Currently on this breezy and cold winter morning in the general St. Claire 
  area, it is 29 degrees Fahrenheit (-1.7 degrees Celsius). The wind is coming 
  from the south at 7.8 mph. The ground is snowy. Skies are clear with a 
  possible chance of precipitation.
Currently the moon is in the waning Crescent Moon phase (34% full).
It is currently 09:58 Pacific Time on Sat Feb 21 1998.

Charlie's Tavern(#683RJ)
The environment of this questionable establishment seems close and hot around 
  you despite its fair size. The walls are done up in unremarkable fake-wood 
  paneling, an ugly dark-brown that chips in many places to show the lighter 
  plywood underneath. The floor is the sort of uneven, grey concrete that 
  suggests this building's earlier life as a garage of some sort; it dips and 
  rises, gathering small pools of beer and other spirits in various locations. 
  Wooden tables are scattered about, some in better repair than others but 
  most featuring elaborate networks of dents and scratches; a bar runs the 
  full west side of the room, its uniform brown length accented by a single 
  greasy metal footrest. Dark posters, long since faded into 
  incomprehensibility, hang off the walls at odd angles. What light there is 
  here reaches through in dusty beams from the two windows facing the street, 
  and from the flickering fluorescent rig swinging gently over the single 
  mottled pool table at the back. Perched up over one end of the bar is a 
  battered, black-and-white television.
A single battered black door leads back south to the street.
Contents:
TV
Slab
Obvious exits:
Street  

After an absense of several weeks, Salem's back at his usual table in the 
  back, alone with his beer and cigarette. He seems, oddly enough, to be in a 
  good mood. For him, anyway.

Gwyneth tugs the door open, and slips into the tavern, brushing the remains of 
  snow from her shoulders. She smiles, however, once inside, and breathes a 
  sigh that settles her shoulders, as she continues further inside. Her 
  backpack is removed, and dropped by a table, then she angles for the bar, to 
  order her usual spiked coffee.

[Gwyneth]
Six feet, if she's an inch, on your average female frame, with curves and 
  straight lines, all conspiring to work together. Hair of varying shades of 
  blonde and light brown sports a natural wave, the shoulder-length mass held 
  back only by a black fabric headband.
She wears a shirt that has the look of smooth velvet, ivory in color, and 
  might have the texture, if touched, as well. Her skirt is long, and 
  straight-cut, flaring only slightly around the ankles, an emerald-and-ivory 
  paisley, of light cotton, and open-toed sandals on her feet. Add a beaten 
  brown leather backpack to the picture, and she's off.

Salem glances up to study the new arrival, a puzzled expression on his face as 
  he tries to remember where he's seen her before.

Gwyneth smiles a winning smile for the bartender, as the coffee is produced. 
  Turning back to her table, she spots Salem. An eyebrow quirks, and she 
  smiles, slowly. The coffee glass is set aside, and she turns toward his 
  table, uninvited. "Jack Salem," she says quietly. "I was afraid that you'd 
  skipped town."

Salem smiles thinly and lifts his own glass in a mild salute. "No such luck, 
  I'm afraid," he answers, dark eyes intent.

Gwyneth's smile widens. "No, no, I'd say my luck is better, with you in town." 
  She goes so far as to sit in an empty chair at his table. "You look like 
  you're feeling better."

Salem leans back in his chair. The truth is, he /still/ radiates Rage like a 
  white heat, but the anger seems under control for the moment, and he doesn't 
  look liable to fly into a mindless frenzy just yet. Nothing, however, is 
  certain. "I had some business that needed settling," he replies, vaguely.

Gwyneth mmms. "I'll just bet you did," she says, amused. She straightens up, 
  in the next moment, saying airily, "Well. It's good to see you."

"Likewise," says Salem, still not letting on that he doesn't remember the 
  woman's name. "And," he adds, gallantly, "how have /you/ been?"

Gwyneth smiles politely. "Gwyneth," she supplies helpfully. "And, I've been 
  terribly bored, truth to tell."

Salem keeps his smile, eyes hooded. "Bored? In this city, you're bored? I 
  admit, it's not New York or London or Berlin, but..."

Gwyneth mmms. "Even London, New York, and Berlin get tired, Mr. Salem. 
  Predictable. You, of all men, should appreciate a desire for something 
  *un*predictable."

Salem takes a deep lungful of cigarette smoke, clearly savoring it. "Mmm. Yes, 
  I know what you mean. I know exactly what you mean."

"So," says the mage, watching your enjoyment. "What do you do, when that 
  desire just gets to be too much?"

The garou considers her for a moment. "Very little," he admits. "Alas. I have 
  certain... obligations."

Gwyneth leans forward over the table, lowering her voice to the barest hint of 
  voice. "Oh, yes. Obligations. It must be frustrating, all those rules, and 
  restrictions."

Salem lifts his eyebrows slightly. "Mm," he says, tone suddenly neutral, 
  slightly cagey. "You prefer anarchy?"

Gwyneth smiles widely, sitting back. "Not at all, Mr. Salem. I prefer knowing 
  that ... men like you have an outlet capable of ... withstanding your 
  particular brand of frustration, rather than wondering when the entire house 
  of cards might collapse on top of some innocent's head."

Salem's eyes narrow considerably, the amiability withering from his manner. 
  "Fortunately," he says, tones clipped, "I am in perfect control of myself."

Gwyneth holds up a hand. "Of course you are. Now."

Salem pauses with the cigarette halfway to his lips, frowning. "What," he 
  says, coldly, "is /that/ supposed to mean?"

Gwyneth pushes her chair back, rising to her feet. "Just what I said, Mr. 
  Salem. Just what I said." She turns, to head for her table, and her cooling 
  coffee.

Salem's frown takes root, turning into a scowl. "I don't like games, madame," 
  he calls after her. "In fact, I dislike them intensely."

[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. A pair of black sweatpants cover his legs and lower torso. A 
  rather faded blue workshirt hangs open over a white longsleeved t-shirt, and 
  his sneakers look battered.  <<+details>>

Gwyneth stops and turns back, though she doesn't return to the table. "So do 
  I, Mr. Salem. You play a grand game, though. You should be proud."

Salem's face twists into a mask of rage and hatred, except it clearly isn't a 
  mask. He pushes to his feet. "Who are you, /really/?" he demands. A few 
  other bar-patrons glance over, warily, while others steadfastedly /don't/ 
  look.

Gwyneth simply stands, and studies Salem a moment, her forehead wrinkling for 
  an instant, and then smoothing again. "I've told you, Mr. Salem. Gwyneth. 
  And you're in complete control of yourself. Aren't you?"

Salem reacts as though someone had just dumped a bucket of cold water over his 
  head. In a moment, the anger is /gone/, replaced by shock. He represses the 
  emotion quickly, though quickly enough to hide its existance. His eyes 
  remain locked on Gwyneth. "Who are you?" he asks again. Though as intent as 
  it was before, his tone is quite calm.

Gwyneth continues on to her table, sits, and crooks a finger, inviting him to 
  join her.

Salem stubs his cigarette out on his table's ashtray and takes his beer over 
  to join Gwyneth. The frown lingers over his mouth, wary and puzzled, but not 
  angry. Not angry at all. Not the tiniest trace of anything remotely 
  resembling rage or anger, in fact.

Gwyneth gestures to the chair across from her. "Please," she invites, "sit. 
  Make yourself comfortable." She sips coffee, then answers, "I'm a woman, Mr. 
  Salem, who is frankly overwhelmed by the number of dangerous types we have, 
  on the streets of St. Claire. Someone looking out for her own well-being, if 
  you can understand that. If I happen to save someone else a nasty encounter, 
  so be it."

Salem takes the indicated seat and makes a sound of acknowledgement to her 
  words. He sets the beer down on his table and promptly forgets about it. 
  "So," he says, quietly. "You /did/ do something."

Gwyneth nods once, smile returning. "I haven't a desire to be gutted in 
  public, after all."

Salem snorts mildly as he takes out another cigarette and lights it; his eyes 
  never leave off studying her. "So," he says, voice pitched low enough not to 
  carry past their table. "What are you, besides a woman?"

Gwyneth shakes her head a little. "That would be telling. Consider me a 
  vacation, in a body."

Salem grunts. "I don't like mysteries," he says, plainly.

Gwyneth casts a glance at the ceiling. "What -do- you like, Mr. Salem?"

Salem's lips quirk in an expression of dry, sardonic humor. "Being on top."

Gwyneth tilts her head. "You might teach me a thing or two, Mr. Salem. That," 
  she says, looking him in the eye, "is almost enough of an incentive to 
  invite you home. But, the last time I spent any time with one of you, it 
  called down the wrath of ... whomever your gods are."

"Really." Salem leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, the cigarette 
  smoldering between two fingers. He meets her gaze squarely. "But surely, you 
  don't think all of... 'us'... are the same, do you?"

"No," she says, smiling, "some of you are more frightening than others."

Salem grins crookedly, a rogue's grin. "'Cowards die many times before their 
  deaths,'" he quotes. "'The valiant never taste of death but once.'"

Gwyneth laughs. "Calling me a coward, now? If I took you with me, invited you 
  into my sanctuary, what proof do I have, that, once I let you go, you won't 
  rip out my throat? A coward, perhaps. Not a fool."

Salem smirks. "And what proof do /I/ have that, once in your home, you don't 
  have the power to keep me in chains forever? Come, Gwyneth, it goes both 
  ways."

Gwyneth props her chin up, chin in her palm, and elbow on the table. "You 
  don't. And I do. But I also believe in giving everyone a fair chance."

Salem's head jerks slightly, face twitching. He's silent for a moment, jaw 
  clenched as he fights for control over the sudden reapparance of rage. That 
  done, he sits back in his chair, very slowly and carefully, and studies her 
  face.

Gwyneth's posture doesn't change. She does, however, lift an eyebrow.

"You're very good," Salem says at last, unsmiling. "And very dangerous."

Gwyneth smiles once more. "I'm even better," she answers, "and only dangerous 
  when I choose to be."

Salem's lips twitch a bit, but the embryonic smile dies a quick death. "Of 
  course," he says, "since you choose to warn me."

Gwyneth says "A fair chance, remember?"

Salem grunts, giving her a nod of acknowledgement. "Though I've found that 
  those who give fair chances either have a foolhardy, overblown sense of 
  honor or are dealing from a position of great power."

Gwyneth tsks, and straightens up. "I don't think I much like those words. 
  Foolhardy. Overblown. Your honor and mine, I think, might differ." She 
  smiles. "Power's a nice word, though, isn't it?"

Salem smiles back, humorlessly. "Yes," he agrees. "It is."

Gwyneth sighs. "Mr. Salem, the whole point of this little experiment, was to 
  have a little fun. You're not having any."

"'Play?'" Salem quotes. "'I hardly know the meaning of the word.'" (Though 
  where an ex-Shadow Lord would have encountered a book like _Charlotte's Web_ 
  is a mystery in and of itself.)

"I know," says Gwyneth, lowly, "all about playing. No strings, no obligations. 
  Just ... fun," she says again, with a quirk of her eyebrows. "And an 
  agreement."

Salem lifts one eyebrow, Spocklike. "Name it."

Gwyneth levels a finger at him. "You ... keep a secret."

Salem places his right hand over his heart and bows slightly in his seat. The 
  rage, simmers visibly under a veneer of civilization. "Of course."

Gwyneth spreads her hands, then. "The top's yours."

Salem grins, a measure of triumph flashing past the dark eyes. "Lovely," he 
  says, and then, "Do you have a last name?"

Gwyneth mmmhmms. "Hovick. Ugly, isn't it?" She considers, gaze dropping to his 
  hands, and lifting to meet his eyes again.

"Unusual," Salem agrees, eyes intent on her face. "But not ugly."

"Maybe I should change it," she suggests. "Something simple. Like Salem." She 
  climbs to her feet, and returns her glass to the bar.

Salem leans back in his chair. "Probably wouldn't be worth the bother," he 
  counters.

"No," she answers, as she returns, "but it might come in handy. One day." She 
  stoops to pick up her backpack. "Shall we? If you were still interested, 
  that is."

Salem stubs out his cigarette and rises smoothly, scraping the chair back. 
  "How could I not be?"

"You're a grown man, Mr. Salem," she says over her shoulder, as she goes for 
  the door. "You could change your mind, whenever you liked."

Salem slips his hands into the pockets of his long black coat and follows her. 
  "As could you."

[And the rest of the evening goes... very smoothly.]  :)