It is currently 14:34 Pacific Time on Wed May 11 2005. Currently in Saint Claire, it is a cloudy day. The temperature is 58 degrees Fahrenheit (14 degrees Celsius). The wind is calm today. The barometric pressure reading is 30.19 and steady, and the relative humidity is 66 percent. The dewpoint is 47 degrees Fahrenheit (8 degrees Celsius.) Currently the moon is in the waxing Crescent Moon phase (20% 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 right, 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.The living room holds a comfortable couch and a pair of easy chairs, a maple coffee table matched by side tables beside both of the chair. A large plasma television holds pride of place along the far wall, flanked by maple glass-front cabinets that hold assorted media equipment. The 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 table is in the Mission style, all clean straight lines, and currently seats six, though there's evidence of another leaf to make it larger. 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. Natalie hips through the door, rather obviously coming in from work judging from the smells of sawdust and oil that cling to her. A glance is given up the stairs, but she heads straight for the computer room without announcing her presence, nor slipping off her clompy work boots. Once inside she crosses to the closest computer, one of the desktops that survived the tussle, and gives the mouse a jiggle to wake it up. Once again, Grey chose to play hooky from his own job, and he was asleep when Natalie got up this morning. But, for a wonder, he's up /now/, though the Galliard misses him -- he's in the kitchen, recently in from the yard and drinking a glass of water. Hearing her entrance, he tenses, hesitates, and then puts his glass in the sink and goes to seek her out. He'll easily find Nat leaning over the back of the chair, fingers tapping impatiently as the screen warms up from power-saving move. "C'mon, c'mon..." she urges the thing, giving the mouse another jiggle. Grey stops in the doorway of the computer lab, one hand on the frame. He looks rumpled and unkept, and there's a smudge of dirt across his scarred cheek. He watches her a second or two before clearing his throat quietly. Nat breathes a sharp, "Ha!" as the screen wakes to life; at the throat-clearing she glances over, half-smile lighting her face. "Afternoon." She pulls out the rolling chair with one hand, eeling easily into it while her hands move automatically to cover keyboard and mouse. "Feeling better than yesterday?" Embarrassment flicks across Grey's thin, stubbled features, and he ducks his head slightly, one hand raking back through his shaggy hair. "...Yes." Pause. "Thank you." "Not a problem," she answers, calling up a web-browser with one hand, only half her attention for either the screen or her tribemate. "You're welcome. --Have a minute? Or, well, lots of minutes? I dunno how long this will take." Grey's brow furrows; he frowns warily as he approaches, bare feet slow and silent against the floor. "How long /what/ will take?" His fingers twitch, and then he clasps his hands behind his back, standing nearby, his posture formal even if his personal appearance isn't. "My Fostern Challenge," the Galliard explains, calling up Google's search engine and typing 'riddle' into it, "It's riddles. I know squat-all about riddles, so I figured another set of... ears, hands, whatever would help." "--If you've got time, of course. Don't let me pull you away from whatever you were doing." No Rusty Pliers of Conversation. No mention of the insidious pillow fetish. Grey's stiff posture relaxes slightly. "Layne gave you terms?" Not even a flick of eyes toward him. "Yup." And no 'obviously', either. "Riddles, like I said. In English. We take turns. First one to miss three loses. So this isn't going to be a quick and dirty." Grey murmurs, "No, I suppose not." He runs fingers through his hair again, then takes a chair nearby. "I was never that good at riddles." Now she looks his way and offers a wry, "Well, that makes two of us then. At least," she adds, turning back to the screen and scowling at the output, "I'm used to stuffing my head full of useless crap." Her fingers dance over the keyboard, setting the search engine on another scouting mission. "So what've you been up to today?" Grey leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His slightly-bowed head lets the overlong bangs fall forward to partially obscure his eyes, and he studies his hands absently. There's still some dirt under his nails. "Puttering," he answers mutedly. "Outside." He glances up briefly. "Noticed a spot that might be good for a garden." Natalie clears her throat, amused and asks archly, "Thinking about putting in a greenhouse?" Not even one little look does she send his way; instead she's busily cruising through the various links offered. Grey winces slightly and drops his head again. "Ah, no. Nothing so elaborate." "That was a *joke*!" Distracted from her riddle-quest, Nat turns to study him, both exasperated and amused. "--Damn, Thomas, what's gotten into you?" Grey tenses, lips pulling back into a tight grimace. Pushing back on his chair, he rises in a swift, smooth motion and paces a few steps away. "Nothing," is the automatic response, but before the Galliard can throw something at him, he stops, huffs air, and pushes his hands into his pockets. "Or, no, /not/ nothing," he says, looking moodily at the wall, "but nothing I can talk about." A pair of quick breaths pass while Nat studies him, and then, deliberately, turns back to the monitor. "At least you're not trying to foist that nothing crap off on me." She keeps her tone deliberately light. "I won't even ask if it's 'can't' or 'won't'. I'll just repeat: any time you want to talk, about anything. -Anything-." Grey doesn't quite have his back to her, but his face is turned away so she can't read his expression, just the general tense, uneasy, oddly /defeated/ quality of his posture. He nods a few times. "I know." A beat. "I'm thinking," he says, changing the subject, "that if Cy can learn to control her Rage, she should be allowed to go out next thin-moon." Natalie's found a webpage that claims itself to be 'Brain Food', with riddles all down the left side. "--Next thin-moon," she repeats absently, frowning at the often-flip questions on the screen. "Wait. Do you mean, out-out? As in, by herself out?" Grey turns his head, eyeing Natalie sidelong, his face difficult to read -- apart from that muted, almost submissive guardedness about him now. An uncertainty. He nods. Natalie abandons her computer to turn to face the man, concern and worry fighting it out in her eyes. "I don't know. We didn't... I mean, Kevin isn't allowed out on his own." Grey drops his eyes to the floor in front of his bare feet, jaw muscles tightening. "Then perhaps he should be, too." The Philodox glances back up again, looking more at her chin than her eyes. "They can't learn to be adults if they're cooped up all the time. Cat and Quentin were allowed out by now. Once they'd learned to not frenzy in public and that... and to keep the Veil." It's the longest speech he's made in days. Natalie swallows and doesn't answer for long seconds. She isn't angry -at- him, but she's frustrated all the same. "--I let Saul out, and he immediately started hanging out with Shadow Lords. I have the feeling Emma's still trying to convince Kevin what a bad job he did choosing us over the Get. Gaia only knows who Cy's problem is going to be - probably the damn Gnawers." Grey takes his hands out of his pockets and folds his arms across his chest, taking a moment to answer. "You have to trust them /sometime/," he says at last, hazarding a look into her eyes; his own gaze seems ready to flinch away at the slightest excuse -- more of that strange, uncharacteristic hesitancy. "Keeping them prisoner won't make them ready for their Rite. Kevin's already been around the other tribes, and Cy... Cy's too intelligent to brainwash." "Isn't that what -we're- doing?" she throws back, bitterly. "Brainwashing them? --Hell, I don't know." She yanks her attention back to the screen and scowls at it as if it's the source of all her troubles. "Once they're adults, I know I can trust them. With... with all the crap poor Kev's gone through trying to pick a damn tribe, I'm surprised he even -wants- to leave." Grey's eyes twitch away right at the first words, right on cue. His arms unfold in favor of clasping his hands behind his back, holding himself very still, his stance balanced even if his mind isn't, currently. "They're both bright," he says to the floor. "They're both energetic. They're both Glass Walkers, or will be. They need to learn the city. They need to learn /people/. How to make their own way. How to be adults." Natalie abandons monitor-gazing to scrape both hands through her hair, sending little flecks of sawdust floating gently to the ground. "Hell." After a few seconds she adds, "There's this... while you were gone, the Walk was visited by a Stargazer. Ragabash. Named Flash. He taught me this... rite, this way to find answers." She snorts, unamused, her head tilting back to gaze up at the ceiling. Her ceiling. "I asked him if it wasn't just telling you what you already knew, and he said it probably was. Damn Ragabash." Grey gives her another of those quick, wary, sidelong glances. "Or damn Stargazer." "Damn Stargazer," she agrees bitterly. "He was right. /You're/ right. Dammit." Grey makes no reply to this. His gaze shifts to the computer monitor she was working out, then resumes its study of the floor. "Dammit, it twists my tail to..." Something. Natalie's lips press down tight over whatever it is though, her face coming back to study the monitor. A few quick movements and she's closed the window, shoving her chair back to stand. "--How do you think Cy's coming along? Think she'll have to wait until September to be Rited?" Grey shakes his head. "She needs to learn more of the basics of combat. She needs to visit the Umbra. The rest... is straight knowledge, and from what I've seen, she's... more than just bright. I've seen few cubs who picked things up as quickly, and none quicker." He takes in a breath, lets it out. "Her tongue is going to get her into trouble, but she was perfectly well-behaved at the Philodox Moot. She's not afraid to ask questions." Chairs with wheels on them also swivel and spin, and Nat takes full advantage of this fact. "Sooner, then. August? July?" Grey's brow furrows as he watches his Elder sit and spin; he seems more taken aback than amused. "...July." Somewhere between three-quarters of the way around and a full rotation Natalie's friction catches up with her, and she needs to push herself again. Two and a quarter circles pass in this fashion before she finally puts her foot down, coming to a slightly wobbly stop facing the door. "July." She sounds impressed. "That's... early. You think she can do it, huh?" "She's a Philodox," Grey answers, still holding that formal pose. "Her brain's more important than her claws. And there's nothing wrong with her brain. Not that she shrinks from fighting." "I've noticed," the Elder says dryly. No wild spinning this time; she side-steps her way back around the circle to look up at him. "Well. Within four weeks for Kevin, and... cripes. Eight, ten for Cy. That's fast. That's /damn/ fast." Behind him, Grey's fingers flex, twisting around each other. "I think they'll be motivated to make the deadline," he says. Natalie ahs? curiously. "Why d'you say that?" Grey just shrugs. "Just a guess," he mutters. Natalie grimaces. "That's not an answer." While he's not looking at her she takes the time to examine him from head to toe, then back again. "What's got you so down?" Grey tenses, jaw clenching. His eyes avoid hers, and there's a subtle change in his balance that suggests he might retreat physically, too. "I don't want to talk about it." Quick, muttered words, directed at the floor. "If it's all the same to you." Natalie says "It's -not- all the same to me, actually, but..." Her hands slap down onto her thighs, her lips twisting ruefully. "Fine. I've figured out by now that if I push you, you'll just run away faster. I just wish you could /trust/ me." Grey's face twists, and then stills in a poor approximation of his usual stony, dead neutral facade. Behind his eyes are echoes of a whipped dog cringing at the corner of a bed. "It's not. That I don't. /Trust/..." He closes his eyes, takes in a breath, lets it out, a few moments to recover some semblence of calm, of composure. Natalie continues to watch him, her expression sympathetic. "...I'm not going to ask," she offers finally. "When you're ready, you'll talk to me. Or somebody, but I'll admit straight out that I'm selfish and hope it'll be me." Take a breath, count to ten. Grey opens his eyes again when she finishes speaking and nods slightly. "...I know. I know." The floor again, is studied. Natalie says "I know you know." Some fragment of humor leaks back into her voice as she adds, "And you know I know you know. --Should I stop, please?" Was that, almost, a twitch of return humor? Maybe? It doesn't last long -- if it existed at all outside the imagination of a hopeful Elder; whatever secret Grey's carrying is too heavy for humor. He just nods. Natalie sighs, rolling her eyes, and swivels back to the computer screen. "Kevin's turn for supper. Could you supervise him, please, while I keep stuffing my head full of useless crap? I don't want to end up with Cajun bacon any more." Grey dips his head and, wordlessly and silently as a butler, slips out of the computer lap. [...] Safehouse: Basement The basement runs about half the width of the house above, with a concrete block wall separating the two. Most of the the area is open and unfinished and sports the usual basement decor of cobwebs, exposed rafters, and cockroaches scuttling along the walls. The furnace and hot water heater stand in glory in the northeast corner along with the fuse box; the northwest corner has been set up as an open workshop with a pair of fluorescent lights bolted to the ceiling. In the southwest corner stands a vault: more concrete blocks enclose a room perhaps ten by ten and a sturdy steel door denies passage either into or out of the place. Steps lead up from the southeast corner. After an afternoon of vague puttering about the backyard -- soaking in sunlight while doing basic and much-needed maintenance -- and his brief discussion with Natalie in the computer lab, Grey has retreated down to the basement, leaving the door open behind him but not turning on the light. He sits crosslegged on the floor, just at the edge of the light shed down from the open door, a small plate of food set before him. A couple of roaches have already come to investigate the offering. He watches them in the dimness, his expression solemn and distant and tired. The illumination from upstairs is blocked for a moment, and the basement steps creak under slight weight and bare feet--despite the new gift, Cy doesn't seem to like wearing shoes in the house. She pauses as her eyes adjust to the low light, and makes her way to the bottom step before sitting. "Beat me to it." The comment is low and hoarse, without reproach. The cub fiddles with the hunk of bread in her hands, features thrown into shadow by the light that filters down from behind her. His back is to the light. His face to the dark. Cy can see the slightly bowed head lift, then turn partway, cocking an ear toward her rather than actually looking back at her. The older Philodox hesitates, then makes a slight beckoning gesture. "They won't mind more." His voice is muted, subdued. Bare feet and baggy jeans rustle as the cub rises, picking her way across the concrete to seat herself at her elder's right hand, about an arm's reach away. She doesn't say anything, but sets to the task of ripping off small chunks of French bread and crumbling them, adding to the contents of the plate. A rather large roach emerges from the deeper dark of the basement, skittering in a beeline to climb onto the girl's cross-legged lap. Grey's offering is tuna, a whole can's worth. With his elbows resting on his knees and his hands clasped, fingers laced, between them, he watches the cub in silence, then drops his gaze down to the plate of food. A fourth roach joins the party, a tiny one. "I spoke with Natalie today," he says, not looking at her. In the light that falls across one side of her face, the girl looks tired--moreso than usual, dark shadows around darker eyes. "Whatever it is, I didn't do it." The cub's reply is wry, but it's not exactly good humor. Finished with the distribution of bread, she tilts her gaze down to the roach in her lap and offers a fingertip to the curious antennae. Grey shakes his head slightly. "No, nothing like that." One of the roaches that was there when Cy arrived crawls off the plate slowly and toward the man's bare foot. "I'd like to set a small challenge for you. One with a reward, if you can pass it." Cy's quiet tongue-clicking, aimed at the roach that's now perched on her open palm, falls silent. She looks over at the older Philodox; if she had furry ears in this form, they'd both be swivelled forward in curiosity. Grey reaches out to cup the foot-questing cockroach in his hands, just as the insect is waving antennae at his toes. He lifts it with care and reverence, like a holy relic. "The moon's waxing again. If you can confine your frenzies to the basement throughout the coming weeks, when the moon passes full and goes thin again, you can go outside. Without escort." He pauses, considering, then adds, "The barn at the farmhouse is also acceptable for frenzies, as is the woods of the Bawn in general." The girl looks away again, absorbing his words. There are no rushed replies from this cub. "What if I don't want to go outside." The hypothetical question comes out flat and low as she strokes the exoskeleton of her small companion with a finger. Grey looks over at her at that, brow furrowing, staring in confusion, hesitating in his answer. After a long moment, he looks back down at the cockroach sitting contentedly in his cupped hands. "Some other reward, then." He sounds rather deflated, and looks it, too. Then his jaw tightens as he forces his features into something resembling the more familiar blandness. Cy lets out a thinly audible breath and shakes her head, shifting to sit on one hip as she draws a knee up near her chest. The cockroach is deposited carefully on said knee, where it wiggles its antennae quizzically from the new vantage point. "I /do/ want to go out," she concedes. "I just--don't want anything to happen. Again." She chews on her lower lip, betraying the spot where she's missing a tooth as she frowns. Grey nods slightly. "I know." Slowly, he lowers 'his' roach back down to the floor, lets it scuttle away. The food offering has been joined by a few more of their Totem's realm-side children. "That's why I want you to work on learning to control it. When you feel your Rage rising, focus your will to put it back down. If you have doubts, leave the area. Go someplace quiet, someplace dark. Or go somewhere it's proper, like down here, and let it out safely." Cy looks at him sidelong, then leans back on one hand braced against the concrete floor. "...Does it ever get any easier? Feeling like Public Enemy Number One?" She tips her head back to stare glumly at the ceiling, as though she could see through the scaffolding of the house to the fattening moon beyond. Grey laces his fingers together, thumbtips pressing each other. "You get... used to it," the older Garou says at last. "It's a hungry thing, Rage. Greedy. Chain it, and it fights, and gets ugly when it breaks free." His hands clasp fully, tighten on each other. "Feed it, though, and it only wants more. It'll consume everything around you, if you let it, and finish off devouring you, as well. Some Garou revel in its power. Others hardly feel it at all." He shrugs faintly. "It's what we are. What we were made to be." The cub listens to him without looking at him, instead watching the roach is it makes its way down her leg and back to the floor. She stares hard into space for a long time. "I'd better get on it, then." It sounds like a decision. [Cy] There's not much to look at beneath the ratty shock of crimson hair; she's scrawny, and 5'4" would be a generous height estimate. The girl has a pale, weak-featured face that adds to her apparent youth--she could be taken for about twelve at first glance. Round cheeks, snub nose, and large brown eyes are haloed by a hacked-off bob of hair that's been dyed fire-engine red, with an inch of dark roots starting to creep back in. She's not wearing any piercings, but her earlobes are notably stretched into loops more commonly seen on people in tribal body-modification documentaries. She rarely smiles, and tends to squint; her eyes seem to be incessantly dark-circled from lack of sleep. On the occasion she does show her teeth, it's obvious that she's missing her upper left incisor. She's in a worn black t-shirt and baggy jeans rolled up at the cuffs, belted around her hips with braided leather. Though clean, none of it fits her quite right: it seems like the garments are hand-me-downs. Halfway hidden by her large clothing, she's got a sexless build with a short torso and wiry limbs. There are black no-name sneakers on her feet, and her small hands show evidence of compulsive nail-chewing. Grey looks over at her, studying her for a moment or three in the roach-inhabited, shadowy half-light. "Do you have any questions about anything?" "What happens if I don't succeed?" Cy meets his gaze now, focusing first on the dead eye, then the other. She looks apprehenzive. Grey cocks his head. "In what? Controlling your Rage?" The cub nods, her expression wrinkling umcomfortably. She doesn't look away, though. "The challenge thing, yeah." "Another month cooped up in this house," is the man's deadpan response. "And another attempt when the moon waxes again." Cy lets out another almost-sigh, louder and heavier this time. She leans forward, propping elbows on knees as she presses the heels of both hands into her eyes. "Think it's nuts, all of us under one roof when the moon gets big," she mutters. "Mebbe I'd be better off at th'farm during Hell Week or somethin'." "Life isn't easy," says Grey, with a flatness that hints at some inner tension. "You're a Glass Walker, and your place is here, within the city. Besides, there are /more/ people living at the farmhouse. More tempers, less room." The girl jerks her head up, eyes narrowing at the older Philodox. She makes a strangled noise and shoves her eyes into her hands for another moment, wrestling with some inner demon before morphing abruptly into lupus. The transition is far smoother than Grey's ever witnessed before. Sliding down on her belly, the brown-furred young cub flattens her ears and laws chin on black paws, telling him she will take the challenge. Her tail is limp on the concrete. Grey watches with dead eyes, cold eyes. He has no word of praise for her, no smile of approval. Just a nod of acknowledgement as he rises, smoothly, to his feet. A small whine escapes from the dejected cub, but she remains floor-bound. Hazarding a tentative swish or two of her tail along the floor, she notes that her elder is unhappy. Run again in the woods? Grey's posture stiffens subtly, though a lupine nose can read the rise in tension in his scent clearly enough. "...Perhaps," he answers, after a bit. "Not tonight, but soon." The tail falls still, and if her ears were any flatter they'd disappear. She whines plaintively again and licks her nose repeatedly, a cubbish display of non-threat. Not tonight, she agrees. Not tonight. Grey nods once, then turns on his bare heel and heads upstairs, down the hall, and then upwards again to his bedroom, silent but for the creaking of floorboards and, eventually, the sound of a door being closed firmly.