Wharf, Pier Two

The creak and sway of the rotting boards are in sync with the gentle slap
of water against the pylons. Only the sections of the Pier jutting far into
the river have fallen into disrepair. The sections nearest the bank are
still is fair condition as some commerce still occurs by way of the river.
However, many goods that were once shipped via the waterway are now shipped
overland which is cheaper and faster. The wharf stands as testament to an
older time, when the River was a lifeline for the city.

Beyond the warehouses lining the banks to the west, the black asphalt strip
of First Street can be seen.

Morgan's on her morning patrol route through the lower, and seedier portion
of her pack's turf. Her hands are tucked into her pocket, and although the
theurge isn't physically menacing, she walked with a sure, steady, almost
predatory gait.

Salem seems to be on a patrol of his own, though in his case it's more the
restless, aimless prowl of a tiger, the battered duster closed and belted
shut, collar turned up against the freezing morning.

Morgan's eyes narrow perceptible as she avoids a pile of trash along the
rotting wood of the wharf piers. She lifts her chin to consider the other
man, and although she doesn't show any fear, she can sense this man is
dangerous. "Cold, isn't it?" she asks, her breath condensing even as she
speaks.

[Salem]
Tall and dark, he stands a few inches over six feet, a striking and rather
dangerous-looking man in his mid-twenties. Black hair, not quite shoulder
length, frames hawkish features and a high forehead, the dark eyes
deep-set. It's a face tailor-made for brooding and cynicism, and he excels
at both moods. He's handsome, albeit in a devilish, saturnine kind of way,
but rarely does he seem truly relaxed, and often a sharp and tense hatred
seems to rage just beneath the surface of his flesh, a murderous anger held
in check by a tight and uncertain control. A black goatee lines his lips
and jaw, and a thick scar runs down the left side of his face, just missing
the eye. In short, he has the look of the very devil about him, a Lucifer
fallen from grace, bitter about his fate and prone to dark moods and
unprovoked violence. The tails of his duster nearly sweep the ground when
he walks, and the sturdy black leather of the garment shows signs of wear;
it's clearly seen better months. Black BDU pants cover his legs. A
gray-and-black flannel shirt hangs open over a dark green t-shirt, and he
wears black high-top sneakers.

Salem pauses, turning toward the woman. There are shadows under his dark
eyes and a tightness to his face as he regards her, unsmiling. "Cold, yes,"
he replies in clipped tones.

Morgan's face wavers between uncertainty and curiousity. "Haven't seen you
around here before. There's a shelter I can show you, if you need one." Her
hands clench in her coat pockets and her jaw sets.

Salem's eyes narrow, his upper lip curling slightly into a nose-wrinkling
grimace. "Are you a social worker?"

Morgan smirks, slightly, still not giving any ground. Not on her turf. "No.
Just look like you could use a place to sleep. No need to sleep in the
cold, if you don't want." She shrugs. "But suit yourself."

Anger flares behind the man's dark eyes, twisting his face into a deeper,
more hateful grimace. "Fuck off," he snarls, turning away.

Morgan shakes her head. "For the love of Gaia," she mutters. Her jaw sets,
and she stands her ground, just watching the brooding angry storm rage over
Salem. "If you decide to stop being an asshole, and want to get out of the
weather, you can come by the Rialto. Ain't much, but it's warm." She
swallows once, and almost seems to be bracing herself -- almost
defensively.

Salem stops in the act of turning his back on Morgan and swivels his gaze
back to her, muscles tensed, tightly coiled. He stares at her for several
moments, as though trying to burn his gaze into her flesh.

Morgan doesn't flinch away from the man's stare, but her own lip curls back
from her teeth slightly, though she fights the impulse. "You can ask for
me," she tells him, the words sounding forced. "Name's Morgan. If I'm not
around, just tell them you're a friend of mine."

Salem takes a step toward her, his eyes narrowed, rage throbbing under the
surface of his skin, anger and suspicion twisting his features. "I don't
want your fucking sympathy."

Morgan's lips twist into her own snarl, and she holds her ground, like a
proper daughter of Weasel. "I don't want your fucking attitude," she tells
him, her voice fearless and calm. "It's your choice, friend. Come if you
want. Don't, if you don't." Her face relaxes a tick, and her lips cover her
teeth again.

Salem inhales through clenched teeth, glaring into her eyes as though he
can't yet force himself to break a stare that edges far too close to
challenge. Abruptly - and unexpectedly perhaps - he changes the subject.
"Are you Greek?" His voice has changed slightly, the clipped tones
strained, a trace of a European accent coloring his inflections.

Morgan's hands slide out her coat pockets, her slender fingers flexing,
cartilidge cracking. "My parents were," she says, lifting her chin once
more. Her breath comes more easily than his, though she doesn't exactly
back down from him. Her hands take the form of fists, briefly before she
puts them back into her the warmth of her coat. Her head cants slightly to
the left, considering something again, before she straightens.

Salem lifts his own chin, and despite the unkempt hair and bloodshot eyes,
despite the trace of stubble and the smell of stale cigarette smoke in the
cold morning air, there is a... presence... to him. His lips twitch as he
moves half a step back, choking back his rage by force of will and only
partially succeeding. "Not many people make invocations to Gaia."

Morgan inhales a soft calm breath, as she watches the other man. "No," she
agrees easily. "But I'm hardly typical." Her eyes glancing off toward the
river for a second, before they snap back to Salem. "Like I said," she
begins, nodding toward the north, "me and my friends hang at the Rialto.
Come by sometime. We might be able to find you a place to sleep."

Salem's mouth remains set in a grimace of distaste, fists clenched within
the pockets of his duster. "And at what price?" he rasps with bitter
cynicism, teeth flashing in a half-suppressed snarl.

"Nothing," comes the Fury's answer. "We occasionally have visitors come to
town. They need a place to sleep." She considers the other man, her own
Rage in check, for the moment. "And you... you need some place to ride out
these nights. Gets colder then. Even if the moon is bright."

Fury blooms in Salem's eyes, a convulsion of Rage that snaps through his
body and lodges in his throat in throttled frenzy. "Fuck you," he rasps,
taking a step back and turning to walk away. He's shaking with anger. "Fuck
you and fuck your damned sisters!"

Morgan snorts, softly. "Fine," she says, her eyes narrowing, feeling the
electricity like tendrils of his Rage raise the fine hair on her arms.
"This is *my* turf, though," she warns. "Do something stupid on it, and
we'll find you." She backs off, then, not trusting his will enough to turn
her back. Not yet. Her backwards movement is guarded, but not fearful.
She's leaving on her own terms.

Salem throws another curse over his shoulder and stalks away.