It is currently 18:43 Pacific Time on Tue Apr 12 2005.
Currently the moon is in the waxing Crescent Moon phase (25% full).
Currently in Saint Claire, it is partly sunny. The temperature is 47 degrees
      Fahrenheit (8 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the 
      east at 14 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.95 and rising, and 
      the relative humidity is 68 percent. The dewpoint is 37 degrees 
      Fahrenheit (2 degrees Celsius.)

Safehouse: GW Main Area
Like the public safehouse, the foyer of the Glass Walker's private area is set
      off from the living room by a four-foot-high half-wall. The steps to the 
      second floor disappear off to the left, mirroring the other set. There 
      the similarities end - where the public area is painted unoriginal white, 
      the walls of the Walker house are a dusty pastel teal above polished 
      maple hardwood floors. A hallway leads back toward the kitchen, pausing 
      at a computer room on the left outfitted with enough bells and whistles 
      to satisfy a small LAN party. At the back of the house, through an arch, 
      the kitchen is big enough to comfortably allow two active cooks and 
      boasts a half-sized refrigerator and full pantry in addition to the usual 
      stove/fridge/sink combination. A dining room, nearly as large as the 
      kitchen, is set off by another half-wall like the one in the foyer. The 
      furniture throughout the house is in better condition than next door, 
      though only a few pieces are close to new.
Stairs in the foyer lead up to the second floor, while a doorway tucked under
      the curve of the stairs heads down to the basement. A heavy door in the 
      foyer with a monitor and intercom beside it goes back to the area set up 
      for communal use by the Sept's Garou.

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 rather nicely dressed in a pair of dark grey slacks, a black leather belt,
      a white dress shirt, and a dark necktie. On his feet are a pair of 
      Matterhorn tanker boots, heavy black leather fastened with straps instead 
      of laces.

Natalie's parked in front of the television, slouching deep into the couch and
      stabbing an irritated thumb at the remote. A commercial for allergy 
      medication. *flick* Some sort of 'take your car and change it into a 
      Sherman tank' show. *flick* A perpetually bouncy young woman in a bright 
      yellow kitchen. *flick* And so on up the dial. The lights are on upstairs 
      in the cub's room, but nothing else despite the rapidly approaching dark.
In comes Thomas Grey, his arrival heralded by the sound of the door leading
      into the tribal half of the house, his expression dour (nothing new 
      there). The Philodox tugs loose the knot of his necktie as he stalks down 
      the hall toward the kitchen, heavy bootsteps audible.
Natalie pauses for few seconds on a screen that claims it's the country music
      channel, but when a hip-hop beat comes out of the speakers she swears and 
      punches the remote /off/ dammit. "Why can't they... damn it." She twists 
      around to stare after the clumping. "Hey. That you?"
The steps pause, then return. Grey appears at the doorway into the living room,
      and it is indeed him, albeit a him in slacks and dress shirt and a 
      necktie at half-mast. "Yes?"
"You got mail," she tells him, pushing up out of the clutches of the couch so
      she's perching on the edge. "Uh, a box." It takes a second for her to 
      find it on the floor, and then she's handing over a shoe-box sized 
      package. "There you go."
Grey blinks, taking the box automatically. "Er?" He frowns, turning it over to
      look at the address... and then the return address from a no-name town in 
      South Carolina. He blinks again, then slowly walks into the living room 
      with the box and sits down in his usual chair. He doesn't open the 
      package, just looks at it as though flummoxed.
"...So how was work?" Nat asks after a second, after it looks like he's not
      going to rip gleefully into his surprise. "You look nice, dressed up like 
      that."
"Two most important qualities in a repo man," says Grey absently, still looking
      down at the box. "The appearance of professionalism... and intimidation." 
      He purses his lips, then fishes out a small pocketknife and starts 
      undoing the box's fastenings.
"Repo?" she echoes, settling back into the couch's embrace again, though with
      better posture this time. "--Yeah, I guess I can see it. You're probably 
      damn good at it. It'd take a pretty determined crack head to cross you."
Grey grunts. "Good enough that Lo keeps paying me despite strange hours."
      Inside the larger-than-a-shoebox box is another box, wrapped in yellow 
      and blue wrapping paper with a dark blue ribbon and bow. And a light blue 
      envelope with "T" written on it.
Natalie, on spying this box-within-a-box, goes quiet and alert. Perhaps if she
      doesn't talk to him he'll forget she's there.
Grey seems to have forgotten the Galliard, this is true. The outer packaging
      ends up on the floor. Balancing the wrapped gift on his knees, the 
      halfmoon slices open the envelope and removes a greeting card. Natalie 
      gets a glimpse of the front -- a photograph of two wolves -- as he opens 
      it, his face unreadable.
On spying the card Nat looks away, though only to a spot halfway between the
      halfmoon and television. This way she can still keep an eye on him out of 
      the corner of her eye - which she's assiduously doing - and still pretend 
      she's looking at the DVD collection.
Grey puts the card down after a few moments and, with his free hand, pinches
      the bridge of his nose, near his eyes. He remains like that for a bit, 
      head slightly bowed, then takes a breath, sets the card aside, and 
      methodically starts unwrapping the present.
Hidden within the brightly-colored paper is a long cardboard box. Inside the
      box, nestled within tissue paper, is a pair of sneakers. Black canvas 
      high-tops, to be specific. Chuck Taylors, with the star-in-circle on the 
      ankles.
Natalie remains still, nearly unbreathing. After the shoes are unwrapped and
      identified she shifts her eyes away, then turns her head another inch or 
      so to give him her profile.
"Jesus," Grey murmurs. Then he looks up at Natalie. "Birthday present." His
      voice is flat.
"Birthday present," she echoes after a few seconds, as if she needed the time
      to think about delivery or intonation. "--Did I miss it?" This is 
      deliberately light; she still hasn't looked back at him. The DVD cabinet 
      is open, after all.
"It's Sunday," says Grey in that same deadpan, distant voice. "This Sunday." He
      pauses a beat. "I'll be thirty-two."
After another few seconds she sketches a look his way. "Congratulations. Are
      we... Is a drink on the menu? I don't think I trust Kevin with a cake 
      yet."
Grey grunts. "Personally, I'd rather it passed unmentioned. Entirely
      unmentioned, but..." He looks down at the Chucks, absently fingering the 
      sturdy canvas. When he looks up again, his mouth is slanted into a very 
      thin, and very humorless smile.
Nat tilts her head a bit farther toward him. "Gotta toast another year
      survived, if nothing else." Her scant humor slides into seriousness. 
      "--And... I think it might be good for you to... remember you have 
      family. Family who loves you."
Grey blinks, the sardonic look fading, melting away. He looks down, avoiding
      her eyes suddenly. "...Thank you," he says quietly, and then sets the 
      shoebox down -- the card slipped inside it -- and starts unbuckling his 
      boots.
Natalie turns back to the DVDs, one hand lifting to tuck a bit of hair behind
      her ear. "It'll be small, that I promise. Just you, me, Tu, and the cubs. 
      Or just you, me, and Tu if you think the cubs... whatever. But moon'll be 
      big enough that I can guarantee a surprise party is right out." She 
      offers him a sideways, impish smile. "What do you think?"
Grey's fingers hesitate a second or two, then return to their task. His hair's
      not quite long enough to obscure his eyes, even with his head bowed, and 
      he blinks a few times, rapidly, during that pause. Then he nods. "Sounds 
      good." He pulls off one boot and then starts on the other.
Natalie says "Right," as though that settles things completely. "--I, um..." No
      longer self-assured birthday organizer, but hesitant bringer of bad news. 
      "...May have set Cy back a few days."
Grey looks up, brows furrowing. "Oh?"
"Yeah. I um..." She frowns down at her knees, her hands resting demurely in her
      lap. "Took her pancakes for breakfast, since that's what Kev and I had. 
      Took her a fork too. Figured it'd be all right, since I stayed there the 
      whole time with her. Only at the end, she threw the fork at my face. I... 
      slammed her back into the wall. Used Rage. Told her if she ever did it 
      again, she'd regret it." She takes in a quick breath, lets it out in a 
      huff. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have interfered."
Grey's good eye takes on a sharp, predatory gleam. "I did much the same when
      she stabbed me in the leg. Resourseful girl. I rather like her." He gets 
      off the other boot, then starts putting on the Chucks.
Natalie's mouth makes a silent 'oh', her eyebrows jumping as she turns to fully
      face the man. "--I thought you'd be mad. You were being, you know, 
      patient." And slamming the cub into the wall using Rage doesn't fall very 
      high on the Patience scale.
Grey grunts. "She also needs to learn that we're not to be trifled with.
      Speaking of cubs, though... any news about Kevin?"
Natalie grimaces at their other cub's name. "--Yes. Sort of. Signe came over
      today. We couldn't decide who has the better claim, so it's going to 
      Megan." Her report's very terse, unlike her usual style.
Grey looks up from tying the bright white laces and narrows his eyes slightly.
      "Mnh." He looks back down and continues his task. "Didn't know Signe 
      cared that much about the boy."
Nat opens her mouth, closes it over another sigh, then offers a sad, "I think
      she likes the idea of 'cub' more than she likes Kevin. I don't think she 
      gives a rip about the kid."
Grey grunts. "She didn't used to be greedy, either." He finishes tying the new
      sneakers -- a far cry from either his boots or the very functional 
      running shoes he wears on the morning jog -- and stands up.
"It, um... went downhill from there." She doesn't look at first as if she's
      willing to go into details, but yet... "Signe said we could have him on 
      two conditions. Number one, any of Kev's kids are raised Get. I didn't 
      have a problem with that, neither did Kevin. Number two was the kicker. 
      She said you couldn't train him. I told her what -my- cub did with -my- 
      tribe was none of her business. She said that Kevin -wasn't- my cub, and 
      she wanted final say on who taught him." Another grimace quickly turns 
      into a scowl and she folds her arms over her chest to better stare at the 
      far wall.
Grey tests the fit of his new footwear as Natalie talks, shifting his weight
      slightly and then taking a few steps. He's grimacing even as he hears 
      condition number one; /he/ has a problem with it, obviously. But he 
      doesn't actually look up until condition number two, his grimace 
      withering away slowly. "That /I/ couldn't train him?"
"That's what she said," The Elder affirms, glancing over to meet his... shoes.
      "I told her - politely, of course - to stick it up her nose, and that I 
      wanted Megan to arbitrate. She's got no say in what happens with our 
      cubs. None."
"It's because I'm..." Grey gestures, turning a sleeve-covered forearm in her
      direction. Then his arm drops and, jaw tight, he kneels down and gathers 
      up the debris from his birthday present.
Natalie pushes herself up from the couch. "I don't care if you've been raping
      sheep. She had -no- right to ask that. If she does, Kevin might as well 
      not be a Glass Walker at all. He'd just be some, some... some Fenrir 
      -pet-. Her -eyes- into what we do here. You see what I mean about her not 
      caring about him? Screw it. Megan'll take our side. She has to. It was 
      her damn ruling in the first place that says Kevin's allowed to pick his 
      tribe."
"Or Megan may wish to save him from being contaminated," Grey retorts, his
      voice turning ugly and thick. "You didn't see the way she looked at me, 
      when she found out."
"I don't care," she says, cutting him off with a gesture. "I don't really care
      what Signe thinks of you, what Megan thinks of you, or what anyone else 
      thinks of you. You're a Glass Walker. You screwed up, you got punished. 
      That's all I need to know. Don't do it again and we won't have any 
      problems. What goes on in our territory is -our- business. Not theirs. 
      --As long as we're not breaking the Litany." Perhaps remembering the 
      recent Shadow Lord fiasco? "And we aren't. So they can just take their 
      conservative selves back to the Stone Age where they belong. You got it?"
Grey shakes his head slightly, his jaw tight, his eyes hollow and tired. "It
      matters if you lose Kevin because of me."
Natalie faces him down, fists loose at her sides, completely unfazed by the
      difference in their heights. "Megan's Adren. She -can't- be seen to break 
      her word. Not over something as trival as a cub. Not even to spite you. 
      Trust me - if she does, word's going to go out. I'm not a Galliard for 
      nothing. You may not have noticed, but we tend to talk a lot. I'll tell 
      Jack Rabbit Sept. My own, back in Minnesota. Wind Catchers. Hell, I'll 
      even spread the word to Hundred Stars. I'm serious about this. If she 
      screws Kevin over just to get at /you/..."
Grey shakes his head again. "No, it's..." He breaks off. "Ngh. You're probably
      right." He doesn't sound all that certain of this, but it's equally 
      obvious that he doesn't have the energy to argue.
"Go get supper," she tells him, not unkindly. "You going to be around for the
      run tomorrow? I don't have work."
"I do," Grey says. "But I'll be there."
"I'll see you then." The Elder moves past him, a hand drifting up to almost,
      not quite, /barely/ touch his left arm. Dishonor. "G'night, Grey. Roach 
      watch you."