Log edited with Logedit 2.6.6pl on Mon Aug 24 15:20:56 EDT 1998

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Jose Figueroa comes down the spiral stairs, one hand following the rail.



Morgan trundles down the stairs just a few seconds before Jose, her compact form appearing in the door with a smile for her packmate. "Hey Davy," she says to him, going over to flop on a couch. "You see Salem, up there?"

Jose Figueroa waves at Davy after following Morgan down the steps. "He's the devil himself."

Morgan snorts softly. "He's certainly not Mr. Congeniality. But I figure it's better to keep him here, where we can keep an eye on him than having him roam the streets." She sighs a bit. "When I first met him I thought things were going to get /real/ ugly."

Jose Figueroa has an I-can-imagine look on his face. "How'd you convince him to stay where you can watch him?"

Davy gives Morgan a look. "He's a git. Can't we sedate him or something, rather than listen to his yap?"

"It's warmer in here than outside," the Fury replies with a grin. "I figured maybe he was tired of freezing his ass off at night. Just think if we lived in Florida." She offers Davy a smirk, and then shakes her head. "Always kidding around." She grins at Davy too.

Davy smirks. "If we lived in Florida, he'd be living on a diet of plastic pink flamingo. In fact, that's not a bad idea..." The ragabash trails off, thoughtfully.

Morgan chuckles. "He just might try to eat one, if he was pissed enough. And it doesn't seem like it'd take much." She pauses, grabbing a breath, and continues, "I thought Arlen was going to be by shortly." She eyes Jose, then, and nods towards him. "We're going to be paying our respects to Razor tonight, our totem."

Jose Figueroa nods at Morgan. "Pete said as much. What do you think?" he asks.

Morgan runs a hand back through her hair and gives a soft grunt of derision. "I think you're a short, scruffy looking Gnawer ahroun." She grins and shakes her head. "But Pete likes you, and I trust his judgment. Seriously, we could always use more muscle in the pack, Jose." She nods at him approvingly. "Especially with El Diablo upstairs there."

"Well, you're right on both counts. And El Diablo may step on me, but he gonna have a hell of a time peelin' me from his boot." Jose's remarks are made with an air of machismo and amusement.

Davy snickers without adding further comment.

Morgan just grins, and nods again. "All of us," she asserts, quietly forceful. "Another reason to keep him in Edge's sights rather than Cavall. No offense to Jimmy, but I don't think his boys have enough muscle to do the job."

Jose Figueroa sighs at Morgan. "Jimmy's a good guy, and I want him to manage some fights for me. But he needs some men in his pack."

Morgan chuckles. "No kidding," she nods. "Well, hopefully he'll want to call in the big boys when the going gets rough. I know that Alexander wanted us to help out where and when we could and were needed. I want to keep that spirit alive."

Jose Figueroa listens to Morgan, a wisp of sadness flying by his face when she mentions Alexander. "I met Claws of Thunder in Boston, you know. He convinced me to come here."

Davy nods. His tone grows more serious as he adds, "Alexander had a vision of all of us doing what we were best at."

"Right," Morgan adds, after Davy finishes speaking. "What all of Weasel's children are best at." She stands, gracefully, then and walks towards the stairs and peers upwards. "Where the hell is Arlen?" she wonders aloud, softly.

Davy shakes his head. "Think she got stopped by Mister Sunshine upstairs?"

"Dunno," comes Morgans, absent reply. She turns back to the no moon. "You know Scott got shot with a silver bullet a few days ago on the SCCU campus? He wants one of us to help him track the shooter down."

Davy nods. "He mentioned that." He shoots the Fury a closer look. "I've never tried to hunt someone down with that little. Is it harder?"

Morgan nods slowly, glancing upstairs a bit absently. "It can be," she says, her attention flickering back to Davy and away from her thoughts. "I got a bead though. I'm pretty sure you can too."

Jose Figueroa just listens quietly.

Davy nods, rubbing his beard.

Morgan shrugs slightly. "I didn't know what to tell him. I was loathe to volunteer you for the job, and I wasn't sure that I wanted to be wasting a day on his business. What do you think?"

Davy speaks easily, "Well, I think Scott's pretty okay. I'm willing, as long as I don't end up in BFG somewhere."

Pete Barlow gives a nod to Davy, remaining as silent and brooding as he seems to have been most of the night. Distracted might be an even better word.

Morgan takes a slow breath and nods. "I got the feeling this guy was pretty far away -- in the Cascades, west of here, towards the coast of Washington. Maybe 300 miles, even."

Pete Barlow looks over at Morgan after a moment. "You think the one that poked Scott was the same that got you?"

Morgan shakes her head. "No way, Pete. That little brat was a grease stain when I was finished pulping him. He would have been in the hospital for weeks. Still though -- they might be related."

Jose Figueroa raises an eyebrow. "Did you wax him or just beat him senseless. Sounded to me like you waxed him."

Morgan grins, a bit ferally. "I didn't mean to hurt him so bad, but the little fucker shot me. It was all over after that. Plus he was wearing that jacket... with the glyph. I don't need to take chances with a punk like that."

Jose Figueroa nods. "Jus' wanted to know. Fucker wearing that on his jacket, I woulda planted him, then asked questions later."

"Yeah," Morgan says, agreeing, her voice rough, strong. "Good thing Arlen was around, otherwise the little asshole might have just bled out in the alley. She was the one who called an ambulance." She frowns openly now, a little peeved to be waiting -- anxious to see Razor, perhaps.

Pete Barlow lights up a cigarette from his perch on the edge of the stairs. "We gonna wait all night or what?"

Morgan exhales a breath and shakes her head. "No," she says, shifting her weight nervously. "We should check out the shadow." She chews her lower lip and shakes her head. "I told her to be here on time, dammit." The last is said mostly under her breath. "So. Jose, I'd like to formally invite you to meet with Razor. I think you'd be a welcome addition to our pack."

Jose Figueroa bows his head deeply at Morgan. "I'm lookin' forward to it."

Pete Barlow watches from his vantage point, still smoking slowly on his fag.

Davy looks over at Morgan. "You think she got cold feet? Or be in trouble?"

Morgan's nose wrinkles and she exhales, slowly, searching for calm. "Maybe she's just being fashionably late. Let's chat with Razor, and then we can go look for her."

Morgan says "So, Pete," Morgan calls out, glancing around the room. "You got a mirror in here someplace?""

Pete Barlow gives a nod to Morgan, standing up from his chair and walking over to one dark corner. He rolls from it a full-length mirror, an antique, with adamaged but nicely worked frame, revealed when Barlow pulls off an old blanket. "This do?"

Morgan grins at the old Gnawer. "Sure," she says, moving to stand in front of it. "If we all link up, I should be able to push us all through at once." She looks over at Davy, and holds a hand out to him. "Don't think," she says to him, joking, "that just because I'm holding your hand it means I like you."

Pete Barlow gives a half-chuckle as he joins the link, nodding Jose over.

Jose Figueroa shuffles over, grabbing Pete's hand and waiting to go through, quietly.

Davy sniffs theatrically, then obviously wipes his palm before putting it in the theurge's hand. "Be gentle with me."

Morgan snorts, amused. "Cute," she tells the Fianna. Her eyes glass over, then, and the room seems to "slide" into the silvery reflective surface of the mirror. There's a feeling of resistance, as Morgan helps push each Garou through the Gauntlet and into the umbral reflection of the Rialto.

The umbral side of the Rialto reveals a different side of this once proud theater. The faded paint seems resplendant in color, the brightly color gilt lining perfect in detail and eye-catching design. The stage is whole, and fully repaired, and the seats that must have once occupied the auditorium have been covered with a deep, plush covering. And over all, the waning light of the moon flickers through the almost picture perfect lines of the grand old dame.

Pete Barlow's smile widens as they go umbral, the beauty of the old theatre reflected in his tough old face.

Morgan, as usual when in the Shadow, looks slightly awed to be in a special sacred place. She eyes the the theater with a wide smile, and her grin grows wider as she catches the faint sounds of scurrying in the wings of the theater.

Jose Figueroa scans the Shadow side of the theater, taking in the resplendent past.

Davy, of Edge proper, seems the least awed. At least, he sticks his hands in his pockets with a cheerful whistle.

Edge slips out of the wing from stage left toward Pete, the nearest pack member. He eyes Jose speculatively, and then runs around Davy, quickly before he comes over to sniff at Jose. "Hihihi!" he says, with his usual bounding energy.

Pete Barlow quite instinctively moves away from group, up through the center aisle of the theater. His attention sways back and forth, very lupine, as he checks over the seats as he were the janitor and this were an hour after the show closed for the night. As Razor bounds out, Barlow turns smiling and nodding to him, stopping his scan of the old dame.

Jose Figueroa catches the bounding weasel out of the corner of his eye, starting a bit at the enormous rodent. He snorts once and holds out his hand, like it was a dog or something. "Que pasa, Razor?"

"Razor," Morgan says, grinning at the Weasel, his energy seemingly infectous, as she bounces lightly on the balls of her feet. "We wanted to bring Jose here to meet you."

"He's a helluva boxer, Raze," comments Barlow as he comes back down the aisle to join the others, his sweep of the place satisfactory at the moment, though some might notice that he has picked up a couple pieces of garbage.

Edge's whiskers twitch a bit as he backs away from Jose, and then glances at Morgan, and then to Chugs, his voice sounding high pitched, but not in the usual sound of spirit speech. "Box? Box? You box?" he asks Jose. "You dodge and weave and strike?" His head seems to almost bob and weave like a shadow boxer's might.

Jose Figueroa grins toothlessly at Pete. "You didn' see my good stuff, amigo." Turning back to Edge, "Yah. I try." He ducks left, throwing an uppercut with his left, then ducks right, throwing another with the right. "They call me Jabs-with-the-Left."

"Fucker liked to have broken a coupla my ribs when we sparred," smiles Barlow as he stops, leaning against a chair. "And he says that wasn't even his good stuff. Shit."

"Goodgoodgood," the spirit weasel's voice carries through the theater. "I like that," he tells Jose, glancing at Pete again. He backs up, suddenly and makes a barreling run for Jose. "I like the fighting, but fighting smart is best. Yeah, yeah."

Morgan chuckles, watching Razor prance around like a hyperactive three year old on a caffiene high. "Same old weasel," she says, still grinning.

Jose Figueroa manages to get out "Madre!" before Razor bowls him over, no match for the speed of six feet of weasel-spirit. He spins ass over ears, entangled in the Totem.

Pete Barlow smiles, nodding. The big ahroun's former brooding having been washed asunder by the exuberant energy of Razor. "Ain't it great!"

Davy snickers out loud. "Don't break him, Razor."

Edge clambers over Jose a bit, and takes a playful nip at one of his ears, missing it -- on purpose, no doubt, before he climbs off the younger Gnawer ahroun. "Yeah, fearless. Fearless. Goodgood. I like him," he tells the pack. "Hard to break." He ducks his head around the now prone ahroun and sniffs at him a bit more, his nose whiskers still twitching in the ever present Umbral light. "I'll take him as another of my sons," he says, circling almost around himself, like there isn't a single fixed joint in his frame.

Pete Barlow gives a broad smile, eyes narrowing though slightly. "That's good, Raze, but the big question I got is will Jabs join us... and you?"

Morgan nods at Pete's question. "What do you say?" she chimes in, softly, watching Razor scramble around, still in motion even while not moving.

Jose Figueroa grins infectiously as Razor plays with him like an old sock. "I'll stand by you. Razor needs someone who can still move around like him." The last was directed, grinningly, to Pete and his lack of youth.

"Weasel's got fast feet," says Davy, with a grin. "But old Nutcracker's got the hard bite down pat."

Pete Barlow smiles broadly at Jose, shaking his head. "Don't make that mistake, Jabs." The big Gnawer gestures at Razor. "The Raze may dance and jab and flash in and out alot, but when he gets his teeth into somethin', he don't let go. Some of us get to dance," philosophizes the big ahroun with a nod of agreement to Davy, "while others got .... yeah, what he said."

Edge bounces, on his forepaws as Jose speaks. "Yeah, yeah. Move, weave, strike fast, strike hard," the spirit says, moving to circle Davy's feet again. "Be fearless," he tells the pack. "Get in there and kick ass!"

Davy jumps over the weasel's tail, playing a sort of tag with the shorter part of the huge weasel's body.

Jose Figueroa stands up, absently brushing himself off. "You can have the big bite. I like the hit-an-run better."

Pete Barlow's smile widens broadly as Razor teaches the pack, the energy of the totem pushing Pete a bit over the edge.

Chugs raises his muzzle high and lets out a powerful war cry, a howl full of the strength of a pack and its totem, harsh and ragged with none of the beauty of a galliard's howl. ~Kick ass!~

Davy flows after Chugs, his change seeming to trigger Davy's own. He adds a wordless, primal howl, furry head thrown back.

Morgan chuckles and nods at Jose. "Glad to have you with us," she tells him. "I'm still planning on inviting..." she trails off as Pete's shift catches the corner of her eye, and she too gets caught up in the moment, the wall she keeps around her Rage slipping as she moves into her warform. Her voice raises a howl with the rest of her pack's voice, a slightly higher pitched contrast to the men's.

Edge stands on his hindlegs and maneuvers about that way by seeming force of willpower alone. He makes some high chittering weasel sounds of pleasure, watching his children express their exuberance. ~Kick ass!~ he repeats again, falling back to all fours to run around on the stage, the tips of his sharp claws digging somewhat into the hardwood.

Jose Figueroa is triggered merely from the ecstasy in the air, fueled further by Razor's presence and his power. As he shifts, his guttural baritone howl is full of enthusiasm for kicking ass.

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