It is currently 21:23 Pacific Time on Sat Jan 4 2003.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is partially cloudy. The temperature is 44
degrees Fahrenheit (6 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in
from the south at 8 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.24 and
rising, and the relative humidity is 93 percent. The dewpoint is 42
degrees Fahrenheit (5 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waxing No Moon phase (11% full).

Red Mill Apartments #219

The small, one-bedroom apartment is somewhat sparcely furnished, but has a
comfortable, homey look to it. A greenish-gray couch, obviously
secondhand, holds court in the main room, accompanied by a low coffee
table. Across from it sits a squat black entertainment cabinet and upon
that sits a rather large television; anyone sitting on the couch has an
excellent view of the screen. A bookcase stands alongside one wall, its
shelves holding a stereo, a clock, various CDs, but very few actual books
-- unless you count the paperbacks of various fiction and non-fiction
subjects on the bottom shelf. The carpet's a neutral shade of tan and
covers whatever floor doesn't belong to the kitchenette or the bathroom;
the walls are a shade lighter and on them are a few Van Gogh prints.

The kitchenette is separated from the main room via a stomach-level
counter and past it, a very short section of what might be called a
hallway leads to the bathroom, the bedroom, and a closet. Though the place
is kept fairly clean, cockroaches are a constant presence and go about
unmolested by traps, sprays, or other poisons. In fact, a small plate of
fresh canned cat food sits in a corner near the kitchenette, apparantly
just for the benefit of these insects.

Holiday decorations are still set up -- a Christmas tree complete with
tinsel and colored, blinking lights and a 'Happy New Year!' banner hang
from the ceiling above it. The roaches have their own tiny tree as well.

..when suddenly there comes a knocking. A light rap of knuckles on wood,
just on the other side of Salem's door.

The door opens a moment or two later, revealing Salem at his most casual,
in t-shirt and sweatpants, hair unbound and feet bare. Shadowed eyes
regard Quentin with mild surprise, and one corner of his mouth twitches
upward briefly. "Well. Welcome back." He steps back to let the young
Galliard into the rather _different_ looking apartment.

"Hey boss," Quentin offers in rather cheerful tones, one hand brushing
upwards to brush strands of blue hair from his brow as he moves to step
inside, "Good to be back." ..and then he pauses, coming to a halt just
over the threshold as he looks around at all the decorations, at the
television, in general at the room's changes. A sidelong glance, and he
murmurs conspiratorially, "You didn't just see Rod Serling duck out of
here, did you?"

A shock of electric blue hair spills down just over this teenager's brow,
whispering at the nape of his neck as well; slightly long both in front
and in back, a razor's work having shaved the sides just above and behind
his ears into a buzz-cut haze of cerulean. The features of the night-pale
face shadowed by that hair are slightly angular in their lines, high
cheekbones leading down to a sharp chin matched by the straight line of
his nose, the eyes to either side of it a startlingly bright shade of
green that gleams almost emerald in the right light. He's a rather slender
young man, in height just a few inches shy of a full six feet, although a
touch of leanness to his limbs hints at the recent development of muscle
to strengthen his frame.

He's dressed in a rather casual fashion, with a few flares of
individuality to make him stand out. A hooded jacket of waterproof nylon
taffeta falls over his upper body, midnight black in sheen with streaks of
deepest blue to add a bit of colour to the garment, its large
velcro-closed pockets bulging slightly with a variety of hidden contents.
Beneath that can be seen, when the jacket's open or off, of a less glossy
black -- a sweatshirt of a warm cotton weave worn slightly loose against
his slender frame, but comfortable. His hands are gloved, black leather
and polyester mesh offering more of a stylish commentary than actually
protecting the fingers within from the elements. A pair of black jeans
cover his legs, the tough denim fabric scraped to a paler white at his
knees and a few spots near the cuffs where they brush over the edge of
hi-top sneakers crusted with mud and dirt from walking outdoors.

Salem's mouth twists with wry irritation. "Not my doing," he says shortly,
closing the door behind the cub and turning the latch. "Interesting shade
of hair, by the way. Have a seat." Whatever changes the apartment might
have undergone, the Walker Philodox is the same as Quentin would remember
him, as dour as ever.

Quentin chuckles just a bit as he walks along over towards the couch,
glancing over his shoulder with a rueful twist to his lips. "Though it'd
be handy since I don't want to be recognized.. and what, did the
redecoration fairies fly through?" A turn on his heel, and he drops down
to sit on the couch's edge.

"It's a long story," Salem answers, in a way that indicates that he really
doesn't want to talk about it. He joins Quentin on the couch; there's a
book on the coffee table, open and face-down, as well as a glass of water.
The book's title is _The Tunnels of Cu Chi_ and, judging from the byline,
is about Tunnel Rats during the Vietnam War. "So. How was L.A.?"

"It was.. interesting." Quentin leans forwards, resting his arms against
his knees and cocking his head to look over towards his elder, lips
curving in an easy smile, "Educational, too. Did you know that the caern
down there is in a /building/?"

Salem leans forward to pick up his glass and then settles back, legs
stretched out in front of him. He takes a sip and nods. "An urban caern.
They're quite rare, and thus guarded all the more carefully. What did you
think of the Sept structure? Rather different from our setup in
Washington, yes?"

Quentin's head bobs a little, and he looks out across the room again..
grinning a bit as he sees the tiny christmas tree just for the roaches.
"Yeah. A little more.. mm.. formalized, really. It seemed to work, but I
don't think it'd work well around here.."

"The Wyld has a strong influence on the caern here, and chaos is more
prevalent. Also, a city Sept has less of a margin of error than one whose
caern is out in the middle of the woods." Salem sips his water again.
"Security can be quite a headache."

"Yeah, I can imagine.. that's a lot of territory to guard, as opposed to
just a few doors." Quentin considers for a moment, then glances over and
offers, "I saw some vampires."

Salem lifts an eyebrow, then puts his glass down and sits back, arms
folded across his chest. "Tell me." His tone and expression are both
completely neutral.

Quentin lightly scratches his fingers against his chin, admitting with a
shake of his head, "I didn't really.. meet them, or anything. They just
got pointed out to me while we were out clubbing. Apparently LA's full of
'em."

Salem tilts his head slightly. "That's all? Just pointed out? No warnings
about not molesting them or whatnot?"

"Well, I thought that was a given.." A rueful curve of Quentin's lips, as
he muses, "That, though, I really didn't get. I mean.. they're Wyrm
creatures, right? You'd think we should be out getting rid of them rather
than just.. leaving them to their business so long as they stay out of
ours, for the most part."

Salem quotes the Litany. "'Combat the Wyrm whereever it dwells and
whereever it breeds.'" He grimaces slightly and shakes his head. "Many
times, though, we're forced to prioritize, or accept that the benefits of
a certain action do not outweigh the risks or costs. St. Claire is largely
free of vampiric influence, but in many larger cities, these so-called
'Kindred' are strongly entrenched." His shoulders lift and fall in a
slight shrug. "In that case, an uneasy peace develops. The Sept usually
has more active enemies to worry about."

Quentin grimaces slightly, "Yeah, that's pretty much what they said, too..
priorities.." A shrug, and he pushes back to lean against the couch-back
as he stretches his legs out. "..and they do have more active enemies," he
admits quietly, "Tricia-rhya's pack took me along when they were.. taking
care of some fomori near the waterfront."

"Ah," Salem says, with approval. "Did you have a chance to get your claws
wet?"

Quentin's gaze drops down to his hands, at the question, and he's quiet
for a moment before admitting, "Yeah. I didn't kill any of them, but I
clawed one a few times while it was fighting Black-Sparrow. It was all.."
A slight shudder as he remembers, "..green inside, like fungus."

Salem nods faintly. "What else did you do and learn there?"

"I learned how to change the muffler on a car," Quentin replies, glancing
over with a quick, crooked grin, "I doubt that's what you were wondering,
though.. um.. Tricia-rhya and her pack told me a lot of stories and
legends and such. Met a lot of kinfolk and Garou.." A pause, and then he
says, "Did you know they have plants growing out of the friggin' concrete
at the caern? I still can't figure that one out."

"That's a gift some of our tribe has," Salem replies with a nod, looking
unsurprised. "Francisco used that power to help replant trees around the
caern. To replace those that the Dancers had cut down." He purses his
lips, regarding the cub critically for a moment or two, studying him.

"Really?" Quentin looks thoughtful, glancing back over to the decorations
and drumming his fingers over his knee, "That's pretty neat.."

"Indeed," the Philodox murmurs. Then he straightens up, getting to his
feet and plucking the glass from the coffee table. "Excellent," he says,
after draining the last mouthful of water from it. He pads over toward the
Christmas tree and takes up the one present lying under it. "Lyra left
this for you," he says, taking it back over to the cub.

This box is small and rectangular, about one inch thick and seven inches
long. It's wrapped in dark blue paper, tiny, shiny silver stars
glittering. Thin white ribbon, the kind used for balloon tails, goes
sideways and longways and ties in a neat bow. There's a small note on the
box, which simply reads 'for quentin michaels'. {type 'open box' to see
what's inside}

At that, Quentin straightens.. the look on his face somewhat torn for a
moment as he regards the wrapped box, before at last he settles into a
slightly wan smile and reaches out for it. "Thanks.. for keeping it here.
I've got presents for folks, just haven't unpacked all my luggage yet."

Salem grunts. "I'm surprised that she didn't bring it to Rhiannon's, to be
honest..." He shrugs again and leans against the counter. "I think she's
lurking about the old church, with the rest of her tribe."

Quentin sets the box on his knee, unwrapping the slender white ribbon from
around it. "Mm. Yeah, well," he murmurs, "I'm going to wait a little bit
to go see her, I think.." He pulls it apart, then, tearing the paper off
to delve inside.

Salem's mouth thins, but he replies with a neutral, "As you wish." He toys
with the glass, which is empty now but for a couple of half-melted ice
cubes, and watches the unwrapping with mild interest.

"Hey, it's a watch.." It is, too. A Coleman 'Night Sight' watch with a
black velcro band, green and dark blue framing the face of it. Quentin
looks over it, seeming rather surprised and pleased with the gift, before
reaching in and pulling out the note that goes along with it. The box, and
watch, is set to one side as he rocks forwards onto his knees to read the
note.. and as he reads it, his expression falls, lower lip drawn in
between his teeth and worried there as he reads over the ink marks several
times. Quiet.

Salem arches an eyebrow slightly; as Quentin starts to read, he turns
away, taking his glass into the kitchen and giving the cub some privacy.

There's the faintest of sniff's audible from where Quentin's sitting, but
he's not going to cry. Not in front of Salem, at least, damn it. After the
fifth time he's read through the letter, slightly-trembling fingers fold
it up and tuck it away into his jacket pocket.. and he raises one hand to
rub its heel against his brow. "Damn it."

Salem lingers in the kitchen for far longer than it takes to wash, dry,
and put away one drinking glass. He doesn't look the cub's way even once,
not until Quentin's curse. Then he turns, resting his palms on the
counter. Still, though, he says nothing.

Quentin slides his hand away from his head then, reaching over to pick up
the box and set it in his lap; the watch drawn out and wrapped around his
wrist, as he asks in quiet tones that he knows the elder can here,
"..where's this church at?"

"Jermantown, the industrial sector. Southwestern part of the city." The
halfmoon's mismatched eyes are upon the cub, intent.

"Thanks." Quentin rubs one hand over his face again, before glancing up
and, while trying to hide the conflict of emotions behind his eyes, asks,
"So.. I hear there's a new cub?"

Salem nods once. "Her name's Cass. Cassiel. She hasn't had her first
change yet and is... mm. Still in the doubting stage." He wrinkles his
nose slightly, then shakes his head. "I'll take you over to see her
sometime. Her kinfetch marked her as a Galliard."

Quentin's nose wrinkles up, as he allows, "Yeah, Rhi said that she didn't
believe it was all real.. I'd like to talk to her, yeah, that'd be cool.
Maybe I can relate to her a little better than you.."

Salem grunts. "I don't doubt that. See if you can walk her through
shifting. Teach her the Litany, if nothing else. Hm. And don't let on
about how your own first change was provoked." He smiles humorlessly. "I'd
rather her not to be forewarned about that."

Quentin offers over a slight smirk. "No letting on about your excellent
finger-breaking technique.. gotcha."

Salem arches an eyebrow. "It worked, didn't it?"

"Hey, I'm not saying it didn't.." Quentin shakes his head just a bit,
observing, "Might be less, uh, violent ways of scaring someone that bad,
though.."

Salem's expression is sour. "She's a late bloomer as it is, out of touch
with her primal side, and a doubter. Even after seeing the evidence
transforming right in front of her face, she's a doubter." His lips thin.
"She's learned how to suppress her rage, which only makes it more
difficult to bring it out."

Quentin quirks an eyebrow slightly. "A.. late bloomer? How old is she?" A
light tap of his fingers against his knee, as he adds curiously, "And is
there anyone likely to come looking for her?"

"I'd guess eighteen or thereabouts," Salem says. "And she lives on her
own, so hopefully not." He straightens up. "In any case, Rhiannon should
be able to alert us if someone calls in a missing persons report on her."

"Thank goodness for small favors," Quentin allows dryly, sitting up a bit
and offering over a nod, "Just give me a call when you've got the time to
bring me to see her, then.."

Salem says, briskly, "Excellent. You'll be one of her primary teachers,
after all, once you're Rited."

Quentin blinks slightly, nonplussed for a moment, before chuckling a bit.
"Yeah.. yeah, I suppose I will, won't I?"

Salem smiles faintly, showing a hint of teeth; his gaze is intent on the
cub and humorless. "You will. And it will be soon, that I can promise
you."

That's not a reassuring look. Quentin, in fact, regards his elder with a
hint of wary suspicion. "..how soon?"

"Soon," Salem repeats, unhelpfully. His expression reverts back to its
usual neutral, almost unreadable mask.

"Al..right, then," Quentin murmurs, shaking his head a bit and looking
over, "So. Anything else been going on I should know about?"

Salem shakes his head. "Things are business as usual."

Quentin's head bobs in a slight nod at that, and he pushes himself up to
his feet slowly. "Alright.." The box is tucked under his arm, even though
there's no watch in it anymore, and he offers over a slight grin. "..well,
at least Rhi'll be eating some real food again. I can't leave her alone
for a day, I swear, before she starts back on all that take-out and
microwave crap."

"Better correct that quickly, then," the halfmoon replies, with a touch of
dry humor. "We can't have our alpha kinfolk collapsing on us."

"Yeah, that'd be terrible," Quentin admits, with a bit of a grin, "There'd
be nobody left to shoot us in the leg when we're acting stupid."

"Indeed." Salem's mouth is curved into a thin, sardonic smile that doesn't
touch his eyes. "Tell her I said hello, would you? I haven't spoken to her
in some time."

"Yeah, will do.." A few steps over towards the door, before Quentin pauses
to ask, "Anything else, boss?"

Salem considers a moment, then shakes his head. "Not at the moment. Have a
good evening."

Quentin raises his free hand in slight salute, flashing over a slight
smile. "You too. Relax a little, sometime, huh?" And he reaches for the
door, to head out.

Salem snorts, not bothering to respond to the comment with anything
further.

Hey, he had to try. Thus, the cub exits, stage left.