It is currently 11:33 Pacific Time on Fri Mar 7 2003.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is a cloudy day. The temperature is 38 degrees Fahrenheit (3 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the southwest at 8 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.76 and rising, and the relative humidity is 97 percent. The dewpoint is 37 degrees Fahrenheit (2 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waxing Crescent Moon phase (29% full).

Studio

The studio is airy, elegantly modern and full of light: a large, high-ceilinged square room with almost an entire wall of windows. It still smells of paint, though there is no evidence of current painting. Rolled canvases lean in one of the corners, and a few finished pieces adorn the walls. A six-foot length of pipe hangs a painting behind the couch, creating a slightly more personal space that evidently serves as a bedroom; the piece is a dark, strange cityscape, an oddly skewed view of the world beyond the glass seen through otherworldly eyes. The edge of a futon can be seen beyond it; the walls around the bed bear swirling patterns of colors, calming shades of undersea blue and green. These patterns gradually soften as they grow out into the rest of the room, where walls are visible; angles replace curves, until the mural becomes a mix of ocean and curcuitry. The sofa is quirky and curving, a work of modern art upholstered in green velvet. A Turkish rug in vibrant tribal colors occupies much of the hardwood floor; the coffee table, a sculpture of recycled blue and green circuit-board and shiny aluminum, rests on it in front of the couch.

Opposite the windows, a compact kitchen is marked off by a crisp stainless steel counter. The west wall nearby has doors to a closet and to a small, sparsely-appointed bathroom. The east wall holds bookshelves of pale wood, supporting a small stereo, collections of pictures and found objects, and a good number of books; the corner between shelving and the wall of windows holds a plain wooden desk with a slim notebook computer and phone atop it, and an elegant mesh rolling chair.

Salem's knock is brisk and short.

There's an unusually long silence from within the apartment, to the point where the Walker Elder might think no one home; then there's a muted thump, the sound of chain on metal, and the door opens a crack. One blue eye blinks- and then it swings open, revealing an exhausted, nervous-looking Cat. "Hi Mister Salem," he murmurs, stepping back a bit so the Philodox can enter. "Miz Rina's out right now."

Salem slips off his sunglasses, tucking them inside his coat. "She is? Hm." He enters with a faint shrug. "No matter. I came by, mainly, to see how _you_ were doing."

Cat closes the door behind Salem, replaces the chain. "I'm okay," the boy replies softly, one hand rising to brush his hair out of his eyes, then gesturing at the coffee table where books upon books upon pencils are scattered. "I've been studying, an' I stopped by the farm a few days ago to see Andrea-rhya. I didn't find her." He glances at his feet. "I met some other people though." He looks up again, quickly, and it's a bad attempt to change the subject- "Do you want something to drink?"

"Water's fine," Salem says, shrugging out of his coat as he heads over toward the couch. He glances back toward the boy, looking curious. "Who did you meet?"

The cub turns about, heading into the kitchen and reaching for a glass above the counter. "J-Jamethon-rhya." The fridge opens, and he grabs the Pur water container, pouring it into the fancy red glass. "Miss Elisabeth. Kansas." He reappears with the water in hand, held out for Salem.

Salem takes the glass with a curt, "Thank you," and sits down with it. "Learn anything interesting?" He seems almost relaxed today, interested in what the cub's been up to without any visible hint of suspicion or disapproval.

Cat's the opposite of relaxed, but then maybe it's his moon; his fingers pick at the cuffs of his sleeves, and when he's not looking at Salem his eyes dart to the window or his books. He sits down next to the coffee table, pulling his knees up to his chest. "Not...not really," he says after a moment. A hopeful, confused look is cast towards the cliath. "Salem-rhya? I'm not worthless, am I?"

Salem's eyes narrow. "No," he says, quite firmly. "You're Garou, and you're Glass Walker. You have a talent with interacting with spirits that can only improve. Who told you that you were worthless?"

"Nobody," is the quick reply. Cat glances down at his socks, thinking. "Not that word, anyway, but..." He sighs, adding somewhat bitterly, "I don't think I like the Get of Fenris very much."

Salem's mouth twists into an irritated little grimace. "If it helps, I don't think very highly of them, either." He sits back in the couch. "The Get of Fenris value fighting ability above all else. If you're not willing to throw yourself headlong into danger and die at the drop of a hat, you're not good enough for them. As a tribe, they're mindless beasts with a history of violent racism."