It is currently 13:22 Pacific Time on Sat Apr 30 2005. Currently in Saint Claire, it is a cloudy day. The temperature is 55 degrees Fahrenheit (12 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the east at 3 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.16 and steady, and the relative humidity is 76 percent. The dewpoint is 48 degrees Fahrenheit (8 degrees Celsius.) Currently the moon is in the waning Half Moon phase (55% full). 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. The quiet sound of the television, volume turned down but not enough to be inaudible, suggests at someone being in the living room. And sure enough, Jeren's there, sitting cross-legged on the floor with her back braced against the couch, a laptop open and turned on in front of her, and the television remote sitting next to it. She's not wearing her button-down shirt right now, which leaves only the sleeveless top. Here and there, the very, very faint purple of a bruise can be seen along her shoulders and the right cheekbone, but they've almost all healed. As to the television--of all things, it's tuned to Animal Planet, and currently there seems to be some show about seeing-eye dogs showing. Down the stairs comes the elusive Thomas Grey, moving with his normal grace now that all but the last of the injuries he sustained earlier in the week have healed. He glances into the living room, taking in the tv show and the woman on the floor with the laptop, and offers up a polite but bland, "Good afternoon." Jeren looks up, and as she does she shifts her right leg out from under her left to a more comfortable position, then rests her right arm over it. "Good afternoon," she returns, with a little more energy, but about the same level of polite nothingness. "Feeling better, I see?" Grey nods as he steps into the living room area. "Mm. Though /you/ look like you've had some excitement." Her mood is a tiny notch higher as well, which is a bizarre combination. Jeren's eyes drop back to the laptop screen as she explains, "Ah. Yes. I had a 'discussion' with someone last night." Grey settles into an armchair, gives the television a glance, then looks back to the Ragabash with a slightly raised eyebrow. "Oh?" "Yes." While her eyes remain on the laptop screen, Jeren leans back a little, rolling her shoulders to loosen them. "Someone Kevin knew. A Fury named KL. We got into a tiff about guns being Weaver-shit, and since I was already being a piss, it escalated." She lifts her right arm and waves it. "She throated me, but it was a damn good workout." Grey's jaw tightens, and his mouth twists into a thin grimace. "Luddites," he says, and slouches back in the chair. Jeren's grin is rather feral. "She's damn good though." There's a pause while she reaches forward and closes whatever she was looking at on the laptop, then her eyes raise to study Grey. "Mm, I also had an involved talk with your student last night." After peeking his head in through the front door, Jeremy pauses for a long moment, waiting to make sure the signs of killing one another isn't heard, then trots his way in, shouldering his backpack. The irritable scorn on Grey's face melts into something more guarded. "You mean Cy?" "Yeah." Jeren's eyes flick toward the sound of the door being opened, then back. "She's got a mouth on her that's bound to get her into trouble--but interesting kid. Having to stay inside all the time is driving her up the walls though." "As it did Kevin," Grey says, answering Jeren. "But with the moon thinning out finally..." He looks up and offers the arriving kin a guarded, "Afternoon, Jeremy." Distracted, Jeremy stares into the computer room, then looks back to the other pair. He nods slightly, then heads into the computer area to assess the damage, taking out a small note pad and a pen from his pocket, making notes. Jeren watches Jeremy with an expression that is neutral, but clearly a mask for something else. Once he's disappeared from her line of sight, she looks back to Grey. "--Who doesn't it do that for, really? I can remember being a cub. It's ass." Grey grimaces faintly and looks away, turning his attention back to his conversation with Jeren. "Hard as hell," he agrees with the Ragabash. "No place to go but up, though." Letting out a slow sigh, Jeremy glances about the walls, the torn up computer and the broken table. He makes a few more notes on his pad, then flips it closed, shoving it back into his pocket. Kneeling down next to the broken machine, he pops the side off and starts to root about to see what he can salvage as far as parts. Long distance to the room: Grey assumes that Jer's in the basement, if he's looking at broken computer bits. Which is where that would be. :} From afar, to the room, Jeremy oops. "Didn't see that part. Um, then, just assume I'm just.. looking around more. XD I'm not used to seeing all white text. Jeren's lips twitch. "Well, that depends on how you look at it." Apparently she's finished with the laptop, because she reaches forward again, presses the power button, and then snaps it shut. "Anyway, Cy's a smart kid. Smart/ass/ kid too, but smart." And the way she says 'smartass', it's clear Jeren's not really considering that a bad thing. "Talked to her a little about Spirals, so you know. And septs." She pointedly doesn't mention the 'fetish' discussion. Grey and Jeren are in the living room, having a nice calm discussion while Jeremy accesses the damage done from Tuesday's mayhem. He nods to the Ragabash. "How'd she take it?" Kevin comes trotting down the stairs, yawning. At the sight of Grey in the living room, his step is checked just for one second, before he resolutely continues on into the room, raising one polite hand to those there already. "Like an interesting lecture," Jeren replies. "Lots of questions, and that sort. She picks things up fast." Kevin's entrance receives a hand lift from her, and a neutral-friendly, "Hey." Making his way back out, Jeremy glances to the trio, sliding his hands into the pockets of his jackets. Jeren suddenly seems to remember something, and she says, again to Kevin, "Stacey wanted me to pass on a 'hello'. And to you too, Thomas." Grey nods to Kevin, his manner cool and guarded toward the cub. Not that he seems overly warm and bubbly toward Jeren, either. Her message provokes another raised eyebrow. "The Gaian? When did you meet /her/?" "Stone me, Stacey," Kevin exclaims. "Not seen her for the longest time. We were cubs together out at the farmhouse... she was just about to go on her test when I was first brought in. How's she these days? Grown any?" Wiggling his fingers in Kevin's direction, Jeremy takes another look towards the destroyed room, then frowns visibly as he ducks his head some. "Hmf." "Yesterday," Jeren answers. "Dakota gave me the address for the farmhouse, and said I should drop by." Her hand motions in a small circle. "So I did. I met some Shadow Lord and his friend too. And some weird Fury just before I left." There's just the slightest, slightest quirk of her eyebrows toward Grey. "She says you're nice. And, ah...I couldn't tell you if she's grown any, Kevin. But she seems to being doing fine. Says she's a temp Guardian." Grey looks about as nice as a hungry Doberman, but he doesn't deny the accusation. "She's taking the place of one that's on her Fostern challenge." His gaze shifts, almost warily, toward Jeremy. Kevin gives Jeremy a rueful smile in return for his fingerwiggle. "She's a secret weapon, that one. I was worried for her when she went off for the Rite. She's so young and little and sweet looking... but..." There's a world of meaning in that 'but'. He chooses not to react visibly to the description of Grey, or indeed to Grey at all. Almost as if feeling the weight of Grey's eyes upon him, Jeremy glances back over to him, then looks away just as quick. He slips his hand back into his pocket and starts off. ".. I'm going to go shopping, pick up a new desk." He says softly. Jeren nods at this explanation from Grey, though her attention seems to visibly shift between the Philodox and Jeremy, and there's a brief pursing of her lips as her expression turns thoughtful. "See you later, Jeremy." Grey opens his mouth slightly, then shuts it with a grimace, nods, and looks away, eyes flicking again to the guide-dog documentary, fingers drumming absently against the upholstered arm. "Catch you later, then, Jer," says Kevin, as though regretting that he's missed spending more time with the goth. His eyes skip over Grey and back to Jeren. Thump. Thump. The Goth's boots hit the floor as he walks, head ducked down a bit, eyes staring at the floor. The chains under his jacket jingle and jangle like dog chains, to match the one that hangs mid chest from his throat. He opens up the front door and slips out, letting it creak shut. Jeren is silent for a potent few moments, and then, as she's sure Jeremy's left all possible range of hearing, she looks up at Grey with a curious look, and asks a question that might seem utterly random. Or at least, to her way of thinking. "Mm. Would you happen to know anyone named Salem?" Grey blinks, snaps his eyes away from the hallway and the departing gothkin. The look he gives Jeren is frowning, vaguely suspicious. "A dead man, officially. Why." Kevin frowns slightly, but other than that shows no sign of partaking in this conversation. "Ah." Jeren's expression turns guarded, blank. "I was merely curious." "Where'd you hear that name?" Grey asks, still frowning at Jeren. Kevin licks his lips and seems to make a decision he belongs out of this conversation. "Later," he murmurs, and retreats quietly to the stairs and thence the bunkroom. Jeren clears her throat. It's noticeable that she's suddenly become very visibly tense, and that her left hand has begun slowly flexing in a very practiced manner. First the finger muscles tense and relax, then the palm, then the forearm, then the upper arm, and then back to the fingers. "--A picture," she says finally. "Someone mentioned the name. But as you say, he's dead." Grey grunts. He eyes the departing cub, shifts his weight restlessly. "Yes." He purses his lips, then gives a curt shrug. "Natalie can give you the full story, if you're desperately curious." Jeren licks her bottom lip before saying, "No. It's..." She pauses. "It's Salem's story to tell. If he ever decides to." As if needing a physical release of her own tension, the Ragabash stands up abruptly, and raises both arms over her head in a stretch. "Nng. Sorry. As you've no doubt figured out, I can be an idiot meddler at times. If you haven't figured it out yet, just ask Jeremy. So..." She mentally fumbles. "Do you want something to eat? I warn you, I'm capable of burning noodles." Grey shakes his head and stands. "I'll be fine until dinner." [...] It is currently 18:10 Pacific Time on Sat Apr 30 2005. Just another quiet family dinner at the Walkerhouse, though tonight there was only a pair of Philodox at the table. In her usual fashion, Cy didn't utter more than two syllables during the meal--too busy stuffing her face as though preparing for a famine. Once finished, she clears her plate without being asked, and totes them over to the sink for rinsing. It seems as though the cub has been adapting to her role as Safehouse Cinderella rather quickly. Grey, who was in charge of the actual cooking (pasta and vegetables, with a side of garlic bread), stretches like a cat as he gets up from the dining room table. "Meet me in the living room when you're done," he tells Cy. The cub nods wordlessly, mostly to herself, as she loads the dishwasher--thank the gods for modern technology. When she emerges from the kitchen a few minutes later, she's got a glass of ice water in one hand and a coffee mug in the other. "More language lessons t'night?" She doesn't sound too thrilled. Opening up the door and heading back into the house is Jeremy, except, this time dragging a heavy looking side ways box. Step, step, grunt. Its a new desk that he picked up from the store. Grey is seated in his usual armchair when Cy finishes her chores. He shakes his head at the cub. "Pop quiz." He's distracted briefly by Jeremy's entrance and sits up, brows furrowing. "...Do you need help with that, Jeremy?" Cy sets down the glass of water by the older Garou's elbow, eyeing the kin's entrance with a wordless blink. Drag. Step. Draaaaag, step. Breathe. Jeremy pants a bit, then glances up quickly and sharply at the voice, before turning his head and peering past his shoulder. He opens his mouth, closes it, then lets out a breath. ".. I think I'm OK.." Grey grimaces and pushes to his feet, muttering something Slavic. "At the very least, I'm decent grunt labor." This self-deprecating comment is delivered without any hint of humor. He heads over to help Jeremy with the heavy box, but the cub hasn't been forgotten. "Cy. Name the fourth law of the Litany." The red-haired cub stays standing where she is, coffee in hand, watching Jeremy from across the living room with a hint of worry. Upon hearing her name, she switches her focus to Grey, pulled out of her reverie. "Accept an honorable surrender," she quips after a heartbeat. The kin watches Thomas approach and works his bottom lip lightly with his teeth, then finally gives in and accepts the help. Once the box is slid across the floor to the computer room, he is out with a box cutter from his pocket, slicing open the tape and opening it up. Not once does he glance over to the older Philodox, keeping his eyes off to the side. There isn't any sound of a vehicle pulling up outside, and for those who might have noticed, Jeren's SUV is still here. Nevertheless, there's the jingle of keys in the front door locks, followed by footsteps crossing the common room, and finally the sound of numbers being keyed in on the other side of the Walkers' metal door. The Ragabash enters, drenched in sweat and looking quite exhausted, but for all of that there's a definite tick below her right eye. Grey watches Jeremy for all of a second or two before apparantly deciding that the kin has things well under control. He backs off, his jaw tight. Jeren gets a nod as the Philodox returns to the living room. "Tenth law," he says to Cy, curtly. Between the entrance of the kin and the Ragabash, Cy looks slightly overwhelmed. She passes her attention back towards Grey, however, pursing her lips. "The leader may be challenged at--no, fuck." The skinny cub frowns, then tries again. "Do not suffer your people, etcetera." "Do not suffer your people to what?" Grey asks the cub, arms folded across his chest. He remains standing for the moment. The kin starts to pull out the shelves and sidings for the desk, flipping over the assembly instructions, then begins to build from the ground up silently. If Jeren sees Grey's nod, or Jeremy's presence, she doesn't pause a single beat to acknowledge them. She crosses the room swiftly, then steps into the hallway, and springs up the stairs. A moment later comes the sound of the bathroom door closing, and the shower being turned on. "Do not suffer your people to tend to your sickness in death," Cy recites levelly, letting out a breath. Her attention is momentarily distracted by the Ragabash dashing up the stairs, and she frowns. "I still don't really get that one--and aren't we gonna be ripping up the carpet in there first?" She hooks a finger over her shoulder, towards the computer room and the kinfolk within. "All it needs is a new coat of paint and a shampoo'n. I have some stuff that can get black off coffee." Jeremy murmurs, obviously not ignoring the conversation. He continues to screw in a few bolts, sets up the keyboard tray, then looks about to survey the bloody damage. The bloodstains have been scrubbed and shampoo'd to within an inch of their lives. Grey grimaces, then shrugs slightly, his arms unfolding. "It won't be a problem to move, if that's necessary. "What don't you understand about the tenth law?" The shower continues to run, though there are no other discernible noises coming from upstairs. Cy echoes the older Philodox's slight shrug with her own skinny shoulders, settling down on the couch with legs folded beneath her. "What does it mean? Just, like, die alone and don't ask for help?" Continuing to work on the desk, Jeremy seems half way through it as he continues to slap one piece after the other on. His eyes glance to the instructions, snags up a new piece, then connects it. "It means," Grey explains, "that if you're too old to be of any help to anyone, or too injured and without hope of recovering, that you not allow yourself to be a burden." He purses his lips slightly. "It could mean anything from simply going off by yourself to undergoing the Rite of the Winter Wolf. Honorable suicide." Above, the water abruptly shuts off. Silence for a minute or two, and then the bathroom door opens again, followed by light footsteps down the upstairs hallway, and the sound of another door opening. The cub tilts her head, considering the scarred man for a breath. "Werewolf Kevorkian," she says dryly. "Hm." Her dark gaze flicks up towards the staircase, momentarily. "Who gets to decide who's useful and who's not?" Grey folds his arms again, one hand coming up to rub his stubbly chin. "Usually, it's the Garou themselves who decide. Though sometimes the more savage tribes, take matters into their own hands. Other tribes, like ours, recognize that there's more to being useful than taking one's claws directly to the enemy. But, even so, most Garou simply don't want to spend their days hooked up to machines, or having their asses wiped." The girl's snub nose wrinkles in distaste, and she takes a sip of coffee. "What about all that healing superpower shit?" Thump, thump, thump. Jeren reappears as she comes down the stairs, rubbing at her wet hair with a towel. The tick is gone from beneath her eye, though she still looks about as wound as a drum, and she's not wearing her usual outfit, but rather a very grubby t-shirt and plain black sweatpants, with only clean socks on her feet. By now, the desk is finished being put together and Jeremy is wiping dust off on his pants. Staring at the work, he rocks his shoulders back a bit and studies his work. Grey ignores the thumping of the arriving Ragabash to answer his student. "We're not invulnerable, Cy." He gestures at his ruined face. "Some wounds are simply too severe. Plus, as we get older, we heal more slowly, get weaker. It takes longer for us, but..." He shrugs, says again, "We're not invulnerable." Jeren glances toward the computer room, and thus Jeremy. Apparently she wasn't oblivious to his presence after all. As distraction, she adds to Grey's comment a rather unnecessary, "Not even close, for that matter." Cy flips her gaze between Grey and the re-emerged Ragabash with a frown. Glancing over at the general vicinity of Grey's healed neck, she mutters, "Coulda fooled me." She drowns any further comment in another gulp of coffee, and hunkers down in the couch. It /is/ rather difficult to kill us," Grey admits, then says, briskly, "Sixth law." From afar, to Grey, Cy, Jeren, and Jeremy, Signe knocks on the door. Jeren lifts her head as the door knocks, squinting. She immediately heads in that direction--as it's a handy excuse, natch. Grey glances sharply over at the knock and frowns. "Jeren." The punky-haired girl opens her mouth to answer, then snaps it shut at the sound of knocking. She looks apprehensive. The moon's still a bit large for her nerves, it would seem. Jeren stops about a foot away from the door and shoots Grey a questioning glance over her shoulder as he says her name. Jeremy glances over towards the knocking of the door, sliding his hands back into his jacket, brows knitting some. He looks to Thomas, then back to the door. Grey reins in his temper and exhales a quiet breath. "Nevermind. I'll get it. Cy, I want you to recite the Litany to Jeren, backwards, and then ask her what a Fool is." He heads toward and through the door. 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 wooden 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. The door opens a few moments after the knock, revealing... the charach bastard himself. Grey stiffens at sight of the Get Jarl, then steps forward once, letting the door swing shut behind him. Signe seems just as displeased at the sight of Grey. Her back straightens, and her jaw clenches. She shows the Walker philodox her teeth for a second. The old and well worn leather jacket she often wears is open and reveals a black cotton t-shirt beneath it. That t-shirt is stretched tight around a belly that's grown round, but the Jarl seems much herself in all other ways. Her black eyes bear down on Grey, and she asks in a raspish, clipped voice, "Is the elder in?" Grey's hands close, then open. He clasps them behind his back and looks past the Get, his back stiff, his jaw muscles tight, most emphatically not meeting her eyes. "She isn't, no, Signe-rhya," he says in a force gone flat with enforced calm and utter formality. "Is there something I can assist you with?" "No," is Signe immediate, instinctive answer, but it's one she reconsiders as the moment passes. Then, she asks, "Where is she?" Grey hazards a brief glance at her, his brows furrowing. Then he shakes his head, looking away. "I'd assumed she was patrolling, but she didn't say anything specifically to me what her plans were today." Signe looks frustrated, and the fact that Grey is the messenger of that which frustrates her makes the Jarl's mood that much darker. With a growled out sigh, she mutters something under her breath, and then tells the philodox, "I expect you to tell her I was here, and to come see me when she has a chance." Grey's jaw tightens again, but his temper seems to be well-leashed at the moment. He nods stiffly, then offers, "The Glass Walkers have a new member in town, if you'd do her the honor of meeting you. Just arrived from Denver." Signe already seems to be turning away when Grey's offer comes. She stops before getting halfway through her turn and regards the philodox with narrowed eyes. After a moment, her answer comes in a simple, agreeable grunt. Grey lowers his head slightly, eyes dropping to the floor. He unclasps his hands, makes a neat turn -- and doing an amazing impersonation of a man with an iron rod welded to his spine -- and slips back through the interior door. [GW Side] Cy stands swiftly from her place on the couch, now locking Jeren with an all-out glare. She gestures tightly towards the computer room and the still silent kin. "Are you /nuts/?" Grey, returning, looks quite tense. Not seething, not about to go raging down into the basement, but definitely not happy. "Jeren. Cy." Tension makes his voice authoritive, a mode that's all too easy for the well-bred ex-Fostern to slip into. "May I have your attention for a moment?" Jeren's derisive look drops, and her eyebrows quirk. There's a not-quite-grin twitching at her mouth, trying to surface. "What do you thi--" Grey enters, which cuts off whatever she was going to say. She's not that far from the door, so he has her immediate attention. Absolutely no sound comes from the computer room at this time. The cub switches her regard over to Grey, aiming a finger at the Ragabash. "This bitch is telling me to /eat/ people," she announces coldly. Grey blinks, his frown deepening, then shakes his head. "She's a Ragabash. One of their roles is Fool. A contrary. I'll explain later." He looks toward Jeren. "The Alpha of Havoc and Elder of the Get is outside in the common area, and is someone you should meet if you're going to be in the city for any length of time." Cy gets included in his glance at the last bit of this little speech. Jeren nods tightly to the elder Philodox. "I'll go exchange sniffs then." She doesn't move just yet, as she glances toward Cy. No smile, but there's /definitely/ humor dancing around just below the surface of her expression. The girl's lips purse, and she looks quite perturbed by the outcome of her tattling. Nevertheless, curiosity--and a chance to enter the common area--move her to set down her coffee mug. She glares at the Ragabash, then glances back towards the computer room. Grey steps aside, giving the two female Garou plenty of room for the door. It seems that, for a while, Jeremy will be left in peace from crazy Garou talking about chowing down on long pork. Of all the aggravating things, Jeren actually winks at Cy before she turns and steps past Grey through the metal door. The kinfolk, after hearing Grey speak, inches a bit closer to the door and peeks around it, wearing a frown upon his face. He's a 'bit' shaken up. He squints his eyes and watches the others head into the common room. Grey gives Jeremy a brief, wry look, then turns to follow. [Safehouse: Common Area] Jeren steps through the door into the common side of the house. She has a towel draped over her shoulders, and her hair is wet and somewhat mussed. Rather than her usual outfit, she's wearing a grubby t-shirt and a pair of black sweatpants, as well as white socks and no shoes. Her expression, right before she schools it to seriousness, hints at someone who is trying very hard to swallow a laugh. Signe stands a few feet away from the closed Glass Walker door, and her mood is obviously unpleased. The comfortable black leather jacket she so often wears is unbuttoned tonight, revealing a t-shirt stretched just a little too tight around a perfectly rounded belly. The Get's pregnancy seems to be progressing nicely. Everything else about Signe seems normal, however, including the violent look in her eyes. The stranger's mood only seems to add to the Jarl's anger at being made to wait. Right behind Jeren, a rather unimpressive punk-haired girl slips into the common area, scowling to herself. The expression quickly disappears as she lays eyes on the Get, and blinks. Grey enters behind Jeren and Cy, unaware that Jeremy's choosing to follow as well; thus he lets the door swing shut behind him without regard for the hapless gothkin. The tension in his body language remains; he clasps his hands behind his back and avoids looking directly at the angry pregnant woman. Catching the door on rebound, Jeremy inches a bit closer, but lingers into the doorway, leaning into it. He catches sight of Signe and lets out a slow breath, fingers curling in to grip at the plaster of the frame. He seems tense. Seriousness. Yes. Nothing like a scowling Fostern Ahroun to bring Jeren back from whatever she was finding amusing. The Ragabash draws herself up straight, versely choosing to keep her eyes focused on Signe's waist, rather than looking directly at her. "Jeren Harper, Cliath Ragabash of the Glass Walkers, formerly of the Sept of the Eternal Sentinels in Colorado." Signe cannot help but feel like the interesting specimen in the Glass Walker Petry Dish, tonight. It makes Signe scowl, and she takes her frustration and anger out on the stranger who appeared first--Jeren. The Jarl's gaze bears down on the new Walker in town, studying her as she makes her introduction. "A new moon," she comments, for no apparent reason. Then, she makes her own introduction. "Skadi's Defiant Storm, fostern full moon of Fenrir's Get. Jarl of his children here, and alpha of the pack Havoc." The red-haired girl remains on her feet, but sidles a few feet into the the room along the wall, away from the exchange--and the rather tense knot of people. She watches wordlessly, hands thrust into pockets. Grey cuts a sidelong look at Cy and frowns minutely. "Cy," he says, a touch warningly. The Kinfolk barely breathes as he watches, but not really 'staring'. Fly on the wall, he just kind of is 'there'. It's like standing directly under a heat lamp, really. For her part, Jeren remains in her exact position, not moving, not lifting her head, but every visible muscle in the Ragabash's body is swiftly tensing to near trembling tightness. To combat this, she begins slowly and methodically flexing and unflexing the muscles of the fingers on her right hand. "It is very nice to meet you, Signe-rhya," Jeren says stiffly. Signe takes note of Jeren's acknowledgement before looking toward Jeremy, but Grey's voice draws her away from him and toward Cy. It's as if the simple act of Grey speaking is like nails on a chalkboard to the Get, and she becomes visibly more irritated. After studying Cy for a long moment--a moment in which she seems to size the punk girl up and then dismiss her--she rather purposefully seems to goad the Walker philodox. "Another cub for you to ruin?" she asks in a raspy voice. "I hope this one at least had a 'fetch." There is a quick breath released from the Kinfolk, one that borders and trembles upon frustration, anger and sadness. The Gothic drops his eyes to the ground, chains rattling under his jacket. "Cy Larsen. Glass Walker Philodox. Cub." The voice that emerges from the scrawny cub is cold as ice, and her dark-eyed stare on the leatherclad pregnat woman is suddenly very, very sharp. Grey wasn't tense enough before, obviously, since his posture tightens up further at the Get's comment, muscles tightening in his jaws; if he clenched his teeth any harder, they'd probably break. One breath, two breath, and then he speaks -- not to Signe, but to his cub. "Manners," he admonishes. His voice is thin; he hardly seems to unclench his jaws. "And not just because she could beat the shit out of you." Of all freakishly odd things, it's Jeren, by far the least knowledgeable person in the room, who seems to take the most visible offense at Signe's remarks. Her gaze jerks up to the Get's face, eyes narrowed to slits, and then, as if catching herself her eyes drop back down--but only to chin level. Both hands clench into fists, and her lips pull slightly away from her teeth. She makes a noise in the back of her throat, but it's really too quiet to classify as a growl or a grunt. It takes Signe a minute to realize the cub is staring directly at her. So pre-occupied was she with watching Grey, she didn't notice the cub's audacious challenge. Once she does, however, she offers the cub a feral grin, showing bright white teeth. "I'd listen to him, girl," she tells Cy in a tone that's warm compared to the cub's, but not without its own deadly edge. "He may be a charaching bastard, but he's not lying right now." Then, the Jarl's near-black eyes bear down on the cub's gaze. Thunk. The door from behind the others is shut rather quickly and hard as Jeremy ducks back into the Walker area, followed by a series of curses. The nearly-quivering girl only has eyes for the Get, now. Her gaze is fiery and staring, and her young features contort, shoving her jaw into an underbite. "Thomas," she mutters lowly, through clenched teeth, "Is it peacetime right now?" She never takes her eyes from the Jarl's. Her hands are out of her pockets now, hooked into fists. Grey goes utterly still for a moment, his eyes widening. His gaze cuts back over to Signe, and his scarred face has become very blank all of a sudden. "...Yes," he says, rather tonelessly, answering Cy. "It is. But." He looks back to the cub. "Only a fool picks a fight they can't win." Speak of the devil, Grey. One moment, Jeren is a spring-coil tense woman, baring her teeth, and the next she's bulking upward, fur is sprouting, and her poor grubby clothing is reduced to useless tatters. The seething Ragabash swings at Signe's head--and it's a tribute to her near-completely depleted willpower that she uses a fist, and not claws. Nor is she aiming all that well. ~Get out! Get out you lying, piece of shit-talking, ass sniffing, jackal-fucking whore!~ Signe's eyes never leave Cy's. All the rank, all the respect, all the pure breeding that backs up that gaze comes to bear on the girl. And yet, despite the impudence of the young cub, the Jarl's mood actually seems to lighten a bit. There's amusement glittering in her eyes along with that earlier deadly intent. By no means does she back off, however, and she is about to explain in no uncertain terms what Cy's gotten herself into when the attack comes at her form the other side. Caught off-guard, the Get's immediate reaction is simply to try and fend off the wild hits. Once it registers both what Jeren is doing and what she's /saying/, the Jarl lets out a roar of her own. Her shift is slower, but it comes nonetheless, and with age exploding speed, she gets off one wild swipe of claws in return. Two elder Garou bursting into warfrom are enough to break Cy's attention. The cub scrambles backwards in a flash until she hits the farthest wall of the living room, crouching low to the ground. Right out of left field -- for anyone who doesn't know him well -- comes Thomas Grey, surging into Crinos a moment after Jeren leaps at Signe and attacking -- /not/ the Get who scorned and insulted him but his enraged tribemate. ~Stand DOWN! NOW!~ He grabs for her, not being gentle at all, and does his former-Ahroun best to drag her off Signe. [Jeren, Crinos] Eight feet is not a significant height in Crinos measurements, but those who aren't used to making such comparisons would certainly not be marking the difference. This beast appears as nothing less than a huge, upright wolf, with deadly sharp claws, teeth, and yellow eyes that are clearly far more intelligent than your average lupine. Its fur is black, with an undercoat of dark grey that can make it appear almost to have blue highlights in the right lighting. For a Crinos, it is unusually slender--not so much muscle bulk as one might expect, but from the way it carries itself, there is the hint of swift, violent action to come at any moment. [Grey, Crinos] This bestial, violent-looking hybrid of wolf and man stands well over nine feet tall. Except for an indistinct, irregular patch of medium grey on his chest, the thick pelt is almost entirely black, covering the werewolf from lupine head to digitigrade legs. One feral golden eye, deep-set, glares from underneath the wolfish brow; it and its brother are often partially obscured by the long, wild mane that tumbles around his upright ears and long neck. The left eye is blind white, lost within the tangled jungle of scar tissue that covers the left side of his face. Broad of shoulder and long of limb, he appears able to move about as easily on two legs as on four, though he seems to prefer the former. Long fingers and large hindpaws are equally armed with evil-looking black claws, and when he snarls, the sharp white teeth all but gleam against the midnight background of ebony fur. To Garou eyes, he has the look of nobility, and it's clear that Shadow Lord blood runs strongly through his veins. Rarely at rest, the werewolf's motions bristle with rage, his violence held back only by a near-iron control. There's a secondary scarred area on his right shoulderblade that looks like it might once have been some kind of glyph, but more claw-scarring has removed all meaning from it. However, the claw-made scars on his forearms -- the glyph for Charach on the right, the one for Dishonor on the left -- are not so obscured. [Signe (Defiant Storm), Crinos] The fur is thick, course, and shaggy. It's dark, too, almost as if her perfect ash grey coat had been doused with soot. The ebony fur covers a massive lupine muzzle, the ruff forming a kind of mane around her neck that filters down the length of her back. The color fades back to an ash-grey around her hands and feet. In shape she's a monster from out of legend. Half wolf, half man, her frame takes the best of both creatures. She stands over nine feet in height with powerful, massive muscles, deadly claws, and a jaw spiked with jagged, sharp teeth. The fangs of those teeth are a good five inches in length. Most compelling in all this fury are two golden amber eyes. Both Grey and Signe are taller, heavier, and stronger than Jeren, even in this form. The Get's blow strikes first, slicing the Ragabash open from one shoulder to the other, causing her own followup strike to go absolutely wild, and nowhere near its target. Then Grey has her, and finds that it's a hell of a lot easier than he might have thought to pull Jeren away. The Ragabash is a bundle of tightly wound, trembling muscles, but she doesn't fight back, nor does she continue her assault. /Nor/, however, does she have the presence of mind, or the sense, to immediately show throat. ~Fool!~ Grey snarls, whirling himself and the angry Ragabash around, putting himself between her and Defiant-Storm and sending her, with a shove, toward the wall nearest the interior door. His mane flies wild, locks falling over his good eye and around his muzzle as he thrusts a forearm toward her, wrist inward, showing her -- in no uncertain terms -- the Charach glyph carved into his fire-seared flesh. Defiant-Storm's anger forgoes words for a disturbingly preternatural roar that might wake the neighbors, if the Walkers weren't careful to insulate their new playhouse. The fur along the Get's neck and spine stand straight up, yellow eyes gleaming murderously. She stands crouched and ready to spring on her attacker, but the sight of Grey holding her back gives her pause. It also apparently gives the Get no pleasure to fight a defenseless opponent. ~Let her go!~ she bellows out to Thomas Grey, ~If she wants to die, I'll oblige her.~ The still-homid cub on the far side of the room stays low and alert, eyes wide as she follows the conversation in Mother's Tongue. Trembling, Jeren stares at the glyph shoved practically under her nose with yellow eyes blank with incomprehension. She stays like this one, two, three seconds, before her teeth bare, her ears lay flat, and she drops onto all fours. Only the briefest, briefest flashes of throat are given toward the Get before the Ragabash contorts again, shrinking not back toward homid but lupus. [Jeren, Lupus] A she-wolf, slightly smaller than the average sized lupus, but with a lean, fit appearance. She has a dark grey undercoat, slightly lighter beneath, and a thick black overcoat that mostly covers up the lighter cover. The fur seems healthy and well groomed. Her walk is almost feline smooth. The eyes might draw attention the most--they are the usual wolf yellow, but they appear almost unnervingly calculating and intelligent--this is a clear predator. Grey breathes hard, his good eye a little too wide. As has been the norm for this week, his rage's just a little too close to the surface for comfort, and being in the war-form doesn't help. He reverts to human form as Jeren turns wolf, then glances behind him and up at Signe. Defiant-Storm is less eager to shift down just yet. The Jarl seems wholly unsatisfied with the quick end of the battle and the lack of blood on the floor. She hisses out her disgust and eventually, slowly, pulls back down to her breed form. "Tell Nat to come see me. We have shit to talk about," she tells Grey before turning to leave. One brief look is spared for Jeren, and the Get spits at her feet to once again show her disgust. "You, I'll see later." Grey tilts his head, wordlessly showing throat to the departing Get. Jeren's head is low, as is her tail, and she's still visibly shaking. In this form, it's all body-language--fury, confusion, outrage, and a huge dose of humiliation. A dark growl rumbles in the wolf's throat as Signe spits at her, but she remains low, and in one place. The wound across the top of her chest is cheerfully making yet another stain on the carpet. At the far end of the room, Cy straightens from her crouch, looking rather dazed. She surveys her two tribesmates with a blink. "Uhm--" She scratches at her unruly hair, after glaring at the Get's departure. "Shit." Grey turns a rather exhausted, only vaguely angry look onto Jeren. "Get up," he says hoarsely. "You're bleeding on the damn carpet." Her eyes follow Signe's form until the Get has departed, narrowed on the door even when Grey speaks, rather than looking toward him. The Ragabash moves her right front leg forward, shakily, and movement committed, she slinks around the Philodox and swiftly toward the metal door. Which Jeremy closed. For a moment, frustration battles with humiliation for the most prominent emotion that she's giving off. Cy frowns at the injured wolf, and turns to disappear into the common area's bathroom. She re-emerges promptly, with an armful of towels. "That was all kinds of fucked up," she murmurs, mostly under her breath. Grey glares at Jeren. "God /damn/ you." Frustration turns his voice raw. "Shift to homid and use your damned hands." Jeren spins around in place to look at Grey. The more injured side of her causes a leg wobble at this motion, but all she does is shift her weight to the other three, mostly the hindlegs. Don't talk to me. She gives a heavy chuff. Don't talk to me right now and don't tell me what to do and I /don't/ want to talk to you. Still twitchy from the tension of playing witness to the fight, Cy wordlessly tosses a towel at the door leading to the sanctum, where it hits and falls in front of Jeren. The cub then turns her focus towards towelling up what blood has already been spilled on the carpet. Luckily, it's far less than the mess from earlier this week. Grey flinches back at Jeren's words. He grimaces, baring teeth at her, lips pulled back. "Fine." He stalks past her, jabs the buttons of the keypad, opens the door, and heads through. The door's swinging shut behind him quickly, quick enough that the wobbly Ragabash may very well find it difficult to slink through. [Safehouse: GW Main Area] Soon as the Half Moon comes through the door, he is met with a pair of barettas pointed, coming from Jeremy who is shaking and trembling, looking to be near a nervous break down. The safeties are off, the hammers pulled back, his breathing coming out in quick stammering puffs. Grey stops cold, staring at Jeremy, staring, in fact, down the twin barrels of the kin's barettas. A tremor goes right through him, and it's only by sheer force of will that he keeps himself perfectly still, that he chokes back the nearly-overwhelming flood of rage. With obvious difficulty, he rasps out, "Put. The guns. Down." The halfmoon's breathing hard, but manages a belated, "Please." Jeren slips in right behind Grey, the lupus Ragabash only /just/ managing to avoid getting her tail caught in the door, and only because the mentioned appendage is nearly--not quite but nearly--tucked between her legs. She too, stops dead, as there's a Grey in her way, and stares around his legs at the gun-toting Kin. The kinfolk seems frozen as his mouth works slowly, but nothing comes out, no words, just hard, paced breathing. His face looks to be a mess, muscles rigid as he stares back at first Grey, then quickly to the unfamilar looking Lupus who is bleeding. He starts to breathe a bit quicker, eyes darting back to Thomas, then back to the wolf, then back to Thomas. Slowly, as if it hurts, he takes a quick step back, releasing the hammers of the guns as he slips the safeties back into place. Grey takes in a long, shuddering breath and lets it out. "Thank you." Not looking at Jeren, even though the lupus is bumping his legs, and not looking at Jeremy either, he heads up the stairs to the second floor, hand groping blindly for the bannister. Jeren's only audible response to both Jeremy's lowering of the weapons and Grey's retreat is a long, low, drawn out whine. She remains where she is, in the same, half paw-splayed position, looking at the kin's shoes. [Safehouse: Grey's Room] There is a light sound of footsteps outside in the hallway. Distinctively three-footed, with the fourth coming every now and then like an off-beat drum. A chuff, as yet another door is found to bar her passage, but a moment later there is the very clear sound of knocking. Human knocking. No answer. Seconds crawl by. Steps, those belonging to bare feet, can be heard walking away from the door. A few more seconds pass, and then the knocking returns. Louder. More insistent. A few more seconds pass before Grey's bedroom door is /yanked/ open by a rather wild-eyed Philodox, his hair extra-unkempt from raking fingers through it, his mismatched eyes a little too wide, his stare far too intent as it presses down on her. "/What/." Apparently, the brief interlude between when she walked away to when she came back was to fetch a towel, as she has one pressed very firmly against the deeper half of the slash with her left hand--though the injury is wide enough that a balled towel doesn't cover it. And beyond that she's not...wearing anything at all. Nor does Jeren seem very aware of it, as the look on her face indicates that she's not completely present in reality at this moment. Grey is regarded with a hollow, exhausted expression. Apparently she didn't think far enough ahead as to what she actually wanted to say, so she finally says, in a flat tone, "--You saved my ass." Charach or no, Grey doesn't seem at all interested in the assets of his tribemate. One hand's out of view, still holding the inside doorknob. The other grips the doorframe. "You're tribe," he answers flatly, after a few moments. Considering everything else, the fact that her nakedness is not contributing to this scene is very, very good. Jeren seems to take several seconds to register Grey's short explanation, and a few more to think of a response. "--No one said anything." Grey grimaces. "You think I'd let someone call me a charach if it wasn't /true/? Would /you/?" Jeren actually manages some emotion this time. "I wasn't thinking. I /haven't/ been thinking. And no one /said/...anything. Anything at all about it. And then--" Apparently Jeren can't say Signe's name just now, as all she manages to do is bare her teeth, "--That /Get/ calls you a lying Charach." Grey lets go of the door, finally, freeing that hand to rub shakily over his face. "...Not so much a liar," he mutters, "except perhaps by omission." From downstairs, the sound of the inner door slamming shut can be heard, and then footsteps ascending the staircase. Jeren's voice returns to the prior toneless murmur. "I guess it explains some things. Nat hinted the Alpha didn't like you, for one." She lifts the arm not clutching the bloody towel to her wound to shakily lay it flat across the door frame. Grey's attention twitches toward the sound of approaching footsteps, fingers tightening on the doorframe, nostrils flaring. "She's a traditionalist," he says, answering Jeren distractedly. The Ragabash seems oblivious to the sound. She's still breathing rather heavily, and her eyes trail from Grey's face to somewhere vaguely over his left shoulder. "Yeah." A beat. "Tradition." And then. "You're a Philodox." The footsteps only reveal a rather exhausted-looking Cy, coming down the hallway. She pauses and blinks--mostly at Jeren--before ducking her head and continuing past the pair. Grey visually tracks Cy's passing before dragging his gaze back to Jeren. He nods once or twice in answer. Jeren doesn't bring her gaze back down from la la land, or whatever it is she's actually looking at. "Damn you," she mumbles in that same, toneless voice. "Saving my ass. Can't hit you now." Grey, for the first time since he got back, for the first time in over a /year/, perhaps, lets out a brief laugh. It isn't a nice sound. It isn't a /good/ sound. It's shakey and far, /far/ too close to the edge of insanity and hysteria. He bites it off rather abruptly, teeth gritted, and then without further word, pulls away from the door and slams it in Jeren's face. The cub reappears promptly, from the direction of the bathroom down the hall. She stops behind the wounded Ragabash and clears her throat pointedly. "You're naked." Her observation is flat-voiced, and she's holding out a terrycloth robe in one hand. Jeren just sort of...rocks back from the door slam, a motion that turns into a wobble until she catches herself with the hand already braced on the door frame. She turns her head, noticing Cy for the first time, and regards the offered robe like some alien artifact. "S'pose I am." The young Philodox continues to hold out the robe, expectantly. A sidelong glance goes to the freshly-slammed door. "Do /you/ have a problem with 'charach'?" The way the girl pronounces the word suggests she's not used to it. Meanwhile, everything remains quiet in regards to Grey's bedroom. Jeren seems to visibly deflate at the question, shoulders slumping, hand sliding down the door frame until it drops off. "/Garou/ have a problem with charach, Cy. It's the first law of the Litany." She doesn't sound anything but tired now. The Ragabash reaches out for the robe. Cy passes the garment off to Jeren willingly, but she doesn't seem pleased by the woman's answer. "I think I know what a Fool is, now," she says coldly. No sympathy for the weary Ragabash. Jeren can't pull on a robe with only one arm free, so she drops the blood soaked towel in order to thread her arms into the garment. She doesn't tie it closed, and neither does put forth the effort of bending to retrieve the towel. "Yeah. Yeah. Well...I'm not that kind of a Fool. I'm what you'd call a m-m-monumental fuckup." She's fond of that phrase today. The cub does the honors of picking up the bloodstained towel--it's what she's used to, these days. Holding the material gingerly, she scowls. "Fuckup on somebody else's teacher, wouldja?" She checks herself as her voice raises, and sucks in a careful breath. "Look. I just got here. Things're crazy 'nuff as it is already. He doesn't--we don't need any more shit, okay." She's glaring at the no-moon, nostrils flared. Jeren gives Cy a sharp look--the clearest one she's managed in the past few minutes, though it doesn't last. She swallows, and says, in a low voice, "If someone, /anyone/, from this tribe had actually told me what the hell was going on, maybe I wouldn't have picked a fight over Thomas' honor with a fat-headed Fostern Get who happens to be Natalie-rhya's fucking /Alpha/. Who is /still/ a shit for saying what she did." From downstairs comes the sound of the door; moments later a rough-edged feminine voice says, rather loudly, "What the /fuck/, over?" "That pregnant lady was a bitch and I woulda kicked her ass if I'd gotten a chance," the cub concedes, rage flickering to the surface of her gaze. "But if you'd quit /talking/ so much and fucking /listen/, mebbe you'd learn a thing or two around here. And even if--" The girl cuts herself off abruptly, with a frustrated growl. "Fuckit. F'get it." She turns on her heel, retreating down the hall and into the bunkroom. With the bloody towel still in hand, no less. The Ragabash slumps against Grey's door as Cy takes off, and does the ever so inspiring action of staring blankly at a particular blood drop not far from her feet. Rina's exclamation barely gets a stir out of her. Jeren also bleeds. Bleeed. Cy pages to the room: Okay. PS, I think that robe was Natalie's. ;) There are stalking noises downstairs, doors opened and closed, and the sounds finally begin a crescendo of approach, boots thudding. A shock of dark hair is soon followed by a thin but pretty face, thirty-ish features currently tightened into a fearsome scowl. This is less impressive given the Italian woman's stature; at about five-two or so, she looks more like a pissed-off terrier than a fierce lioness. Nevertheless, she approaches the bathrobe-clad stranger and stands above her. "Who the hell are you, and WHY are you bleeding on our floor?" she asks tersely. Her jaw is set, her brow furrowed. Huwha? That would be the verbal expression of Jeren's reaction to the equally unfamiliar Rina's sudden appearance and demand. She just sort of...peers groggily at the woman. They're actually roughly eye-level--Rina might even be taller, since the Ragabash is slumping against the door. "Th'new fuckup," Jeren slurs. "How'd y'do?" Rina narrows her eyes. "Oh, just fucking stellar, since the geek room is wrecked and I'm stressed as hell and some new fuckup is bleeding on the floor. Not to mention in my way." Some of the annoyance dissolves despite her best efforts, and she adds, "You should shift. But not before you tell me y'name and stuff." "Can't," Jeren says, as though such a thing wasn't much to worry about, given her circumstances. "Tried." She swallows, twice this time, before rolling her head back against the door and closing her eyes. "Um. Mrr. Jeren...Harper. Ragabash. New, obviously. Y'don't look like a Tu or a Jon, so...Kin? Rina?" Rina nods, a flicker of worry passing through her eyes. "Yeah. Hang on a sec, lemme get the kit. Try again, though, aright?" Then she's gone abruptly, stalking to the bathroom and rattling around briefly. A curt, "Fuck!" comes from that direction, and then the Kin sprints past, heading downstairs at a run and leaving the house. This takes slightly longer. While she's gone, Jeren goes the next step and slides down the door, ending with her back braced against it, her butt on the floor, and her legs drawn up tightly against her bleeding chest. One hand makes a small effort of grasping the edge of the robe and pulling it across herself. Jeren starts reciting to herself in a mumble. Kipling. Jungle Book poetry, of all things. Rina returns a few minutes later with a good-sized plastic box; she flops it down next to the young woman and promptly jerks the robe open. "Don't mind me," she says. "I promise not to cop a feel. And y'not really my type anyway..." She opens the box, which apparently contains a large and varied first-aid kit, geared toward triage and morphine injection. "This is the hour of pride and power, Talon and t--nnn." Jeren opens her eyes just long enough to give Rina a rather blank look. And then the kit. "Shit. Needles. Hrn." She closes her eyes again. "'Talon and tush and claw. Oh, hear the call!--Good hunting all, That keep the Jungle Law..." "Not unless you need it," Rina murmurs. "And there's nothin' fallin' out that I can see. "I'm just gonna wind it up tight, unless you want me to stitch it?" She looks briefly to the woman's face. Jeren's jaw clenches, and she shakes her head. "Didn't think so." She then begins unrolling the gauze. "Anyway I suck at it. Okay, you're gonna have to try to sit up a little more... I'll help, okay? Here..." She aids Jeren in the effort, passing the roll of gauze quickly behind her back. With Rina's help, Jeren sits up straighter, though she nearly pitches forward, and lets out a colorful (if not particularly inventive) slew of epithets. "Shit. Ass. Fuck." A breath. "Shiv, who poured the harvest and made the winds to blow, Sitting at the doorways of a day of long ago, Gave to each his portion..." "Huh," Rina murmurs. "Interesting. I never realized there was real mythology in that." She winds the bandage tight, taking quick turns around the woman's body, working fast; then she taps a hand to Jeren's cheek and looks into her face. "Okay. Now we're gonna get up, aright?" Jeren murmurs, "Wheat he gave to rich folk, millet to the poor, Broken scraps for holy men that beg from door to door--Mm? Oh...right." Her eyes open again, and her left hand slaps against the floor to try and help with levering herself up. "Ups-a-daisy..." Rina winces as she takes some of the woman's weight, hauling her to her feet with an arm around her waist. "Okay. Now we walk. To that room." It's fortunate at least, that Jeren's a lightweight, though being almost of a height, it's probably not as helpful as it might be for poor Rina. She manages to keep her feet pretty well, only a stumble here and there, eyes downcast and not looking for 'that room'--whichever room it might be. Murmuring encouragements, Rina gets the woman to the next door, and limps with her to the bed. "Okay. There we go. Now. Rest. Shift if you can. If not, try when you wake up." "Hnn." That's as close to 'thanks' as Jeren's going to get tonight. Her eyes are closed by the time they reach the bed, and by the time she's actually lying down, she might well be completely asleep. The room's pretty empty--a bag, half open, apparently stuffed with clothes. A pair of hiking boots. A laptop, turned off, sitting on top of its carrying case. And a medium sized box of books, which unsurprisingly has a paperback edition of the Jungle Book sitting near the top. Rina answers with a similar wordless sound on seeing the book. Shaking her head, she leaves quietly and shuts the door, then knocks on the next one down. "Hey! You home?" There's no answer as such, though now that things are quiet and she's not having to concentrate on a bleeding naked woman in a robe, Rina can hear Chopin being played, piano music barely audible through the closed (and not locked) door. Rina tries the door, just in case. Grey's door opens easily, swinging inward into darkness. Chopin becomes more audible, though it's still not loud. The stubby L-shaped nature of the room means that nothing much can be seen from the doorway apart from a bit of wall and floor. Rina steps in and shuts the door carefully behind her, giving her eyes time to adjust to the darkness. Safehouse: Grey's Room It's a spacious bedroom, if not as big as the one across from it. The door at the end of the second floor hall opens into a small space about five feet deep which, to the left, opens out into a wider area. Windows along the longest wall and near the top of the other outside wall provide plenty of sunlight, and the room is bright for most of the day. The walls are a dusty pastel teal above a polished maple hardwood floor, and the furniture, though not new by any means, is in good shape. Though the room doesn't lack for tidiness, there's a certain absense of the little touches that would give it personality; either its inhabitant hasn't made it a home yet or simple doesn't care to personalize. A neatly-made double bed is set lengthwise against the longer of the two interior walls, its head near a small nightstand which holds a reading lamp and an alarm clock. The closet door, which is usually closed, is across from the foot of the bed, and a large, solid-looking dresser stands against the middle of the longest wall, on the other side of the bedroom. A small stereo sits on top of it. There's a somewhat venerable armchair in the corner made by the two exterior walls, and a low bookshelf (mostly empty) squats along the shorter of the exterior walls, underneath the windows. Grey lies sprawled on his back on the still-made bed, atop the blanket, still dressed in the blue chambray shirt and blue jeans. He'd gotten his shoes off, at least, though even in the darkness they look nothing like the boots she knows him to wear; a circle-and-star logo gleams whitely -- the Chuck Taylors logo. He appears to be asleep, one hand resting on his chest, the other half-dangling off the bed. Letting out a sigh, Rina paces over to the bedside and sits by him, touching a hand to his. "Hey. Wake up." Grey stirs, moving his head slightly, limp fingers responding to her touch, reaching. He mumbles, a slurred, "L'ra?" Rina swallows, her hand darting back. She turns her face away, and both hands curl into fists. "No, hon," she says, her voice a little hoarse. "Wake up." Grey's fingers, abandoned, twitch. He moves, again sluggishly, heavy eyelids lifting just enough to show a sliver of eyeballs (one dark, one pale), attempting to prop himself up on one elbow and then slumping back. "Rina." The hint of Slavic accent's there, oiling through the halfmoon's slurred, thick voice. "Wha'zit?" The barest flicker of a frown touches the woman's face, and she leans closer to him, a hand moving to his cheek. "Sweetheart, I need you to tell me what's goin' on. Can you do that, or do I hafta wait until you're sober?" "Na' drunk," Grey mutters, grimacing sleepily. He looks dully at her in the darkness, pupil dilated. "Jus'... needed t'sleep. Need t'be /out/." Half-defensive, half-guilty. "Dog. Mad dog." His eyes drift closed. "Thrall. A'mos' killed Kev'n 'n Nat. Dog. Stupid..." He trails off. "What--" She leans over him, searching his lined face despite the darkness of the room; then, defeated, she lets her head fall to his chest. "Oh, Christ. You're not stupid. You're not... any of that. Shhhh..." Letting out a breath, she gets up long enough to kick off her boots; then she comes back and curls up beside him. "You're a pazzo, is what you are," she mutters. Grey opens his eyes again a crack, turns his head to peer at her. "Uh?" "Sleep," she murmurs. "But you're /gonna/ talk to me in the morning." Her eyes remain closed. Grey squints muzzily at her for a few more seconds before giving into the inevitable. His eyes closed, his breathing evens out, and he sinks downward into a sleep too deep and too dreamless to be anything but chemically-induced.