[First, a bit of background...]

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Subject:  Package
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Sometime this morning or afternoon, whenever is convenient for the handwaving, 
  Merria sticks her head diffidently in the door of the Rialto, apologizes to 
  whichever member of Edge she finds, and says she just wanted to drop 
  something off for Salem. The something, it transpires, is a small package, 
  maybe the size of a really thin paperback book, but heavier and more 
  brittle, wrapped in old newspaper, with the word "Salem" scrawled on it, 
  signed only with a yellow smiley-face sticker.
==============================================================================
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Subject:  ...and the contents
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Inside the newspaper wrapping is a bar of dark chocolate and a note, written 
  in round, loopy handwriting. The note says, "I mostly hang out around the 
  abandoned church on Jermantown Ave. Come on by sometime grab a bite to eat 
  or just look around. It is Cavall's turf but I asked them and they don't 
  mind." Beneath this is simply another smiley face, and then the words, "P.S. 
  The church is abandoned there are no preachers left I promise."
==============================================================================

[1/19/98]

Currently on this gusty and freezing winter evening in the general St. Claire 
  area, it is 25 degrees Fahrenheit (-3.9 degrees Celsius). The wind is coming 
  from the southwest at 11.8 mph. The ground is normal. Skies are clear with a 
  possible chance of precipitation.

[Forgotten Church's desc, from the outside.]
        With a little imagination, a viewer can imagine this old building 
  white again, but now the stone that comprises it is almost black from the 
  daily bath of soot it undergoes. Seven broad steps bounded by wide stone 
  bannisters lead up to splintered wooden double doors, with plain glass 
  windows on either side. The old church seems to rise three stories, except 
  for the bell-tower, which stands as an odd contrast to the forest of 
  smokestacks that surround it.
        An old and battered sign has obviously been vandalized. It now reads 
  "St. Claire First Assembly of doG."

You climb the seven stairs, noting the huge bannisters, and push on the 
  splintered double doors. They creak open a little, and you step into the 
  echoing draftiness of the old church.

Forgotten Church(#1801RAJLM)
        The old church is dark, dimly lit by outside light coming in through 
  scum-encrusted windows during the day, and tomblike during the night. There 
  is a coatroom in the back of the nave, with separate doors leading off to 
  mens' and womens' restrooms, and two staircases, one going up to the balcony 
  and bell-tower, and the other leading down to the basement. The double doors 
  leading out to the street are at the back of the coatroom.
        The hard wooden pews in the sanctuary are, for the most part, still 
  intact. There are even Bibles and hymnals left in the shelves along the back 
  of each row, although many of them look rather chewed on. The altar on a 
  dais at the front of the church is empty, and the lectern that once stood 
  next to it has been knocked over. Rotting red cloth hangs at the very front 
  of the church; there might once have been a design on it, but it has long 
  since faded or been eaten away.

Salem knocks twice upon the church's heavy doors before pushing one of them 
  open. Dark eyes sweep the interior, unsmiling.

Merria spins around as Salem comes in, and then she lights up from head to toe 
  with one pleased grin. "You /came/!"
Merria and Elan are standing near the doors, by a half-quiescent pile of dogs.

"Curiosity," replies the dark Garou, with a definite touch of dark, sardonic 
  humor. His eyes remain shadowed and solemn as he takes in the interior.

Elan crosses his arms and nods to the man, here by invitation. "Jack Salem?" 
  The dogs look up, and some whine, while others bare teeth silently. They do 
  not move, a glance from Elan keeping them perfectly silent.

Salem gives the dogs a distainful look, holding the gaze of one bold mutt 
  until the animal is forced to look away. Then he turns toward Elan, hands in 
  the pockets of his battered leather duster. "I am Salem, yes."

Merria bounces lightly on her toes.

Elan nods once more. He holds out a hand, half-gloved in black leather. "Good 
  to meet you. Morgan and Merry here send word you are family. "Elan Shadow 
  Eyes, Cliath Crescent Bone Gnawer. Member of the Cavall pack of city garou, 
  and Child of Dog. How's things? You gettin' specs and comps?"

Salem doesn't bother to hide his distaste, and his hands remain in his 
  pockets, deliberately scorning the Gnawer's offer of a handshake. "Child of 
  _what_?"

Merria says, "Oh, don't be snobby. Dog's're cool." She grins.

Elan removes his offer of a hand. "Dog. Good totem. Speaks about loyalty to 
  the pack. Your intro?"

"And I thought Rat was bad." The Ahroun grimaces, removing his hands from his 
  pockets to fold his arms across his chest. "You already know my name, and 
  you can probably guess my auspice."

Merria cocks her head to one side. "An' your tribe's none of our business?" 
  she guesses.

Elan nods at this. He looks to Merria, then to Salem. "Hell, yeah his tribe 
  is. If you don't wanna say, fine, but it ain't like it's gonna be any reason 
  not to say."

Merria whispers something to Elan.

"I have no tribe." The Ronin's words come out sharply, the tones clipped and 
  curt. "If I did, I would tell you it."

Merria nods. "That must be rough," she says.

Elan nods at this. "Cool, so, no reason not to say, huh? 's cool. We had a 
  ronin in our pack for awhile. Real sad dude, too, so I know it can be pretty 
  fuckin' rough. You want some Coke or Cheesey Poof or somethin'?"

Salem's eyes flick to Merria and then turn toward Elan, hard and aggressive, 
  boring down upon the Bone Gnawer's eyes. "You don't know a damned thing 
  about it," he snaps.

Merria wrinkles her nose just a little, but lets the confrontation take its 
  course. Not like she could intercept, anyhow.

Elan nods at this. "I sure don't, man. Just tellin' you we had one pack under 
  us, so it ain't like I'm gonna step on your neck and shit, you know? Not, 
  well, like I could. So, you want anything?"
Elan comes up from his lean against the wall, and waves to the basement.

Salem straightens a little at Elan's lack of response to his direct stare, and 
  at once his mannerisms shift slightly, becoming subtly aggressive, even 
  dominant, toward the Dog-Son. And it's pretty clear that he doesn't believe 
  Elan's assertation that a ronin packed with him. "No. I don't need anything 
  from _you_."

"Well," Merria says off-handedly, "Cheesey Poof is pretty close to nothin', 
  all things considered."

Elan turns a gaze on the Ahroun before it slides off the icy wall of rage the 
  man projects. He backs down, subtly, but only a little bit. Pride of place 
  and turf obviously keeps him here. "Sure thing, dude. I ain't gonna force 
  any shit on you, you know?"

Apparently, backing down wasn't the best thing Elan couldn't have done, 
  because Salem steps forward toward the Gnawer Theurge, his stance blatantly 
  challenging now as he seeks the others gaze in a direct staredown. "As if 
  you could. Mutt."

Elan growls at this, now standing his ground. That little bit was apparently 
  the only quarter given. Now, in the heart of his turf, Elan bristles 
  visibly. "Hey, now. Ain't no reason to come in a guy's place and fuck 
  around, huh? I offered you food, guy.."

Merria looks from Elan to Salem and back again like someone watching a ping 
  pong game, if the person in question didn't like pinpong games at all, 
  thought they were stupid, and wasn't the least bit that one had just started 
  up in the middle of her livingroom.

Salem's upper lip curls as he continues to meet Elan's eyes, holding the gaze 
  as he takes another step forward, arms unfolding. "I don't need your fucking 
  sympathy or your lickboot charity. Do you understand that? Is that perfectly 
  fucking clear?" The Rage trembles underneath his skin, growling and pulling 
  at its chains.

Elan meets the man's eyes steadily with a cold golden gaze of his own. "Yeah, 
  I see. And I can respect that, though you probably don't want any of that 
  shit either, huh?"

"Respect from a Bone Gnawer?" Salem's tone is acidic with anger and scorn. He 
  snorts, then reaches out, jabbing at Elan's chest with a finger. "You're a 
  weak, spineless piece of shit," he tells the Theurge. "You're a fucking 
  disgrace, even to your own fucking worthless tribe."

Merria sighs, finally. "Aw, C'mon, Salem."

Elan looks at the finger, planted over his heart, and looks back up into the 
  man's eyes, meeting them evenly. Then he looks away, and backs off. He 
  relaxes and his muscles untense. "Sure thing, dude. Sure thing."

Salem straightens, chin lifting slightly. Interestingly enough, the Gnawer's 
  submission seems to put the Ronin in a better mood. At least, it calms the 
  beast inside him a little. He turns his back to Elan, eyes shifting toward 
  Merria. "You're a Gnawer too?" His tone is mild now, even courteous, in its 
  own dark way.

Elan goes to sit, and then slump, into a pew. He watches the man with a 
  half-distracted air.

"Sure," Merria says, lacking some of her usual perk. "What'd I look like, a 
  Silver Fang?"

Salem smirks crookedly. "No. Not at all." He considers Merria a moment, and 
  then shrugs; there's something about the small Ragabash that keeps the 
  Ahroun from treating her as he did Elan. "Good thing, too."

Merria's grin returns a little. "They wouldn't like me," she says solemnly. "I 
  keep losin' the stick for my butt."

Elan humphs. "You'd have loved our guy, then..."

Salem flicks a glance toward Elan, much the way he glanced at the assorted 
  dogs when he arrived' his attention soon shifts back to Merria. "Ah, well. 
  With the Silver Fangs, you probably wouldn't have the right stick anyway."

Merria nods gravely. "Funny thing is," she says, with a little sideways grin, 
  "Me an the Gnawers get along pretty good. They seem to think I'm all right, 
  an' I like 'em back. Works out kinda tidy that way."

Elan simply glowers from his bench, his gaze turned inwards.

Salem shrugs, reaching into his coat and taking out a pack of cigarettes. 
  "Very tidy." He shakes one out and sticks it between his lips. "I received 
  your package."

Merria nods. "I figured, when I saw you here. You like it okay?"

"I'm saving it for a rainy day. Or snowy, as the case might be." He lights up, 
  inhales a deep lungful, dark eyes studying Merria carefully. "You didn't 
  like what I did, just now, putting him in his place." He makes a gesture 
  with the cigarette toward the defeated Theurge.

Merria shakes her head. "Naw."

Elan taps the side of his pew, gazing at the man.

More of that considering, studying look. "Why do you think I did it?" Salem's 
  tone is curious, oddly intense as he makes his query. Clearly, he has his 
  reasons already, and wishes to see what Merria comes up with.

Elan's eyes cut across Salem's form twice, then he gets up and stands by one 
  of the support pillars.

Merria frowns thoughtfully fr a minute. "I don't know all of it," she says, 
  after some consideration. "Part of it I think was getting order straight, 
  like the real wolves. Part of it was just because he got under your skin. I 
  think nice people worry you, 'cause you been burned too often, an' because 
  usually sooner or later, even the people who try to be nice get freaked by 
  you and that feels like bein' betrayed or somethin', so it's easier not to 
  believe in it, right from the start. An' I think part of it was provin' that 
  you can get mad an' not blow up all the way." She looks up at the saturnine 
  face. "What are the other bits?"

Salem considers Merria's answer gravely, taking a long, thoughtful drag on the 
  cigarette. "Mm. Maybe just because I wanted to." He exhales, flicks ash upon 
  the church floor. "He shouldn't have backed down," says the Ronin, his voice 
  turning sharp. "Especially not in his own territory. Fucking weakness."

Merria nods. "And you care because why?"

Elan trembles with a barely contained Rage, now, and the wooden stancion under 
  his hand fails to survive his grip upon it. It creaks, then cracks. "Yeah," 
  he says, softly, but that's all he does.

Salem shrugs. "Why do I care if he shows weakness? He's a Garou, isn't he?" 
  The Ronin's eyes narrow, his own rage simmering back toward the fore.

Merria nods. She seems to think about one response, then she shrugs and grins. 
  "Yeah, he is, an' I think he's nifty." Her tone of voice does not make nifty 
  a close category; it might even contain Salem. "Anyhow. Didja wanna see the 
  church, or anythin'?"

Elan says "No."

Merria looks around, nods to Elan, looks back at Salem and shrugs. "The man 
  says no," she says philosophically. "Wanna go for a walk?"

Salem turns, moving an unsmiling gaze over to Elan. "Rightfully, you couldn't 
  deny me. But whatever." He takes another drag, then drops the half-smoked 
  cigarette on the floor, flicking it toward the Theurge as he turns back 
  toward Merria. "I could use some air, yes."

Merria nods. She ducks an apologetic glance at her tribesmate, and slides out 
  the door, waiting for Salem once she gets there. She seems a little tired. 
  Just a little.

Elan stands his ground futily, now, and watches the pair go.

Salem leaves the church, the tails of his duster sweeping out behind him as he 
  walks.

You pull open one of the two doors and walk down the stone steps to the street.
Jermantown Avenue, Industrial Sector
From warehouses a few blocks away from the river, across a chunk of city more 
  than a dozen blocks wide, factories brood over the streets like dark dragons 
  over their piles of treasure, greedy and all-encompassing. Huddling around 
  the factories are smaller, less imposing buildings that are probably 
  warehouses, or storage locations for trucks. The factories spill fumes into 
  the air, darkening the area and blanketing it in a stench to mark 
  humankind's domination over the world. Some of the warehouses stand empty, 
  some are boarded over, and some, on the northern and western fringes of the 
  area, have been converted to bars, with bizarre lighting, frequent brawls, 
  and music that blares loudly at all hours of the night. There are no 
  residences here for anyone to complain, and the factory workers populate the 
  bars thickly. Throughout the area, trash and oil mingle together on alleyway 
  streets, impeding the paths to the dumpsters at the ends of many of the 
  alleys.

Merria comes out of the old church and down the stone steps to the street.
Merria has arrived.

Merria walks along, kicking at the snow with swiftly-soggy sneakers, watching 
  her feet.

Salem remains quiet as he walks beside her, hands in his pockets, his thoughts 
  turned inward, though his eyes remain restless, scanning the street almost 
  constantly. Even now, there is a sense of painful alertness about the man.

Merria walks in morose silence for a bit. Then she says, "Would you've done 
  that, if he hadn't asked about your tribe?"

Salem frowns, glancing at her for a moment before turning his attention back 
  to the street at large. "Probably."

Merria sighs, kicking at a lump of dirty snow. "I wish you hadn't."

Salem's eyes narrow, and his voice turns harsh. "Really."

Merria nods, but doesn't comment further.

Salem's frown deepens a bit, though - it seems - not at the Gnawer walking 
  next to him. He shakes his head after a moment and glances upwards, peering 
  through the smog and light pollution.

Merria doesn't speak further. After a while she removes her attention from her 
  feet and looks around her, more at the scenery than her companion.

"I'm going back to the Rialto," Salem says abruptly, after many long moments.

Merria stops. "Okay," she says, looking at Salem. "I'll see you around." She 
  is tired, maybe - one would have thought impossibly - depressed, and there 
  can be no doubt that she meant what she said about wishing the scene at the 
  church had never happened, but she gives no indication that she is angry at 
  Salem for it, or that her fundamental attitude toward him has changed.

Salem studies the small Bone Gnawer for a moment, and - briefly - a flicker of 
  something unidentifiable passes across his eyes. It's gone like a shadow at 
  noon, like a rabbit down a hole. He nods once, curtly, and then heads toward 
  the old threatre, sneakers crunching in the dirty snow.