It is currently 14:29 Pacific Time on Fri Mar 13 1998.
Currently on this breezy and cool winter afternoon in the general St. Claire 
  area, it is 50 degrees Fahrenheit (10.0 degrees Celsius). The wind is coming 
  from the south-southwest at 6.8 mph. The ground is wet. Skies are clear with 
  a probable chance of precipitation.
Currently the moon is in the waning Full Moon phase (97% full).

Salem's Apartment(#3489RJ)
This tiny, rathole little apartment, though adequate as shelter, leaves a lot 
  to be desired. The wooden floorboards are unevenly dark underfoot, and 
  there's a suspicious-looking stain along the floorboards near the narrow, 
  cramped kitchen. The front room is gapingly bare, with nothing to hide the 
  ugly yellow-and-white wallpaper, and the small bedroom is empty but for a 
  military-style cot and a squat wooden dresser that looks as though a dozen 
  bored juvenile delinquints hacked at it with knives. The less said about the 
  bathroom, the better.
Muffled noises from neighboring apartments can be heard through the walls, and 
  the grimy windows give a limited view of disreputable street outside. 
  There's a phone in the kitchen, but no sign of television, radio, or other 
  such staple of modern entertainment. Nearly all of the electrical outlets go 
  unused, and the ancient-looking refigerator is usually near-empty.

Gwyneth raps a shave-and-a-haircut rhythm on the apartment door, lightly, and 
  stands to wait for a response, putting her back to it. Better to watch the 
  hall.

For a long time, nothing, except for faint sounds of movement audible to 
  perceptive ears. But finally there's the sound of a bolt being scraped back 
  and a chain removed, and the door opens a bit. The apartment is dark, and 
  Salem's figure in shadow -- though enough is visible to tell that he's in 
  his shirtsleeves, and his hair is in disarray. "Hell." His voice is hoarse, 
  sandpaper dry.

Gwyneth, amused, answers, "No... Gwyneth. You remember me, don't you?" She 
  lifts a hand to waggle a few fingers.

"Yes." Salem opens the door and steps back, grimacing at the light from the 
  hall and stepping behind the door, preferring the darkness. "Come in."

Gwyneth takes the invitation, and slips inside the doorway, though no further, 
  to allow her eyes time to adjust to the darkness. "You're not," she begins, 
  hand curled around the strap of her backpack, "just sitting in here like a 
  hermit, are you? It's been beautiful out."

Salem slams the door shut with an abrupt violence, cutting off all light but 
  for the vague glimmer coming through the closed window blinds. Leaning 
  against the door, he slides the bolt shut and hooks the chain. He moves like 
  a man in pain, or ill. "I... pass the time," he rasps.

A moment before the door slams, Gwyneth jumps, startled, then lifts a hand in 
  an abrupt motion, and begins, "Don't ..." but the door slams just then, and 
  her hand falls to her side. "Nevermind," she says quietly, then takes a 
  breath and straightens. "Pass the time. Yes, I suppose you must, but how?" 
  She squints at the shadowed figure. "Are you all right?"

"No." Salem shifts his weight, back against the door now, head bowed. His hand 
  rests on the doorknob, gripping it still. "Doesn't matter. It'll pass." 
  There's a pause between each sentence, enough to take a breath in. The rage 
  is there, but staggering like a Crinos with its kneecaps blown apart. He 
  lifts his head and grins humorlessly at her in the darkness. "How does a 
  monster keep from devouring the world?"

Gwyneth stands a moment silently, then draws in an audible breath through her 
  nose, and answers, "A -monster- wouldn't bother to keep from doing anything. 
  Monsters have no concern for trifling matters of restraint." Another 
  hesitation, and, "You sound like hell."

Silence while Salem works saliva into his dry mouth. "Small price." He shrugs 
  again, weakly, and rests his head back against the door. "Two more hours, 
  then one mroe dose, then... once that's over, it'll be... over. For another 
  month." He manages a short laugh, and then swears in a Slavic language, 
  knees buckling slightly as he holds onto the doorknob with an eagle's grip.

Gwyneth pages: Not Polish, one presumes. :)
You paged Gwyneth with 'Serbian. :)'.

Gwyneth drops her backpack, and steps toward the door without being invited. 
  "Let me help," she offers, though the offer is a bit clipped. She leaves no 
  time for an answer, asking instead, "One more dose of what? Nothing clean, 
  I'm sure. So, what is it?" Tone matter-of-fact.

Salem doesn't protest or resist as she moves toward him, his attention 
  diverted to regaining his stance. He answers after a few breaths. "Heroin."

Gwyneth does her best to duck under an arm, then, reserving comment, until 
  he's situated somewhere less unstable than on his own two feet.

Up close, the Ronin smells of sweat gone cold and stale and sour, as though he 
  hadn't washed in a couple of days at least. He makes an irritable noise, but 
  lets her steer him toward the closest suitable place -- the kitchen table. 
  The light switch (off, of course) is near the doorway between the kitchen 
  and the empty front room.

Gwyneth sees him settled, then straightens up, and folds her arms across her 
  chest. "You need a bath," she points out. "And if you wanted something, you 
  should have asked. Heroin is the poor man's drug, and a quick way to kill 
  yourself. Is that what you want?"

Salem leans his elbows on the table and rakes his fingers back through his 
  disordered black hair. "You already know I'm not human," he says hoarsely, 
  eyes slitted as he peers at her in the darkness. "I'm not killing myself."

Gwyneth frowns, a moment longer, then takes a breath, eyebrows lifting. "Not 
  directly, perhaps. You are, however, blinding yourself. Heroin is a dirty 
  game to play with yourself, Jack. You could have," she points out, "come to 
  me."

Salem looks up at her, strained, bloodshot dark eyes narrowed, the saturnine 
  face sour. "And what? /Ask/ you to strip my rage away, like you did in the 
  bar?" He grimaces, as though tasting something foul. "No. And heroin is 
  dity, but it's still better than the alternative." A twitch makes itself 
  know near his right eye, and he wipes at his mouth, still grimacing. "I was 
  at this a year before I met you, Gwyneth," he rasps.

Gwyneth's eyebrows remain elevated. "Am I supposed to be impressed?" Wryly, 
  she intones, "Heroin. Horse. Smack. A dark thing that saps the will, closes 
  the eyes, and, more importantly, closes the mind. Do you know how much life 
  you missed, in that year?"

Gwyneth continues, lifting a hand to forestall answer a moment. "I wouldn't 
  dream that you might -ask- for help, Mr. Salem. I'd hate to see your will 
  broken like that. Like this. I'm simply saying, if you'd come to me, I could 
  have helped."

Rage suddenly grips Salem in a violent spasm, causing the Garou to clench at 
  the edges of the kitchen table, white-knuckled, in his effort to resist the 
  near-frenzy. Sweat springs out upon his brow. With teeth gritted, and 
  muscles gone tight as a torniquet with the battle of self-control, Salem 
  snarls hoarsely, "I. Don't. Want. Help."

Gwyneth's posture, in response, stiffens noticeably, though she doesn't step 
  backward at all. "Then I won't help you," she answers, voice kept quiet, and 
  level. A smile plays at the corner of her mouth. "I'll just watch."

Salem growls, literally. It's a sound no human throat should be able to make, 
  but rather a thick, gutteral lupine utterance. The Garou continues to cling 
  to the table and his self-control. "Why?" The word is only barely coherent.

Gwyneth's smile widens, until it is quite noticeable, smug, even in the 
  process of trying not to frenzy.

"Because," she answers, leaning forward at the waist, "you let me. Because I 
  like to walk the edge? And because you don't really want to be alone, 
  despite your hiding in darkness, and growling at your friends."

A couple of harsh breaths go by, and then Salem pushes to his feet in a 
  violent backward motion, toppling his chair and shoving the table toward 
  her. His body language is jerking, all wrong for him. "Then watch," he 
  spits, and turns toward the bedroom.

Gwyneth follows after, but not before righting the chair, and pushing the 
  table back to where it began. She leaves her backpack untended, and pauses 
  in the bedroom doorway, one hand on either side. "I do hope you'll make it a 
  good show."

"Make a good show of your innards strewn across the walls," Salem mutters, 
  just loud enough to hear. He slams a hand on the lightswitch, snapping it on 
  with a grimace at the sudden illumination, and stalks over toward the cot 
  and the flat metal box sitting innocently upon it.

Gwyneth tsks, and tucks her arms across her chest, leaning a shoulder into the 
  doorway. "Threats don't become you, Jack. Besides, I'd stain your walls."

"Shut up." Expression worn tight and grim, Salem snaps the box open and begins 
  setting the tools of his habit out on top of the battered dresser. Each item 
  is places with precise care, and not once during this operation does he look 
  up at the figure in the doorway, though subtle clues give away his awareness 
  of her presence.

Gwyneth does, indeed, 'shut up', as she straightens up in the doorway, and 
  steps, languidly, over toward the cot. She steps around the man, and the 
  spoon and syringe of his addiction. Silently, she sits, on the cot, then 
  lies down, slowly...
..Until her arm props her head, and she watches, through half-lidded eyes.

Salem's manner becomes calm by degrees as he prepares the drug via spoon, 
  candle, and water, his attention focussed with ritualistic intensity on the 
  task at hand. He gaze wavers only after he sets the filled needle aside to 
  cool, eyes shifting sourly to the woman on his bed as he rolls up his left 
  sleeve; the arm, interestingly enough, shows little of a junkie's ravages, 
  and all of that only recent.

Gwyneth sits up again, as he rolls up his sleeve, oddly focused on that 
  motion. IOt is with some reluctance that she turns her attention away from 
  the exposed arm, and tracks, and seeks out his eyes. "Let me help," she 
  says, climbing to her feet. "Please?"

Salem regards her solemnly, the rage lurking behind his eyes but made quiet 
  with the junk ritual. Quiet for the moment, anyway. His right hand rests on 
  the edge of the dresser, inches from the coolling needle. "What did you have 
  in mind?" he asks, flatly.

Gwyneth tsks, as she steps closer. "I do know *something* about drugs, and 
  needles and whatnot. And if you're going to do it, you might as well enjoy 
  it." She gestures at the syringe. "It won't even hurt."

The dark eyes narrow slightly, and he repeats, "What did you have in mind?"

"I had helping in mind. I administer, you relax, and neither one of us needs 
  to have our entrails strewn about the room. Is that so horrible?"

Salem's face twists, lip curling up to reveal a flash of teeth. "Don't 
  patronize." Without looking away from her eyes, he reaches out and picks up 
  the needle, holding it delicately between thin fingers.

Gwyneth reaches up as if to pat at his cheek.
Gwyneth says "Take your medicine, Jack."

Maybe it's the pat. Or just the wrong word said in just the wrong tone of 
  voice. Or just a spasm of an Ahroun under stress and his auspice moon. The 
  result is the same.
With a bellow of rage, Salem surges to his feet, the syringe spinning away as 
  he slaps at her patting hand and rises up... up... up...
Salem contorts and blurs as he is transformed.
You shift into Crinos form.

Even a smug Mage occassionally makes mistakes, and Gwyneth, apparently, has 
  done. She goes backward, as the syringe, and Salem, go upward, eyes widening 
  in instinctive horror. The cot takes her in the back of the knees, and she 
  drops onto it.

Without hesitation, golden eyes shining with frenzy, the enraged werewolf 
  lunges at the mage, sharp black claws slashing through the air with 
  frightening speed and mindlessly efficient killing power.

Gwyneth does not scream. Nor does she linger overlong on the cot. She 
  scrambles, hands curling around the edge, as she pulls herself bodily off 
  the cot. A curse dies on her lips, as the room, itself, from the crinos' 
  viewpoint, tilts a sharp 45 degrees.

Dark One's lunge, as a result, goes awry, and the lethal black claws slam into 
  the wall instead of into the mage's too-fragile flesh. Scoring deep rents 
  into the wall, the Crinos turns, foaming teeth bared as he struggles to 
  reorient himself in the oddly skewed room and attack again.

The room, by degrees, rights itself, as balance returns to the Crinos, and he 
  will note that the blonde-haired mage races away from him, into a corner 
  before him. Trapped between both walls of the corner, and the crinos, she 
  simply sinks to a crouch.

While Gwyneth -- the real Gwyneth -- races for the door into the hall, headed 
  past the kitchen.

With the sickening swiftness of a hawk or a snake, the Crinos reacts to the 
  image of movement and leaps upon the faux-Gwyneth, claws shredding the walls 
  and floor where the image crouches, destroying with thoughtless violence for 
  the few moments it takes him to register that the thing he kills isn't there 
  at all. Then, instinct-driven, the monster turns, snarling, but by that 
  time, she is gone.

Long distance to Gwyneth: Dark One eventually runs out of frenzy-fuel, slumps 
  into homid, wakes up to eye destruction, and fortunately has some heroin 
  left to guide him through the rest of the moon. Heh.