It is currently 21:38 Pacific Time on Fri Apr 22 2005. Currently the moon is in the waxing Full Moon phase (94% full). Currently in Saint Claire, it is mostly cloudy. The temperature is 47 degrees Fahrenheit (8 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the east at 3 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.17 and steady, and the relative humidity is 86 percent. The dewpoint is 43 degrees Fahrenheit (6 degrees Celsius.) Safehouse: Porch The front porch of this sprawling, multi-floored house is the decorated centerpiece despite being offset within the footprint, a two-story layer-cake structure replete with several support pillars and decorative eaves in contrast to the clean planes and angles of the rest of the building, the windows of a third story piled on top of that. To the porch's right is the jutting spire of a three+ story, castle-like octagonal tower, complete with tall pointed roof; to the porch's left, the roof decreases gradually in height to an end that is at most a story-and-a-half. Windows abound: down the face of the tower, in every level of the porch, to the two-story unit immediately next to the porch and even a few at ground level far to the end. Access to the porch is reached from seven steps up from a walkway which runs most of the front length of the house, between the porch and the driveway to the house's left. Trees and bushes landscape the front lawn, and a tall hedge blocks most of the eyes of curious onlookers on the main street. There are two discernible entrances to the structure, the most obvious being the twin doors on the front porch, the less obvious being a single door off a much smaller stoop just off the driveway. The footpath running alongside the driveway and the driveway itself lead to breaks in the hedge allowing an exit to the street. The night's chilly, and the full moon not only has to compete with urban light pollution but has its light muffled by a thick cover of clouds. Which, of course, bounce the city lights back down; overall, it's a bright night. Lights are on in the house and on the porch, which is where Grey's stationed himself, halfway through a cigarette. The darkness of the street is briefly illuminated by a black Ford Taurus slowly crawling it's way up toward the safehouse, as if checking house numbers. It haults upon reaching the building's driveway, and the lights go out, leaving only Jervis' face, illuminated red by the light of a cigarette between his lips. The Fang exits the car slowly, catching sight of the man who occupies the porch, a brief smile lighting his face as he approaches. "Seek, and ye shall find," he mutters, then, more loudly in tone: "Grey, I assume?" he asks, taking the cigarette out of his mouth to inunciate properly. [Jervis] From afar, to the room, Jervis ohs...something not mentioned in his desc...his hair is starting to go white around his forehead ,now. He's one of those guys that always looks like he's thinking. Either staring at something, or staring at nothing at all. He's timid-looking enough; he only stands five feet ten inches, and really can't weigh much more than one hundred thirty, but his eyes suggest something a bit more active than a lanky, underfed undergrad. They lie somewhere between an cat's eyes and those of a snake; large pupils, with even larger, bright green irises. There's not much white to them. He's Caucasian, that's for sure, probably French and some other ragtag European nationality. Fair-skinned but hardly pale, with lush, almost feminine lips and large, heavy eyebrows. He's apparently been minding his appearance lately. His hair's recently been cut, still parted down the middle, but short, and lightly gelled up to offer up a hard, slightly spiky look. A masculine jaw-line saves his face from appearing girlish, but his body is so frail-looking it can, at best, come across as androgynous. When he moves, it's as if he's a puppet being manipulated by master of the craft; every movement perfect, but joint-motivated and mechanical. Today he's wearing a decidedly inoffensive, almost gentlemanly ensemble of a black fleece turtleneck, expensive looking dark blue jeans, and a well-worn, but obviously also well maintained charcoal black longcoat. Grey straightens up from his lean against the porch railing as the unfamiliar car drives up, his mismatched eyes narrowing in the headlights. His manner has gone stiff, guarded, and his reply is a curt, "Who's asking?" Jervis smiles, exhaling smoke as speaks and continues to approach. "Introductions and such: Jervis Michaels, Light-That-Is-Darkness, Ragabash and Cliath to the Silver Fangs." He outstreaches a hand to be shaken(presumably) upon achieving proper proximity. Grey's mouth thins. He does not take the proffered hand, nor look any friendlier. "Inside's more private." He crushes his cigarette out in an ashtray that's been set on the porch railing. "No smoking, though. Nat's rules." Jervis follows the Walker's lead and extinguishes his cigarette likewise. "How sad," he comments, before following Grey inside. Safehouse: Common Area The foyer of this house is set off from the living room with its octagonal bump-out by a four foot high halfwall. Stairs lead up from the foyer, turning and disappearing to the right, and a steel door with a keycard lock claims the wall opposite the living room. The rest of the main floor is taken up by a small bathroom across the hallway from a dining room which is separated from the kitchen at the back of the house by another half-wall. The decor is decidedly sparse - white walls, beige carpeting in the living and dining rooms and down the hall, unremarkable vinyl in the foyer and kitchen. A used couch and a pair of recliners are grouped around a coffee table in the living room, with a foursome of wooden chairs claiming the bump out for quieter conversation. The dining room boasts a white laminate table with four aluminum and vinyl-upholstered chairs - too new to be 'vintage', too old to be trendy. The appliances and cupboards in the kitchen are new - or at least refurbished to look like it - and a door leads out to the backyard from there. Up the stairs are a number of empty rooms where anyone affiliated with the Sept can crash and an office for private meetings. The Glass Walkers have their own area accessible via a locked door off the foyer. The main doors themselves lead back out to the front porch of the house. Grey shrugs as he lets Jervis in and gestures invitingly toward the living room area near the door. "To what do we owe the honor of this visit, Mr. Michaels?" Yes, there's a certain aura of deliberate diffidence about the halfmoon, laid over a temper to rival an Ahroun's. His tone of voice is polite but cool. Jervis chuckles softly, nodding. "Right to the point, then? And...no "Mr." please...I really hate titles, despite my 'illustrious' lineage." He sighs, shaking his head a moment, then continues: "I come...partially on behalf of Cutter, and partially for myself. I realize I may be wasting my time, but...he and I are attempting to form a pack. Under Fox, or at least that's the plan. Last I heard, you were unpacked...and Cutter and I both agreed that you would be a valued member to attempt to enlist. That's the nutshell, anyway." Jervis waits, then, looking a tad humble as he awaits a response. Grey lifts an eyebrow, hands slipping behind his back. "'Valued,'" he echoes, and his frown deepens a notch. The guarded look remains, revealing little other than wariness. "Mmn. Well." He seems to be searching for the right words. "While I have a certain amount of respect for Cutter... Fox isn't exactly the sort of patron I'd prefer to pack under." Jervis smiles a little upon hearing this, fidgeting his left hand a little, as if it still has a cigarette in it. "And why is that, if I can ask?" He then adds: "It's not the totem I had my sights on either, but ...beggars and choosers." Grey's eyes narrow, the lid on the dead one drooping lower than its mate until there's barely a sliver of white visible within the shadowed eyesocket and twisted keloid tissue. "Fox is a dishonorable totem," he says flatly. "And I have precious little left of that as it is." The muscles in his jaw tighten. Jervis makes an obvious attempt to stifle the urge to smile that results from the Walker's words, and, upon composing himself, responds. "I mean no offense, Grey-rhya," he starts, the suffix sounding genuinely meant, and reverant, on his part, "but, your honor sullied as you say it is, what have you to lose? Though, as I said, the Fox Totem is solely Cutter's idea, and perhaps not etched in stone..." He inhales, and begins to speak on a new breath. "What brought Cutter and I together, is a common foresight...results in the War Against the Enemy first, Honor second. A practicality in the midst of...more antiquated and increasingly obsolete values amongst our race." He pauses, clearly intent on adding more, but waits to gauge the Walker's reaction before doing so. Grey reacts rather poorly to the 'rhya', as it happens -- a tighter clench of the jaw, a flare of the nostrils, a tightening of the hands behind his back. "I have a great /deal/ to lose, Light-that-is-in-Darkness-/rhya/." The suffix is emphasized, and anger, mixed with something less easy to read, makes the ice in his voice brittle. "And Honor is not something I can afford to put second." Jervis seems entirely unscathed, still stoic in the face of Grey's reaction. No arrogance, no fear, emotions vacant from face, tone, and manner. "I was not attempting to mock you, Grey. I just wished to show my respect for you--You cannot deny that your age and experience far outweighs all but a handful of this Sept's members, regardless of rank." He then adds, sternly, "Think what you will of my motivations for saying so, but it does _anger_ me to see such resources cast aside and disregarded, regardless of your supposed "sins". I may be your junior in terms on experience, but I've seen enough to realize that honour is a fickle mistress compared to victory, and progress." Grey doesn't look as though he agrees. Far from it. His temper remains leashed, but is snarls visibly in the harsh lines of his face. "...I am," he says after a few seconds, "a /Philodox/." His tone is deliberate, his words heavy. Forgetting his earlier deference, he stares directly at the Silver Fang. Jervis pauses momentarily, remaining still entirely unfazed by the animosity he's inadvertantly summoned. "And you are also, and more importantly, a Garou. The defense of Gaia, and victory over the Defiler, is what's at the core of your being. That is your purpose, my purpose...rank, auspice, breed, honor...none of those things change that duty. The charade that anything else matters is what is causing our race to die, is what is killing Gaia. The Enemy has evolved. We have not." Jervis's tone is that of frank whisper, no challenge in it, just a stoic report, in his mind and voice. Grey's hands remain clasped tightly behind his back; his whole posture's rigid. "Contrary to popular belief, it's quite possible to evolve and be effective against the Enemy without tossing aside one's morals." He breaks his stare to look toward the door, then glances back at Jervis. "I apologize, but I think you /have/ wasted your time, coming here." Jervis smirks, finally, and makes motions towards the exit. "Let me know when it begins to be effective, then..." he mutters, and then adds, "And, in this case, I apologize for wasting _your_ time, as well." His efforts are gone, just like that, and he's out the door. "Have a good night, Grey-rhya." Grey's upper lip twitches up from his teeth as he stirs himself to see Jervis out. "Gaia watch your steps, Mr. Michaels."