It is currently 11:04 Pacific Time on Sat Apr 9 2005. Currently the moon is in the waxing New Moon phase (2% full). Currently in Saint Claire, it is partly sunny. The temperature is 49 degrees Fahrenheit (9 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from variable directions at 7 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.15 and rising, and the relative humidity is 71 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 ear-length and shaggy around his face, and he wears a couple days' worth of black beard-growth. 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's wearing a dark green t-shirt tucked into a pair of olive-drab BDU trousers. On his feet are a pair of Matterhorn tanker boots, heavy black leather fastened with straps instead of laces. The ash-darkened scars on his forearms -- the Charach glyph on the right, Dishonor on the left -- are easily visible, thanks to the short sleeves. Noon. A brisk knock on the steel door and a masculine voice announcing, "Lunchtime." There's a bleary groan from the other side of the door, and a bit of shuffling. It's becoming a bit of a ritual, by now: "C'min," the captive cub croaks, clear enough to carry past the steelplate. Come in he does, carrying a plate with a sandwich and another bottle of water. Grey's more alert this time. Getting stabbed in the thigh does that to a man. The bunker's appearance has changed drastically since the night before: the broken cot has been dragged into the corner, and every scrap of torn blanket or clothing folded in a neat pile squared away against the wall. There are a few plastic shopping bags full of garbage tied up near the 'Luggable Loo' contraption. There's no sign of the food spillage from the ambush last night, either. Cy sits up on a makeshift bed of untorn blankets, knuckling at her eyes. The unnaturally bright red hair is standing on-end in an impressive case of bedhead. Grey views the signs of the girl's industry with an expression of muted approval, then steps forward and sets down the plate and water. "Getting bored?" His voice, as usual, is bland. The girl makes a sleepy noise, not quite a word; she looks like she's got the hangover from Hell. Once she finishes scrubbing at her eyes, Cy squints at him in the harsh light of the cell's single lightbulb. Instead of answering the scarred man's question, she queries, "Wh'time'sit?" Her gaze is still fogged with sleep, skinny limbs relaxed. "Near noon," says Grey briskly. He nods toward the sandwish. "Eat." And then, apparantly not paying her much attention at all, he sets about removing the garbage that she's so diligently stacked up. At no point does he give her a chance to run. That drowsy sound is grunted again, quieter this time. Perhaps too sleep-addled to recall the events of the previous night, the scrawny girl crawls over to the plate and slouches there, cross-legged. She scratches at her head as she peers under the top the top slice of bread, making her hair stick out on one side like an asymmetrical dandelion-fluff. Ham and turkey. Tomato, crisp lettuce, cheese. Thick, whole-grain bread. Golden mustard. Sliced dill pickle on the side. It's a serious sandwich; any deli would be proud to sell it. Pleased, the bright-haired urchin grunts to herself again. The blurriness of her slow-to-wake young system seems to wrap her in an insulating, languid air as she leans in to take a bite of sandwich. It's only a bite, though: chewing slowly, she sets down the culinary work of art and fiddles with the crust. Meanwhile, the trash gets moved out into the basement, even the busted cot. Grey takes care of the camp-toilet last, returning with it empty. Only then does the man settle down, sitting crosslegged on the floor in front of the door. She glances at the tall man briefly, but doesn't focus much; she's got that slow-to-wake demeanor of a typical teenager. A small scattering of breadcrumbs has appeared on the ground beside her. Stifling a yawn, she tracks her squinted gaze along the lower edge of the nearest wall and emits a sharp clicking sound, tonguetip against teeth. Like she's summoning a cat. Grey says nothing and makes no sound. Hands resting lightly on his knees, he watches her, scarred features revealing nothing. Several minutes crawl by without him showing the slighest sign of impatience. It's not a cat, exactly--it's a little too small and shiny for that. Antennae twitch as one of the six-legged denizens of the basement skitters into view. The brown carapace flashes wetly under the light of the single bulb. Cy's sitting up straight now, and far more alert. She puts out a hand to drum light fingertips against the concrete floor, right next to the breadcrumbs. The girl's lips purse slightly, and her clicking sounds turn softer. Those shadowed eyes are fixed on the roach intently. Grey's gaze shifts, moving downward to follow the path of the cockroach for a few seconds before moving back to the girl across from him. His eyebrows rise slightly underneath the unkempt black hair. Food? The Glass Walker totem in miniature skitters forward, the length of a few homid paces. Antennae waving slightly, it follows the 'sound' of the vibration in the concrete towards the girl. There's not much hesitation or caution about the roach's path. Grey continues to watch with an air of mild interest, though if the girl's perceptive, she'll notice that his stare gets more intent the closer the cockroach gets to the girl's tapping fingers. The scarred man is paid absolutely no mind: apparently, this little cockroach is /far/ more interesting. All signs of sleep-fog are gone from Cy's features, by now. The girl's clucking falls silent as she bites her lower lip. When the creature makes it to the breadcrumbs by her fingers, she leans over to peek at it and almost smiles. Almost. Finally, Grey speaks. "Fascinating, aren't they?" "Shh," the scrawny girl whispers absently. Both dark eyes are still fixed on the roach with a strange sort of light behind them. Slowly, gingerly, she places a single breadcrumb in her palm and nudges it beneath the legs of the cockroach. Cy's hands are small, but steady: the roach is about two inches long, large enough to dwarf her palm in comparison. The creature's antennae wave questioningly for a moment before it begins to munch. With rapt attention, the redhaired girl lifts the insect to her own eye-level and strokes its metallic carapace with a fingertip. Grey allows himself to be shushed; he doesn't even seem that put out by it. In fact, the tall man seems to relax slightly, as if the girl's just past some obscure unspoken test. It takes her a while to lose interest, but she eventually lowers her hand, offering the well-fed roach a gentle nudge to the floor. It lingers by the crumbs, obviously not shy in the girl's proximity, before skittering off to a far wall and climbing out of sight. Cy sniffs once or twice, knuckling at her nose before taking the sandwich in both hands again. "Th'really smart," she says simply, taking up the enormous sandwich once more. She won't look at the man. "I'm rather fond of them myself," says Grey, looking up to the spot where the cockroach slipped out of view. He turns his eyes back to her. "It was a cockroach that led us to you." Working her way through the second bite of sandwich, Cy looks up at him with furrowed brow. Her posture's slowly dropping back into a slouch, the heavy reality of the vault quickly chasing away the small pleasure of roach-feeding. "I don't smell /that/ bad," she retorts lowly. There's a smear of mustard by the corner of her mouth; she catches it quickly with a tongue. Grey's mouth thins. "You /could/ do with a shower. Not that it's your fault. In any case, us finding you had nothing to do with how you smell. You were marked from birth." Cy doesn't seem to be ruffled by the shower comment; she simply drops her attention back to the sandwich. "Y'made this?" It's an /attempt/ at a smooth change of subject, at least. "Yes," says Grey, and then continues on the previous subject, unwilling to be deterred. "A month or so after you were born, you were marked in a way that no one could see. Not in this world, anyway. All your life, a cockroach spirit has been watching over you, waiting for you to be... ready." The girl frowns over her sandwich, jaws working around the food. Feigning lightness, she observes, "Y'make really good sandwiches." She refuses to meet his gaze. Grey says, dryly, "Thank you." Then he continues. "The other day, your kinfetch sensed you were ready. You'd been having dreams. Dreams of running, of being chased... or chasing. Dreams about wolves." His tone is matter-of-fact and there's a certain persuasiveness in it as well, something that catches the ear, makes one want to listen. "It sensed the rage in you, the beast wanting to get out. So it came, and brought us to you." Narrow shoulders hunching, Cy slowly moves to put the sandwich back on its plate. She eyes the scar-marked man across the few feet between them like it was an entire continent, but she's listening with furrowed brow. An unwashed lock of hair falls in front of one eye; she doesn't bother to push it back. "A similar thing happened to me, when I was your age," Grey continues. "The dreams, more vivid each night. The building rage, like an itch I couldn't scratch. Then, one night, I was dragged from my bed, bound and blindfolded, and dumped out into the middle of the woods. The chase was real, then. My uncle and his pack harried and harrassed me until I changed. Like you, I was marked from birth." As he talks, the girl's dark gaze slides down briefly to alight on his oddly-marked forearms. She tilts her head, haphazard hair making the girl look like nothing more than a cock-eared puppy. A line furrows deeper and deeper into the space between her brows while she listens. Grey notices where her gaze is going and glances down, briefly, before looking back at her. "You /are/ one of us, Cy, whether you want to believe it or not. What happens next is up to you. You can continue to resist, to deny what you are, and you'll continue to sit in this cell. Trapped. Confined. Or you can start to listen, to accept, to /learn/... and gain more freedom than you've ever had before." She's already stopped staring at the scars--her eyes have lifted to search the ceiling of the ten-foot-square vault. Scowling darkly, she moves to pick up the sandwich once more. "Thanks f'bringin' me lunch," Cy grunts. Dismissive. It's impossible to tell whether Grey's words have hit home or not. Grey's eyes narrow. "Rot or run free," he says, voice turning cooller. He gets to his feet in a smooth, graceful motion. "It's your choice." He turns to go. Cy's posture slumps even lower as he turns away. She stares into the sandwich in her hands as though it might contain some answer to her predicament. Of course, it doesn't. The heavy steel door closes behind Thomas Grey with an air of finality. [...] It is currently 21:07 Pacific Time on Sat Apr 9 2005. Currently the moon is in the waxing New Moon phase (5% full). Currently in Saint Claire, it is clear outside. The temperature is 48 degrees Fahrenheit (8 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the southwest at 12 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.25 and rising, and the relative humidity is 56 percent. The dewpoint is 33 degrees Fahrenheit (0 degrees Celsius.) Pool Hall Pool tables, with one foosball table and an air hockey table hiding among them, dominate the space of the hall, hardly yielding any space for the motley crew of players chalking their sticks and eying the brandy bottle at the bar lining one wall. The dust and scratches on all surfaces save the green velvet lining the pool tables indicate this hall as skimping on maintenance and cheap on cleaners. Its lack of flashy videogames and surplus of toothless kibitzers underscores its appeal to the older crowd. No natural sunlight is permitted into the hall, its lighting provided by bulbs swinging from the ceiling. A recent 'renovation' to the hall has caused many splinters and embedded bullet holes, adding much to the aged atmosphere. Ruddish stains, dark and ominous even under the lights, refuse to be washed out of the floor. A dart board brightens up the walls with its red-and-black scheme, and a moosehead looks down on the proceedings. Mounted from the ceiling, a television blares its glaring brightness and noises. A set of double doors, one locked, the other unlocked at the whims of the hall manager, lead out to the street. Unobstructive doors behind the bar undoubtedly lead to storerooms. "Yeah well.. I don't get her either." Brom says as he continues to watch the game between Lord and kin, plucking a beer off his six pack and tugging the tab up, releasing the crack and hiss. He drinks heavily, slumping down into a chair and kicking a foot up on the table in front of him, relaxing some. Kenneth sets the butt of his pool cue down on the floor, watching the balls instead of the Get and his kin. As another of the clientele at the neighboring table rounds to set up his shot, the Shadow Lord notices and moves out of the way to avoid getting touched with the other guy's cue. "What do you mean?" he asks of the two, indicating he's been paying attention all along. Rillie takes another crack at a ball and sinks it too, managing to get another down before she blunders and misses the next one entirely. Muttering under her breath slightly, she backs off and returns to her stool near Brom so she can collect her Coke and take a drink. Brom reaches out and slides an arm around Rillie's waist as she comes near, giving her hip a pat as he glances up at her. "She just is.. I don't know. Its hard to explain." He says cooly as he takes another sip. "Hmf." He rumbles in his throat as he narrows his eyes a bit. The door opens, letting in a brief bite of the cool April evening and the rather singular figure of Thomas Grey, unshaven and looking vaguely unkempt despite the fairly neat appearance of his clothing. Cigarette trailing smoke from his mouth, the Glass Walker makes a direct line for the bar, looking neither to the right nor the left, and takes the nearest empty stool. Kenneth furrows his brow as things aren't explained, but brushes off the expression with a look back to the pool table's remaining layout. "Uh huh," he grunts as a reply. Call it paranoia, or an inward wariness of his surroundings- as Grey walks into the hall and beelines at the bar, the Shadow Lord follows the Walker with his gaze even as he makes his shot. The ball misses the pocket. Again. Kenneth has about him a certain aura. An intangible, uncomfortable atmosphere penetrates his otherwise decent social graces that makes him seem at first impression, unapproachable. He is young, and a fairly attractive youth as well. With a lean body that isn't intimidatingly muscled, he nonetheless has athletic potential. His dark hair is long, looking ragged at the edges in a way that is windswept and wild. The forelocks lurk forward, tips hanging just over his eyes in a way that accentuates his angled features. At first impression, he may seem completely Asian by heritage, but at a more direct glance, there are a few traits that hint at a mixture of bloodlines both Western and Eastern. What stands out underneath the mild slants of his eyebrows are his nearly black eyes that rarely highlight with a grey color in strong lighting. The cold neutrality of his gaze is of one that wishes to prove the worth of their existence, but more than anything makes him seem alone. His methods of dressing have grown sloppy. A wrinkled black t-shirt covers a white tank, matched with dark blue, seemingly overly loose fitting jeans. His shoes commonly change, but are nevertheless some kind of casual sneaker or sportshoe. Rillie slips away from Brom with a quick grin as her turn comes up and approaches the table. She pauses, cue in hand as she gives the setup a close look, trying to determine her best chance for a shot. She lines up and strikes one ball at another, pinging it across the table and solidly into a pocket. Just like riding a bike. Rillie is the kind of girl you look at and can tell she's an artist. Her jeans have holes and stains of ink and paint and her shirts are strange and a jumble of various designs, sayings, images, and yet more stains. Her hair is long and straight, a soft Pantene-brand brown and generally tugged back in a functional ponytail. Eyes are also brown, big and dark, sparked with an inner restlesness and fervor. Wiry and lean, she bubbles over with an inner intensity of emotion and energy. Beyond that, she's your normal teen - too old to be a girl but not old enough yet to be a woman. Brom watches Rillie move off, or more accurately, stares at her ass. Grinning to himself, he crushes the empty can in his hand and tosses it to the ground, then glances up as he feels the hair on the back of his neck. Tilting his head over towards the bar, he notices Thomas and rises up to his feet, heading over. "Hey, Mister Grey." He says in a gruff voice. Grey has shrugged out of his coat by this time and gotten a beer from the bartender, who seems to recognize him even if he's not especially pleased to see him. He glances over at the sound of his name and regards the big Get of Fenris with a distinctly neutral expression. "Brom," he says, returning the greeting. Kenneth slips his gaze off of the Walker back to the game he is rather quickly losing, and straightens his posture a touch. "Nice shot," he says to Rillie as Brom heads off, sweeping up the chalk into his hand. "Hey, I got five of a six pack left over at the table. I want to talk to you about a few things that I don't want other ears to hear if you got the time to spare." Brom says as he stops before the Walker, his chin lifted proudly as he lets out a slow breath. "Thanks." The kinfolk, Rillie, says in return to the Lord. Her next shot she misses however, half distracted as Brom walks away and tasks to the scarred man at the bar. Grey's expression remains guarded and difficult to read. His answer is a blandly agreeable, "I've got some time." He gets back to his feet, taking his beer and his coat. "Lead on." Kenneth siezes the opportunity to catch up at least, forcing himself to turn away from the Garou at the bar and put the velvet in his mind. In none too great show of some practiced skill, Kenneth puts one more ball down into the far corner pocket of the table and misses the second to last ball for his colors. Heading back to the table, Brom doesn't hang out too close to the pool table as he yanks another beer off the pack, popping the table and leaning into the wall. He waits for Grey to approach, then says. "Not sure if you heard yet, but we found out where the taint is coming from that has been infecting animals and creeping into the bawn." Grey drops his coat over the back of a nearby chair and stands near Brom. Kenneth and Rillie get only the briefest glance before he turns his attention back to the Get. His eyebrows rise slightly. "Actually, I hadn't heard." On her next round, Rillie manages to soundly land her final ball in the pocket. Her attentions the turn on the ominous black ball. "Eight ball, side pocket." She declare with a clack of her cue on the left pocket. Hunkering down and squaring her shoulders, the kinfolk lines up the pool stick and takes a good solid minute to line it up. Then, as straight as a bullet from a gun, she fires off the white ball and it collides with the black. The eight smacks into the back wall, off the corner, and sinks deep into the indicated pocket. She lied. She's better than she said. Broom shifts his shoulders a bit and lets out a heavy breath. "Got to start from the beginning. Three times I was involved in attacks upon the Sept, two in the bawn, one in the city where Cole, Auggie and I rescued a Fianna kin. Animals have been tainted and they leak poison from their mouths. I have been doing research and found a lot of the pounds have been cleaned pretty much clear of pets down town, which is typically over flowing. I got some help and found out that there is an estate about fifteen miles from the farmhouse in Kent's Crossing, full of tainted animals and a green house that is blacked out so that no one can see in." He furrows his brows. "It holds cows that can jump like rabbits and birds that attack on sight. Not a lot of cover, too much open ground. I've assembled an assault party and I've worked out a scouting party so that by the next Half Moon, we can have this taken care of." He squints his eyes some. "Something you may be interested in?" Kenneth looks back from gazing towards Brom and Grey as Rillie calls her shot. With the sinking of the eight-ball, the Shadow Lord draws his lips into a tight line and dips his head once to the kin. "Good game," he says with more than usual mustered sportsmanship. Walking around the table to put it between himself and the other pair of Garou, he then has his eyes on Grey once more, staring in a neutral manner. Grey listens carefully, alternating a swallow of beer with a long inhaltion from his cigarette. Someone with a keen sense of observation, watching him, will likely notice something interesting; the Glass Walker never quite meets the Get of Fenris' eyes. He also shows no sign of great excitement or interest in news of the raid, though that's probably less surprising, considering that the man seems unwilling to reveal much about himself at all. "Possibly." Rillie nods her head back to the Shadow Lord. "You too. Another time, when things are quieter?" She offers as she returns to her stool and reclaims the last of her Coke, finishing off the can. She half listens to the Garou buisness, but doesn't give it a great deal of mind. Continuing to stare at the Walker, Brom crosses his arms over his chest as he lets out a slow breath. "I ain't about to get killed by some fucking cow, and I don't think anyone else does either. You good with a sniper rifle? We're ganna have a lot of shit to take in regard, such as fucking birds dive bombing us. I'm sure there is going to be pit bulls and doberman's like we've already faced last time. We want to try and crack open that green house. There is also a barn off to the side that holds pigs and probably horses. We're hoping to use a few rituals and gifts to make the job easier, but if there's cows, probably is ganna be bulls also. Even a Crinos will have a hard time trying to take those fuckers down." Kenneth breaks his gaze off of Grey, paying heed to Rillie's invitation. He nods once slowly. "Yeah." The halfmoon leaves his cue atop the sparse table, and takes a step back away from the table, "Gonna go grab somethin' t'eat," he says a little louder, sidestepping a few paces before turning for the front door. Grey grunts and takes another drag off the old cancer stick. "My depth perception's not what it used to be, but I know my way around a rifle." No comment on the cast of _Charlotte's Web_ gone mad. Broom nods his head. "That's cool. If you know of anyone else that can handle one, that'd be good. Unless of course you'd rather just use your claws and you won't see me bitch about that." He says, his voice continuing to stay low so that the rowdy music nearly drowns him out. "I just refuse to get killed by a cow." A faint grin. "By the way, I claimed Alpha over Requiem." He says as he shifts his gaze off to Ken for a moment, then back to the Walker. Grey blinks once, follows Brom's gaze over toward Kenneth, then turns back to the Get. "Congratulations." There's nothing sarcastic in this. "The pack's rebuilding, then." Broom nods his head slightly. "It is, and its going to be a good fucking pack too. I'm going to make sure its one of glory. I am enjoying myself already." He says with a slight grin tugging at his lips. "What about you? Who's luring you in their direction? Or is everyone turning their nose up at your scars cuz' you bumped fuzzies with another?" The kinfolk's cheek gives a slight twitch at Brom's version of tact and slides off her stool to head back to the bar and get herself another Coke. A steel shutter slams down over Grey's eyes, the blandly neutral expression turning positively rigid. His voice, however, remains even. "At the moment, I'm keeping my options open." Broom nods his head slightly. "Gotcha. Well, if you are looking for glory and want a pack, feel free to come find us. I'm going to put us on the fucking map and I don't care about the past, I care about the here and -now-." He says with a grunt. "I'll keep that in mind," Grey says, politely enough, though it doesn't sound all that encouraging. He takes another drag, then turns his face away to exhale, looking over across the bar. "When's the raid?" "Trying for when the moon gets a bit bigger again, half moon at the least. I want the scouting party I'm putting together to see what they can find. I also want to peek at the Umbra to see if there is a bigger mess we may over look." Brom says with a snort. "Hell, it could be nothing more than bad plumbing for all I know, but I'm not going to go in there half cocked." Rillie pays for her second can of Coke and returns towards the pool table, her stool, and the two talking Garou nearby. Reclaiming her seat, she cracks open her can and takes a quiet drink. Dillen pushes open the door and steps inside. He looks about and then heads for a table, pulling a cue from the wall and settling a stack of quarters into the table. The balls come rolling out and he begins to rack them up. Grey nods. "Wise. And if there /is/ something there, taking it out will be vital." Broom nods his head and shifts his shoulders a bit, then motions with his head towards Rillie. "My mate, Rillie of the Get." Kenneth is minutes away before he is on the return bearing a burrito in hand with a bite taken out of it. Just a passing glance is given to the rest of the clientele, and in that glance the Shadow Lord spots his other packmate. The halfmoon stops, mouth chewing busily. Rillie dips her head to Grey in a polite nod. "Evenin'." She says and takes another long drink from her Coke. "If I can help, just tell me, tho' not sure what I can do." Grey turns mismatched eyes toward the artistic-looking young woman and nods back, offering up an aloofly polite, "Pleasure to meet you." Dillen lines up the shot and just as he is about to let lose with the cue, hears a couple of familiar voices. He raises a brow for a bit and then goes back to the table, letting lose with the cue and causing the balls to run about the table, sinking two. Broom glances over to Ken an Dillen again, then calls over. "Hey Dillen!" He says, his voice barking a bit, before looking back to the Walker. "That was pretty much it." Kenneth, despite his packmate status, seems content to move off to a fringe wall and consume his burrito there. His eyes remain on the group however, watching. Waiting. Grey looks briefly at Dillen when Brom calls his name, then turns back with a nod. "I'll speak with my kin to see about scaring up some ranged weapons, for the birds if nothing else. You know the number to the safehouse?" Dillen looks up and tracks the voice. "S'up?" He says, eyes moving over his pack and then resting on Rillie for a bit. He nods his head to anybody who makes contact with him. Then the cue flies again and he knocks another ball in the pocket. A thick layer of hair grows on Dillen's head, black and spiked out all over. His attire is that of one who is eclectic and likes his own style. He wears a white t-shirt and a pair of black pants, tucked into knee high combat boots. Around his upper half is a leather biker jacket, complete with blue flames coming up the sleeves. Grey eyes that are just about clear are the only really stunning thing about him. Several wraps of leather come close up to his neck, on which is a small jade wolf around a collar. Around his neck is a thick leather collar, made up of several contoured leather plates, bound with bone or horn, and strapped together with what appears to be waxed sinew. It's either some kind of new fashion statement, or Midwestern bondage gear. His build has improved since he came to St. Claire as a skinny kid, he now has broad shoulders and good muscle definition. His looks would place him in his mid to late teens and he would seem to be about five and a half feet tall. "I don't." Brom admits as he furrows his brows. "I know where its at though. I've been there at least three times. I would have to use Rillie's phone." Grey grunts. "You know how to reach me, then." Turning away, he picks up his coat again, clearly considering the conversation over. Rillie listens to all the Garou talk amongst themselves, giving a quite wave to Dillen as he approaches, before going back to the conversation which seems to have ended abruptly. Hm. As Grey gets up to depart, Kenneth finishes downing another bite. The Shadow Lord wipes off his lips with a napkin, watching the Walker with more intent now. Dillen watches Grey depart as well. He rests against the table, the cue in front of him. "How's things?" He says to the others. Grey, presuming that Brom doesn't stop him, takes his beer, his cigarette, his coat, and his less-than-chummy self back to the bar to finish the first two and possibly several of their siblings. Kenneth breaks off at the wall, not quite finishing the burrito in his hand but instead replacing the foil outerwrapping on it. The Shadow Lord makes his way back towards Grey's direction, but the expression on his face is definitely not one that implies the halfmoon is going there to make small talk. Rillie remains quietly drinking her pop and looking at the lot still in the pool hall. She lets out a brief sigh and stares down into the caern. "It's getting late, should probably be heading home." Grey has just gotten himself reseated and resettled when he notices Kenneth approaching. His guard's still up, and it doesn't relax one whit. He gives Kenneth a sidelong glance and then looks away, studying the collection of bottles behind the bar while he waits for the Shadow Lord. Dillen clicks his tongue against his teeth. He shrugs and shakes his head, turning and going back to his game. Kenneth drops the hand holding the burrito down atop the bar, sliding into the seat beside the Walker philodox. "Hey," he utters quietly in a pseudo-form of greeting - it's not exactly a greeting, so much as an announcement of his presence within the halfmoon's personal bubble boundary. "Need t'ask you something." [Brom and Rillie leave.] Grey inhales a lungful of cigarette smoke and lets it out slowly. He watches it twist and curl and eventually dissipate. "What do you need?" Kenneth seems content to let the Walker's question swim in the air between them for a long minute, before he looks off. "Is Nat still pissed off at me?" The question is neutral, but inquiring. The Shadow Lord doesn't meet Grey's eyes. [Dillen leaves, too.] Grey raises his eyebrows and looks over at Kenneth. "I have no idea. She's never mentioned you to me." "She seemed pretty pissed off when I talked to your guys' ... test applicant," Kenneth mentions quietly. "Haven't heard back from her since." Grey grunts and turns away, studying his cigarette. "She doesn't like your branch of the family," he tells the young Shadow Lord, quite bluntly. Kenneth nods at this, turning his head to watch the pool games. "No one really does," he replies evenly. "But I just got a gut feelin' that I'd better get my shit together and at least get this outta the way, else it'll come back to haunt me." He glances back to the Walker. "Not like I got much good to my credit either." Grey grunts again. "You're young. I wouldn't worry about it." He takes a swallow of his drink. "If you're worried about Natalie, go and talk to her. She's not that difficult to find." Kenneth shrugs a shoulder, trying to come off as impassive. "Yeah, well I figured you're best t'find out where I could find her then. And with her goin' on her own 'test' right now, don't know if I should bother." His black eyes settle upon part of the other halfmoon's shirt edge. "Brom might know where the house is, but not like I'm gonna go ask 'im." Grey looks over at Kenneth again, frowning in bemusement. "You're packing with him, aren't you?" Kenneth nods slowly. "Yeah, but knowing him, he might end up blowin' this thing outta the water. I don't need that, and Nat don't need it either." The Shadow Lord looks over again, fleetingly. "After all, expecting a Get to use tact with his words is like expecting an ox not to get pissed if you wave a red flag around in front of its face." "Mnh," Grey says, noncommitally. Sticking the cigarette in his mouth, he pulls a felt-tip pen out from somewhere in the folds of his discarded coat and scribbles a street address on a cocktail napkin. "Here," he says, pushing it over toward Kenneth. "Now you don't have to ask." He caps the pen and puts it away. Rina bursts in like a leather-armored cowboy, shaking out her helmet-head and running fingers through her hair. She looks over the tables with a dangerous little glint in her eyes, ignoring the bar at first. Kenneth nods minutely once more, taking the napkin and folding it neatly into a small square before slipping it deep into his pocket. The 'thanks' uttered is nearly unheard over the clack of pool balls and general murmur of people's conversations. Rina's entrance, though, draws the Shadow Lord's eyes away before he can say more, the youth not being the only one who looks towards the door at the woman's entry. Not the only one, indeed. A few--the rougher types--scowl and look away, muttering nasty comments about queers in general and this one in particular. Rina trades waves with a table of college students shooting eight-ball. Grey looks over as well, and at the sight of the kinswoman, his expression lightens considerably without showing any sign of an actual smile. Excusing himself with a muttered word, the Glass Walker gets up and heads over to join Rina. [Rina] Dark-brown eyes, touched with amber, look out from a pixie-sharp face. Rina's skin is fair, but not quite pale--a light Mediterranean olive from generations of pure Italian ancestry. Her black-brown hair is left just long enough in the front to fall almost into her eyes; the butch cut tapers to an army-short buzz at the sides and back, hardly more than a velvet fuzz covering the nape of her neck. Her chin is delicately-boned, her mouth small, the line of her jaw well-defined. Her eyes have a shadowy, bruised look, either from fatigue or the artful use of makeup; save for that Gothic touch, she might have stepped from a pre-Raphaelite painting. She can't be more than twenty-five or so, but in that youthful face the eyes are cynical, brooding, world-weary. Athletic grace and a certain streetwise confidence show in her movements, but there is often an element of tension as well. A black barbed-wire tattoo encircles her throat, and matching inked bracelets are visible on her wrists. There is another marking visible at the nape of her neck, not ink but a scarred-in symbol that looks as if it was branded into her skin. (page for details if taking a closer look) Black fatigues hang low on her hips. Tucked into them is a snug blue t-shirt with a handpainted emblem, a cartoon-yellow labrys centered in a rainbow triangle. Lettering above and below proclaims: 'SUPER DYKE.' On the back the painted letters read 'chicks dig me.' A traditional biker jacket in black leather, at least two sizes too big, adds a layer of toughness to the petite woman's attire. Several patches of electrical tape cover a few holes and rips in the leather: the front and back of both shoulders, and a spot near her waist on the left. There are more additions to the body armor: scraps of circuit board, metal spikes and rivets, and a pair of mismatched vambraces that make her look like some sort of Mad Max knight errant. She wears two rings, both a silvery white gold. Her right hand bears a single diamond framed by two smaller ones, the decorative work on the ring elegant and subtle, perhaps Art Deco. On the left she wears a simpler band decorated with letters and scrollwork. Kenneth doesn't get up from his spot at the bar, instead turning back to the half-eaten, foil-wrapped burrito in his hand. Though the Shadow Lord doesn't look back, he appears aware of the connection between the two. She turns to head for the bar, and is confronted with the sight of a looming Glasswalker judge. With a blink, she looks up at him and offers a rather floaty smile. "Hey." Her brow furrows slightly. "You look like shit." Rina pages: Dancing, maybe. Flushed. Eyes dilated. a, b, c, d, E. :> Rina pages: That's what I meant by floaty. "Nice shirt," Grey says in response. and there's the smile finally, thin and wan and barely there, but somehow conjured by the one on Rina's face. He stands close enough to make it obvious to anyone watching that they're more than just passing acquaintences. "Been dancing?" Tipping her head, her smile mellow, she answers, "Little bit. The place was dead for a Saturday, though. Not late enough yet." Her eyes are dilated-black, just a little too bright for this time of night. Grey takes a drag off the cancer stick and turns his head away for the exhale. Of course, the smoke's so thick in the place that even if he wasn't indulging in this dirty habit, their clothes would likely come away stinking of it. "Ah. Planning to go back, then?" He turns back to look down at her, hands slipping into his pockets. "Or deciding to take things slowly tonight?" "Air's a little thick in here," she says pointedly, wrinkling her nose. "I'll prolly go back over, later. After a coupla drinks. Unless you don't want company?" Kenneth slides off his barstool, burrito in tow as the youthful (and somewhat out of place looking) Shadow Lord makes his way out of the Pool hall. As he passes the Walker and kin, the halfmoon tips both of them a nod of courtesy before exiting out into the night's air. Grey, rudely perhaps, doesn't even glance at the young Shadow Lord. "Actually..." He grimaces faintly, then lowers his voice. "I could use some company tonight." Rina narrows her eyes. "I know him, she murmurs, frowning. Then she looks up again, her expression darker. "Wassup? C'mon, let's siddown somewhere." Grey nods and leads her over to one of the quieter tables, out of the way. "It's nothing new, really," the halfmoon says rather gloomily. "Just... more of the same." He's nearing the end of his cigarette and starts tapping out another from the half-empty pack of Camels. Rina swallows, ducking her head as she drops into a chair. Despite the ambient sensory results of the E, she doesn't seem too happy as she smiles across to him vaguely. "Would you get me a drink? Just a shot, or somethin'?" "Of course." He levers himself back up. "Anything in particular?" Rina lifts a shoulder and lets it fall, along with her eyes. "Whiskey. Whatever." She shrugs out of her jacket awkwardly, and swings it over the back of the chair to hang there. Grey pauses to lay a hand briefly on her shoulder, then heads over to the bar, returning after a few moments with a shot of whiskey, another glass of beer, and a fresh cigarette smoking between his lips. Rina sits with one hand on the table's edge; the other touches fingertips to the scratched and marked-up surface of the wood, painting designs on it with barely-touching fingertips. Her eyes follow this motion with a shining fascination, as if her arcane symbols leave behind a wake on the stained tabletop. A touch on her shoulder again alerts her to his return a moment before he sets the shotglass down in front of her and takes his seat across the table. "Having fun?" Grey's tone is nonjudgemental; he seems content merely in the fact that she's /there/, E or no E. "Mmm," she breathes out--a kind of contented, distracted sigh that might be a response to the touch on her shoulder. She looks, too, following his movements with bright eyes. "I'm good," she says vaguely--although there is a certain edge about her high, as if she teeters on the brink of hysteria despite the drug. "Good," he says, whether he really believes it or not. Comfortable silence drags out for at least a few seconds as he takes a long swallow of beer. Rina picks up the shotglass and downs it in polite swallows. She looks across to him, hazy-eyed and strangely despairing through the high. "I'm moving," she says abruptly. Grey blinks, taken rather obviously by surprise. "Moving? From the studio?" She answers with a quick nodding, and lowers her eyes. Like someone determined to use alcohol as a substitute for willpower, she drinks down another swallow, wincing at the burn of the whiskey. Grey downs a mouthful of beer, his gaze never leaving her face, the astonishment still writ clearly on his gaunt features. "That's... wonderful," he says at last. "What brought this decision on?" "Jenny," she says quietly, a numbness coming to the dark eyes. "Going to move in with her and Angela?" Grey asks. Rina shakes her head. "No," she says hoarsely. "No. Maybe someday. Not now. I'm not..." She wets her lips, and something flickers across her expression, a shadow. "It wouldn't be right. For Angela. I'm not... stable enough. Together enough, yet." Grey nods very slightly, then reaches across the table and hesitantly touches her hand. "I'm still glad for you." And he is; there's that hint of a smile around his lips, and a sense of some of the weight lifting from his shoulders. "That's great," she says with a slightly sickened look. The dark eyes make contact with him, then. "I'm fuckin' terrified." Grey purses his lips slightly, head cocking. "You have lived there for a while," he says slowly. "...Or is it because of John?" Rina swallows, and nods, looking down again and taking another drink. Grey leans forward, his hand still on hers. "You can do this. And I'll be there for you, of course. Whatever it takes, to make it easier for you. Anything." There's a slight tremor; he can almost feel the rushed pounding of her pulse. Close to tears, Rina looks across to him and asks, "Will you help?" Grey meets her gaze and gives her hand a light squeeze. "You have to ask?" Rina swallows. "Okay." She turns her hand up, laces fingers with his, and nods. "Okay." A pause, then; she searches for escape from the uncomfortable subject. "Who's in the basement?" Grey releases her hand and downs a swallow of beer, chasing it with a drag off his cigarette. "New recruit. 'Fetch brought us to her. She's still in denial." His mouth thins. "And dangerous." Rina's brow furrows, and she studies his face. "Maybe I could help," she says quietly. "She's not in control of herself yet," Grey says, frowning. "Still..." He takes another drag. "She seems intelligent. And she's definitely resourseful. Tu gave her a toothbrush, and she turned it into a shiv." There's a note of approval in his voice. Both of the woman's eyebrows lift. "Sweet," she says dryly. "Savvy kid, then. Tell me about her?" Grey wets his throat. "Her name's Cy. Found her on a bicycle, smashing SUV windows. Street-rat, but I get the idea that she's self-educated. She's making friends with the roaches, but she also thinks we're either a, a cult or b, part of some snuff porn ring. Deep in denial, in other words." Rina tenses at the name, her head lifting a fraction, posture suddenly alert. "Scrawny? Bike messenger?" Grey raises eyebrows. "Skinny, yes. Looks twelve, but she's fifteen. Dyed red hair." He taps ash into the table's ashtray. "You know her?" Letting out a breath, Rina nods. "Yeah," she mutters, glancing down. She withdraws her hand, to pick up her glass and drink the last swallow of the whiskey. "She's done runs for me. Might trust me a little more than total strangers... though I doubt she's got much trust in her at all." Grey swallows some more of his beer as she talks, then nods slightly. "If she's grown up on the streets, probably not." He looks thoughtful, eyes narrowing faintly. "She's a judge, so Nat's made her primarily /my/ responsibility. If you want, I'll take you to see her sometime... but I wouldn't want you going down there alone." Rina rolls her eyes. "Yeah yeah," she answers. "Tomorrow? Or the next day?" "Soon," Grey promises, draining his beer glass. Rina nods minutely, and looks across to him. "Cool. I think I'm gonna go dance. See if things have... picked up." "Mind some company?" Grey asks. [Most likely, she doesn't mind. Rina dancing and Grey watching handwaved.]