily about the table, chalking the tip of the stick heavily. He doesn't seem overly concerned about playing well--if he's playing at all.

"I don't look innocent enough," Salem tells Ebony as he gets up. The leather coat's left folded over the back of his chair. The game's over fairly quickly, ending in another bad defeat for the kinsman, and Ebony retreats from the poolhall afterward. Left to himself again, Salem returns the pool cues to the rack and retires to the bar to finish his beer.

Nicodemus putters around aimlessly at the pool table he's claimed for about 15 more minutes, sinking a ball about one out of every two tries and apparently more interested in the pool chalk than the balls. Sporadically, he looks towards the door. As the last ball is sunk, he glances at his wrist again, then the door, then Salem over by the bar--now all alone. He wipes his hands on the pool table cloth, returns the stick to the rack, and heads over in the ahroun's direction--to order a drink, of course.

Salem is still nursing his beer, but has lit himself another of the handrolled cigarettes. He's got a good deal of open space on either side of him; the pool hall is far from crowded and there are plenty of seats to choose from that aren't next to a potential whirling vortex of death and destruction. Salem glances up as Nicodemus nears and offers over a placid-sounding, "Evening."

Nicodemus pulls his cloak to one side as he perches in a seat, momentarily exposing the handle of a handgun strapped to the small of his back. He flicks ash from his clove cigarette into a nearby ashtray. "Likewise. Whiskey," he says to the passing bartender.

"How are things in the law enforcement business?" the werewolf asks, after a moment's silence.

Nicodemus lifts a shoulder as the bartender returns with a shot glass, deposits it in front of the goth, collects a few bills, and promptly decides to go clean some glasses--on the side of the bar furthest from the two men. "Running a race we're doomed to lose. Same as usual. But hey, I made my quota of tickets for this month already, so it's cruise control for the rest of the next two weeks for me." He takes a sip from his drink, testing it, then returning it to the bar. "How's.... whatever it is you do?"

Salem casts a dourly amused look at the retreating bartender. "Repo," he answers, tapping ash from his cigarette. "And it's steady. Plenty of people in debt. Plenty of unemployment. Plenty of people who can't make their payments." He inhales another lungful of smoke and exhales it through his nostrils.

"Times can be tough," agrees Nicodemus, who hardly looks as if he's had it tough (financially) anytime during his entire life. He grinds out his black cigarette, only half-smoked, in the ash tray. "So're you a Republican or Democrat?"

Now there's a question he hasn't been asked lately. Salem glances sidelong at Nick, eyebrow rising. "I'm registered as independent," he answers. "Though I usually vote Democrat. You?"

"If I registered, I'd go Independent." Nicodemus takes a swallow of whiskey before continuing. "I think government should be more hands off. And I hate the diametrical opposition of the two-party system. It oversimplifies the complexity of politics and generates nothing more than banner-wavers who have no idea what's really at stake. Kind of like Christians that haven't read the Bible."

Salem grunts, taking another drag off his cigarette. "I haven't seen much opposition these days, really. The Democrats seem to be falling all over themselves trying to show they're just as patriotic as the Republicans. Six of one, half a dozen of the other."

Nicodemus nods faintly in agreement. "The differences are largely superficial nowadays, yeah. But they've both existed almost unchallenged for over a hundred years. They're firmly entrenched and it'll be pretty much impossible to compete with them. And the war? God, the whole thing is such a transparent cover-up for a US oil grab it's amazing people are buying it hook, line and sinker. And duct tape and plastic wrap? What the fuck is that all about? Nothing more than a ploy to alleviate mass panic and, if there is some kind of attack, to keep people busy with rolls of duct tape and saran wrap rather than looting their neighbor's."

"Duck and cover." Salem smirks faintly, the expression cynical. "And nevermind the economy going down the sewer. Hmph." The Walker shrugs, draining off the last of his beer. "It'll pass."

"Probably," Nicodemus agrees. "We've had the power to blow the world up multiple times with the push of a button for over forty years now and nothing's happened yet. Depressing." He trails off and then switches subjects. "Heard an interesting rumor about the local war on drugs recently."

Salem gives the goth another eyebrow-raised glance at the word 'depressing,' but doesn't comment on it, focussing instead on the new topic. "Oh? Do tell."

Nicodemus gives a leisurely glance left and right, making sure no one else is paying too much attention. "I heard a rumor coming out of Vice that that UL stuff has put several people in hospitals. Coma with total brain death. Veggie city with nothing to look forward to but getting fed out of a tube, collecting bed sores, and having a machine breathe for you until someone pulls the life support or until the respirator gives you a lethal case of pneumonia. Really a bad, bad way to go. Bullet to the head or slit wrists would be way better. But sometimes batches of drugs just come out wrong. Fortunately it's easy to tell which ones to avoid because of the brand labeling and the distributors--they don't change very often. Vice thinks the UL stuff is being cooked up wrong, and that's causing the deaths."

Salem grimaces. "Christ on a polearm," he mutters. "You know if they're going to move in on the bastards? Shut them down?"

Nicodemus sighs softly. "Well, honestly, it's sort of a complicated situation. Obviously, with so many kids getting turned into vegetables, it ought to be a pretty high priority to shut them down. But at the same time, as those rumors are spread and people begin to realize that UL is way more dangerous than what they thought, UL usage and popularity will go straight through the floor and be horrible for business for the suppliers. So Vice isn't likely to make a move anytime soon." He pauses to swallow the rest of his whiskey. "Largely because there aren't any UL vegetables in the hospital and because Vice isn't aware that they're spreading a rumor right now. If you catch my drift."

Salem squints a bit at the other man, frowning. "Pretend I don't," he says. He takes another drag on his cigarette. "In any case, potential death hasn't stopped anyone from putting poison into their bodies before." He gestures with his cigarette. "Case in point."

"True," Nicodemus admits. "But I imagine people would look at cigarrettes differently if you they that approximately one cigarrette in each carton would kill them dead immediately, as opposed to tens of thousands of them over the span of 40 years. Some people will still do it, but they're the ones willing to take that risk knowingly--as opposed to the ones who think there's little or no chance for harm.

"True." Salem studies the plain white cancer stick held in his fingers with a thoughtful frown.

Nicodemus lifts a shoulder casually. "If the rumor spreads, people who're sitting on the fence will get pushed off in the right direction. Could save one person. Could save dozens. Could keep hundreds from ever trying the stuff."

Salem turns that one dark eye back onto the goth. He considers the other man gravely a moment, then nods. "That it would. And rumors do have a way of spreading widely."

Nicodemus slides out of his chair as he turns the shot glass upside down on the table. "They certainly do. See you around, Mr. Salem."

"Likewise, Mr. Dalton," the Garou replies. "Have a pleasant evening."