It is currently 20:04 Pacific Time on Sun Mar 20 2005.
Currently the moon is in the waxing Gibbous Moon phase (70% full).
Currently in Saint Claire, it is a cloudy day. The temperature is 54 degrees
      Fahrenheit (12 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the 
      south at 25 mph, with gusts up to 40 mph. The barometric pressure reading 
      is 29.40 and falling, and the relative humidity is 59 percent. The 
      dewpoint is 40 degrees Fahrenheit (4 degrees Celsius.)

Thomas Grey is a man hard-used by the world. It shows mostly in his face, a
      hawkish visage that's extensively scarred down the left side, twisting 
      keloid making a ruin of aristocratic features. If not for the scars, he'd 
      probably be fairly handsome in a severe sort of way. The angles of his 
      face are sharply defined, the nobility in them scoured nearly to the 
      bone. His thick black hair hangs shaggily around his face, clean but 
      unkempt, and a short, well-kept black beard lines his mouth and jawline. 
      He looks older than his thirty-something years; his deep-set eyes -- the 
      right dark brown, the left blind white -- are often shadowed as though 
      from lack of sleep, and the set of his mouth is usually tight and grim.
At six-foot-three, he stands taller than most men, and an inherent athleticism
      indicates that he could probably hold his own in a fight. There's also an 
      aura of pent-up violence about him, a tightly-controlled rage and 
      bitterness within the lanky, muscled frame that could be lethal if 
      unleashed.
He wears a cream-colored, long-sleeved cotton shirt untucked over a pair of
      faded blue jeans. On his feet are a pair of black tactical boots. When 
      outdoors, he wears a knee-length grey trenchcoat with a black lining.

Brownstone -- Basement Apt.
The basement of the brownstone has been split into two sections. The stairwell
      leads down into the northwest corner section, which contains the boiler 
      room, furnace, and the elevator shaft. The rest has been converted into 
      another apartment, and Signe's made it into a rather fortified one at 
      that. The only entrance is through a re-enforced steel door with no less 
      than three dead-bolts. There are absolutely no windows at all in any of 
      the four concrete and brick walls. It's a rather stark but functional 
      space. Overhead, the air ducts and plumbing pipes are exposed, while the 
      cement floor is covered by a ragged dark wine and gold Oriental throw 
      rug. A makeshift shelving unit of two-by-fours and cinder block has been 
      erected along the length of the wall with the door, and it houses a 
      stereo, tv and old vcr. Directly opposite this is a beat-up leather couch 
      and two mismatched recliners. The kitchen is small but functional, with a 
      round wooden table and four chairs. Half of the back end of the building 
      has been walled off for a private bedroom, while the rest is open to the 
      living area. This space has been converted into a home gym--complete with 
      wrestling mats, weights, and a full weight boxing bag.

Emma gives Brom a hard look then shakes her head and drops back down to the
      weight bench. "For all your talk of me whining too much, you just had a 
      nice little whine fest yourself there." She goes folds her hands under 
      her head, "Just as an F Y I."
Signe turns the key in the lock of the steel door, pushing in once it's open.
      she looks around, grunts at the two other Get, and then shuts the door 
      behind her.
"Kiss my ass, midget." Brom says as he gives the bag another hard hit. He snaps
      a look over to her and snarls.
Emma looks up as the door rattles, and then decides to lean over the barbell,
      folding her arms as a place to prop her chin. "Hey Signe." There is still 
      a feel of tension in the air, but for now things have quieted somewhat.
Glancing over to Signe, Brom nods his head slowly, then cracks his neck a bit
      as he swivels it from side to side.
Signe waves a rather dismissive hand and walks past both to get to the kitchen.
      "Hungry," she tells them, pulling the fridge open with a rattle of 
      bottles and and containers. Meat is thrown on the counter--leftovers and 
      lettuce, mayo, and the all important cliche` of pickles.
Emma takes in a deep breath and glances at Brom. She looks curious, but says
      nothing until a comment is shot off towards the Jarl. "Do I need to stop 
      and get more pickles tomorrow?"
The Jarl is barely settling into the process of food-making before a knock
      sounds upon the door.
Brom looks back at Emma for a moment, then lets his gaze trail after the Jarl
      for a moment. Taking in a breath, he moves for the door and opens it up.
"Chocolate sauce," Signe blurts out, popping up from the bottom drawer of the
      fridge once she has all the fundamental ingredients of whatever it is 
      she's about to make.
Emma groans and lets out a soft heh before turning to see who has come to visit
      the Brownstone this night.
Grey stands there on Signe's doorstop, unsmiling, the fires of rage banked low.
      The Walker's flat gaze takes in Brom, then asks, blandly, "Is Signe in?"
The Forsetti raises up a brow slightly, before stepping to the side and
      motioning him in. "She's in the kitchen." There is a light rumble in his 
      voice, looking to be on edge quite a bit.
Signe glances past Emma to catch sight of Grey. "You want something to eat?"
      she asks him, not stopping the food prep even after the Walker comes in. 
      What she makes is sort of like a sandwich, in principle anyway.
Grey enters the apartment, glancing around. His eye sweeps over Emma with nary
      a pause before he focusses on the Jarl. Heading her way, he shakes his 
      head. "Already ate, but thank you."
There is a moment of calculation on the young Ahrouns face, before finally a
      kind of realization sets in. Her eyes drop from the newcomer to once more 
      glance at Brom. Then, sniffing in a deep breath as she leans over, picks 
      up a dumbell and fusses with it.
The Half Moon stands at the open door for a few moments, glancing back at the
      three. Brom seems to be pondering for a moment, before shutting the door 
      lightly, then makes his way back to the couch, sinking into it heavily.
Signe licks barbeque sauce off her thumb, nodding towards Grey. The Jarl looks
      a little older than Thomas would remember. Thinner, haggard, and with 
      small circles under her eyes, despite her ravenous appetite. "Have a 
      seat," she offers. "I hear you and Brom have already met. You remember 
      Emma?"
Grey looks like a few miles of bad road himself. He glances over at Brom, nods,
      then regards Emma thoughtfully, eyes narrowed. It takes him a moment 
      before he recognizes the young Ahroun and nods to her as well. "Rited 
      with Joshua. I remember." There's no warmth in his voice, though, and 
      when he turns back to Signe, he's all business. Coat still on and 
      everything. "I still owe you a favor."
Emma doesn't give any response to the Walker as he regards her, just sort of
      shrugs and looks back down to her dumbell. After a moment of thought, she 
      sets it down and stands herself up, "I'm gonna go. Patrol. Something." 
      There is still the remnants of anger there, now coated with a frosting of 
      frustration as well.
Signe flashes a grin at Grey's words. "Yes you do," she rasps out. "And you're
      timing couldn't have been better. I happen to need something a garou of 
      your skills can easily provide." Before she says more, however, her eyes 
      track to Emma and the grin fades a bit. "What's wrong?"
Watching Emma, Brom rises up and says in a strong voice. "I'll go with you. I
      could use a walk in the cold air." He says, flexing his arms a bit as he 
      rolls his arms side to side, then heads after the Ahroun.
Emma looks up to the Jarl, temporarily pushing the angry look about her aside.
      "Nothing. I have some energy that needs an outlet. And you got company. 
      I'll be back, I'll bring your groceries." A polite nod is offered to Grey 
      as well then, and then she turns to the door and Brom.
Grey turns to watch the two younger Get, lips thinned. He returns Emma's nod,
      minutely, but otherwise seems perfectly content to wait for her and Brom 
      to leave.
Signe looks vaguely irritated--perhaps because there's absolutely nothing for
      her /to/ get irritated about. She, too, let's the two other Get leave, 
      picking at her sandwich in the meantime.
Brom continues to the door and opens it up, stepping into the elevator as he
      waits for Emma, then pushes the button
Grey inhales a deep breath as the door closes behind Brom and Emma, then turns
      back to Signe. He was never an especially jocular fellow -- except on 
      occasion -- but now he seems even more grim. "Before you decide, there's 
      something you should know."
Signe is oddly even more at ease, now. "Yeah, what?" she asks, preferring to
      continually pick at the mess of food rather than eat it properly.
"First," says the Philodox, "I'm calling myself Thomas Grey now. Not Walker.
      Second..." He pulls up the right sleeve of his coat and shirt, baring one 
      forearm. Claw-carved into the top of the arm, ash-darkened and 
      deliberate, is the Charach glyph. "I'm no longer Fostern."
"Yeah, I heard about that," Signe says--meaning the name change not the rest of
      it. "I didn't get much..." The Get's voice fades and dies, whatever 
      thought it was conveying lost and forgotten completely. "What the hell is 
      that?" she asks, even though she knows perfectly well what it is. Grey 
      knows she knows, too. She simply refuses to parse it.
Grey's jaw tightens. "You know what it is," he says curtly, though a drop of
      his eyes, a subtle tilt of his head, expresses submission. He pulls the 
      sleeves down, covering his arm and the shame-worthy glyph. "She was a 
      Ronin. Metis. No one you knew."
It's the word 'metis' that triggers it. Suddenly, Signe's appetite is gone.
      Whatever was on the plate, Grey now wears it. With a snarl, the Get leaps 
      the counter, not even bothering to go around it.
The plate, and its contents, strike Grey square in the chest. He's moving,
      then, just as Signe's vaulting the counter, teeth bared and a Serbian 
      curse on his lips, doing his damnest to avoid the angry Jarl.
Signe shifts in mid air, the war form growing out of the leap so it appears the
      Get ahroun almost hangs there for a moment. When she comes down on the 
      backpeddling Walker it's with tremendous weight and ferocity. Claws 
      attempt to sink into her prey, but they are meant to pin not kill--not 
      yet. Along with the crash of broken furniture comes another rage filled 
      growl from the wide and spitting jaws of the Get.
Pinning is bad enough. Grey's not a small man by any means, but he's easily
      dwarfed by several hundred pounds of muscle and fur. His lips skin back 
      from his teeth in a grimace of pain, and then she feels him twist under 
      her, sprouting fur, gaining and losing mass in a rage-fuelled instant, 
      and then what's under her claws is a scarred, black-furred wolf with 
      Charach on one foreleg and Dishonor on the other, belly-up and throat 
      bared, tail curled between his legs and over his genitals in utter, 
      abject submission.
The Walker's shift, and his submission, don't seem to have much of an effect on
      the enraged Get. And yet she doesn't do anything once she has him pinned 
      beneath her--accept snarl and spit and vent a little more. ~Why?~ she 
      eventually asks.
Grey tilts his head slightly, warily turning one golden, white-rimmed eye up to
      her. His scent is a mixture of rage and bitterness and even some fear -- 
      in his current position, he's quite helpless. All but the fear is audible 
      in his answer. ~I loved her.~
As if the word itself was enough of a weapon to repulse the Get, Defiant Storm
      lurches back off the cowed wolf. Her muzzle is drawn up in a toothy 
      growl, and her tongue lashes her noise as if it tasted something alien. 
      And yet, there's less rage in the way the massive monster sits coiled 
      away from him. Dark, amber eyes bore down on the scarred wolf for several 
      seconds before she simply growls in a low, threatening tone, ~Get out.~
Grey rolls over onto his paws, ears flat and tail tucked firmly between his
      legs. The look the wolf gives her is raw and unmasked. Anger and hurt, 
      regret and, it must be admitted, a little bit of hate. Lupus form hides 
      nothing. When he reverts to breed, some of that rawness remains, but it's 
      better obfuscated behind that tight, stony, jaw-clenched expression. He 
      says nothing. He simply flashes throat to her, turns neatly on his heel, 
      and stalks out.
Defiant-Storm waits til the steel door is closed again before letting out
      another furious howl. The couch is sent hurtling across the room in one 
      giant swipe of a claw, and that howl dies into a mournful song.

[...]

[Safehouse, GW side]

The dirt-brown Torino comes snarling up the driveway and parks. Moments later,
      a grim-faced and shoulder-tight Thomas Grey comes stalking through the 
      safehouse, letting himself into the Glass Walker area and slamming the 
      door behind him.
Natalie's alone in the living room with the lights out. The muted glow of the
      LED on the soundsystem is the only brightness to the room save for the 
      light coming from the hallway. She's sitting on the couch, singing along 
      with a pretty-voiced young man. "And how can you mend a broken heart? / 
      How can you stop the rain from falling down? / How can you stop..." which 
      is when the door slams and she surges up and out of the couch to glare at 
      the intruder, leaving the nice young man to finish the verse alone. "What 
      the hell's wrong with you?!"
Grey jerks a sullen eye toward the Elder and then away. There's assorted
      food-stains clinging to his coat and shirt-front, like somebody had 
      thrown it at him. "Met with Signe," he answers curtly, as he shoves his 
      keys into his pocket.
Natalie looks as though she's torn between offering to make it all better and
      finishing what Signe started. "--Yeah?" The acoustics in the room are 
      pretty good; the singer has a lovely tenor, but Nat scoops up the remote 
      and punches down the volume, cutting off his plaint of 'mending a broken 
      heart'.
"Yes," the Philodox says, his voice flat. "It didn't go well."
Natalie narrows her eyes at him and slowly sinks down, kneeling on the couch
      with her arms braced on the back. "--So now what? You going to go hide in 
      your room and sulk?"
Grey seems about to do just that, in fact, or at least he'd been angling his
      body toward the stairs leading up to the second floor. At her words, 
      though, he keeps still, his face turned away from her, not saying 
      anything. The hand that's not in his pocket with his keys closes into a 
      fist at his side.
"Come and sit," Nat invites, though it's got enough of an edge that he can
      interpret it as an order. "Dammit, Thomas..." She bites her tongue on 
      that exasperation and turns around properly, poking at the remote until 
      the CD spins itself to silence.
Grey's head lowers slightly. He turns mechanically toward the living room and
      joins her in there. His body drops heavily into one of the armchairs, 
      coat and food-decorated shirt and all. He doesn't look her way.
"--Who do you talk to?" Nat asks after a second. She finishes fussing with the
      remote before tossing it onto the couch beside her, only then looking 
      over through the gloom. "I've got Jon. Who do you have?"
Rage is rapidly sinking under the waves of morosity. Grey grunts something both
      noncommital and noninformative and shrugs.
Natalie tries speaking a couple of times but closes her mouth before any words
      escape. Instead she studies the gloomy Philodox. She finally succeeds 
      with a fairly neutral, "You can always talk to me, you know. Not just 
      because I'm a-- galliard."
"I'm fine," is his reply, utterly flat. He glances down and absently picks at a
      drying stain on his shirt. Barbeque sauce?
Natalie says "And I'm Gaia incarnate." Just as believable, no? "Who... what do
      you want, Thomas? I'll get it for you. Jon? He's a damn good listener. 
      That mage? A complete stranger?"
Grey clenches his teeth, his jaw tightening. His hand pulls away from his shirt
      with a sharp gesture and he grips the arms of his chair. His temper's not 
      /entirely/ gone; it's not even that far beneath the surface. "I'm 
      /fine/," he rasps, glowering over at her. "I don't /need/ any fucking 
      sympathy."
Natalie makes no claims about being Gaia this time - she doesn't have to for
      her face is disbelieving enough. "-Right-. You don't need any sympathy, 
      you don't need anyone to talk to. Hell, you're probably so damn perfect 
      you don't need to eat or breathe, either! What the /hell/ was I 
      -thinking-, trying to help you? Trying to be a god-damned friend?"
Grey's fingers dig into the arms of the chair and bares his teeth slightly. The
      rage builds /fast/. "I don't need any friends," he growls, and in that 
      moment he probably wholly believes it. "I don't need any /friends/, I 
      don't need any /sympathy/, and I don't need any fucking /charity/, 
      either." With this last bilious statement, he shoves to his feet.
"SIT. DOWN," the Galliard hisses poisonously, staring straight at the sulky
      one. "Dammit, Thomas, you walk away from me now and I'm going straight to 
      Megan and getting her to do Lone Wolf on you. Now. Tonight. You don't 
      need friends? You want to try it without tribe too?" She has no handy 
      chair arms to grind her fingers into, but the palms of her hands make 
      fine receptacles for her fingernails. "You didn't want a friend? Then you 
      shouldn't have dragged your sorry ass back here. Like it or not, you're 
      my tribe. /My/ family. Maybe -you- don't have any respect for that, for 
      me, but..." Her furious torrent of words dries up like someone turned off 
      the tap, leaving her with naught to do but glare.
Grey quivers, hands clenched into white-knuckled fists, his breathing harsh,
      his eyes closed. Eventually, he sinks down into the chair again, leaning 
      forward with his elbows on his knees, both hands raking back through 
      thick black hair.
Natalie grabs onto her temper with both hands and yanks, dragging it kicking
      and screaming back from the edge, sinking her back into the cushions of 
      the couch. Two long breaths - inhale, hold, exhale shakily - and she 
      manages a quiet, "Thank you." Studies the remote, her hands placed 
      carefully over her knees.
Grey remains bowed, fingers laced together at the back of his neck. His eyes
      are closed. "I'm fine," he says again, steadier now. One more time, and 
      it'll become a mantra. "I'll be all right. I just need... time."
"You need someone to talk to," Nat repeats, her own voice as cautious as his.
      These emotions under this moon is a Frenzy waiting to happen. "I 
      thought... I thought you knew that... I thought you realized I was a," 
      skip right over that, "when I loaned you my fetish."
Grey straightens up just enough to scrub a hand across his face, rubbing at the
      thick scars, over the socket of the dead eye. His good eye stares at the 
      carpet. "I appreciated the gesture." His voice is dull, rage sunk back 
      out of view. "I appreciate the way you've... stood by me. Allowed me to 
      stay, to be... useful. You're a good Elder. I'm..." He runs his fingers 
      through his hair again, mussing it up further, and then slouches back 
      into the chair. "...very tired."
Natalie says "You didn't use it though." It's not a question. Now that the
      worst of the storm seems to have passed she pulls one leg up underneath 
      her. "Did you."
"I did, actually," he says, gloomily picking at the upholstery. "Then I got a
      lead and... I wasn't sure if I'd come out of where I had to go. Didn't 
      want it to get lost with me."
He's not looking at her to see the surprise flash across her face. "--And? Did
      it help?" Curious Galliard.
Grey nods as though it really didn't matter and keeps picking, his gaze
      unfocussed.
Silence. "--You want to... use it again for a bit?"
Grey grimaces, and for a fleeting moment looks ashamed. He shakes his head. "Keep
      it. I can handle the nightmares. I'm... used to them." He grunts. "By 
      now, I /ought/ to be."
Natalie continues to watch him - well, the untrimmed top of his head. "Being
      used to them..." She stops, pressing her lips together, and tries another 
      tack. "I'd like it if you took it, Thomas. Just... for a few weeks. You 
      look like several miles of bad road. Used to them or not, you probably 
      sleep better if you don't have them."
But Grey's shaking his head again, even before she finishes. "Keep it," he says
      again, and then adds, "...Please."
Curiosity wins out, even over sympathy. "Why?"
Grey answers that with a shake of his head. He leaves off picking at the
      chair's arms and slumps low, arms folded across his chest. "I would 
      simply... rather not."
"Two weeks," Nat says with the air of one offering a compromise. "C'mon,
      Thomas, you're not planning on running off again in two weeks, are you?" 
      Faint humor, that, but it's there. "Take it - use it - and I'll stop 
      pestering you to talk to me until... until the new moon."
Grey grits his teeth, and that look of shame flashes across his face again.
      "/No/," he says, with too much force, and then swallows, inhales, 
      exhales. "Please don't ask again."
Natalie flinches, as though he'd just kicked her in the stomach, then
      straightens. "Use the pillow or talk to me. And I mean /talk/ to me, not 
      sulk over there and make me drag it out of you." She gives him a second 
      to think it over before standing. "It's late. I'm going to bed. You can 
      tell me tomorrow. Sleep well, Thomas." And yes, she's a Galliard, so she 
      knows just the right amount of irony to add to that well-wishing. With 
      that she moves toward the stairs.
"Good night, Natalie," he replies, voice dulled. He remains seated within the
      gloom for a long time afterward, long enough for her to retire to bed. 
      Then, reluctantly, he drags himself up to his own room, dumps his clothes 
      on the floor in a gesture of wholly uncharacteristic carelessness, and 
      collapses into his bed for another long, restless night.