It is currently 17:26 Pacific Time on Sun May 15 2005. Currently in Saint Claire, it is a cloudy day. The temperature is 61 degrees Fahrenheit (16 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the southwest at 10 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.79 and steady, and the relative humidity is 64 percent. The dewpoint is 49 degrees Fahrenheit (9 degrees Celsius.) Currently the moon is in the waxing Half Moon phase (48% full). 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. Grey has spent nearly all day outside -- mowing the lawn, trimming the hedges, cleaning out the gutters. Now, mid-afternoon, the Philodox has stationed himself in the back yard, where anyone looking out the appropriate windows can see him pacing the area slowly, prowling about as though looking for something. His fourth or fifth cigarette of the day dangles from his mouth, trailing smoke. He continues to look unkept and uncared-for. The well-oiled hinges of the front door don't make a sound, but Cy isn't stealthy about shutting the door behind her as she makes her way out onto the porch of the sprawling old Victorian. In bare feet and her usual Dedicated clothes, the girl perches herself on the steps leading down into the front yard. She peeks up at clouded sky before turning her attention--almost casually--in the direction of her elder. From afar, to the room, Cy notes that he couldn't have been out here /all/ day, since nobody was around was Jacinta dropped by. :> You paged the room with 'Uh, okay, so he went out to buy milk and bread and more cigarettes when she stopped by. :P'. Long distance to the room: Grey is also in the back yard, not the front. :) Grey stops at a certain patch of grass, frowning thoughtfully. He kicks the turf absently, hands in pockets, then looks upward as though gauging the quality of the light. It takes him a few moments to notice Cy, but when he does, he gives her a nod and jerks his head in a curt beckoning gesture. The cub rises from her place on the porch and approaches, either of her own free will or inexorably drawn by the unspoken command of the older Garou's pure breeding. Or, perhaps it's the cancer stick. "Can I bum a smoke?" Cy squints up at him hopefully, though unsmiling. [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, in answer, pulls out the pack of Camels and his trusty lighter and holds them out. "You know anything about gardening?" he asks her. His manner suggests that he's expecting the former street-rat to say 'no'. He's just as unsmiling as she is. Thomas Grey is a man hard-used by the world. It shows mostly in his face, a hawkish visage that's extensively scarred down the left side, twisting keloid making a ruin of aristocratic features. If not for the scars, he'd probably be fairly handsome in a severe sort of way. The angles of his face are sharply defined, the nobility in them scoured nearly to the bone. His thick black hair hangs just past his ears, shaggy and unkempt, and he wears a few days' worth of beard-growth -- also black, though with faint touches of grey at the corners of his mouth; he looks older than his thirty-something years. His deep-set eyes -- the right dark brown, the left blind white -- have the shadowed look of someone who does not sleep well. At six-foot-three, he stands taller than most men, and an inherent athleticism indicates that he could probably hold his own in a fight. There's also an aura of pent-up violence about him, a tightly-controlled rage within the lanky, muscled frame that could be lethal if unleashed. His light grey hooded sweatjacket is worn open over a plain, untucked black t-shirt. His jeans are faded, broken-in, and on his feet are black Chuck Taylor high-tops. She _almost_ smiles as the pack and lighter appear, and takes both from him readily. Lighting a cigarette with the practiced flick of a skinny wrist, she doesn't answer him immediately. Instead, she sighs out a curl of smoke and crouches thoughtfully over the patch of ground he was abusing with a sneaker just a moment ago. One hand goes digging into the ground, past the lawn, scraping up a few clods of dirt. Grey flicks ash onto the ground and watches her. He doesn't even immediately ask for the return of his Camels and lighter. He's patient, watching her. "Bad tilth," the girl murmurs, crumbling the bit of soil in her hand and peering at it. "Too much clay." She squints up at him from her crouched position, offering the Camels and lighter back absently. "Y'need to aerate it." Grey takes the objects back and makes them disappear into a pocket of his sweatjacket. "Mm." He exhales almost languidly. "What else?" Cy turns her attention back towards the dirt in her hand, then scans her gaze across the rest of the backyard. "D'pends on what you wanna get out of it. You thinking vegetables or herbs or roses, or what?" Her fingers continue to pulverize the handful of soil slowly. "Vegetables," says Grey. "Tomatoes, maybe some peppers. Haven't decided." He scuffs the ground again, uprooting a few blades of thin grass in a distant, almost abstracted sort of way. The cub makes a thoughtful grunt in back of her throat, tapping ash over the lawn as she shakes her head. "Not the season," she replies. "'S Beltane. Broccoli, spinach. Mebbe cucumbers." She scrapes up another clod of dirt and straightens, offering it out to him. "Feel this." It's almost an order. Grey's head tips slightly, a flicker of interest -- something other than that flat dullness, anyway -- in his expression. He takes the handful of dirt from the girl and feels it, as ordered, then looks down at her with a raised eyebrow. Cy's gaze is focused on the older Walker's dirt-holding hand, not his face. "Squeeze it tight for about ten seconds," she rasps, after another drag of smoke. "Then hold it out and drop it." The older Glass Walker's hand tightens on the clod of dirt, gripping it tightly for a long count of ten. Then he extends his arm, opens his hand, and turns it over to let the soil fall prey to gravity. As the compressed clod of dirt falls heavily to the ground and splits, the girl nods--mostly to herself. "Didn't break much," she observes. "Not workable yet." Tilting her head back to peer at the clouded sky, she mutters, "Clay's got slow dry-out in the spring." Grey brushes his hands together, ridding himself of a few clinging bits of clayish soil. "So. You /do/ know something about gardening." There's a squeak and a creak to announce that the door into the house has been opened. Jeren peers outward momentarily, before glancing back over one shoulder and jerking her head forward. The Ragabash finally seems to have decided to change clothes, though the pair she's chosen are still rumpled, and her hair, while a little less of a rat's nest than it was last night, looks as though she only took a comb to it out of a sense of duty--it's still sticking out all over. Her mouth is a thin line, and her eyes are a little more red rimmed. Both younger and older Philodox are regarded for a moment, before she announces herself and the guest with a quiet throat clearing. "I used to--" Cy stops in mid-answer to Grey and looks over towards the pair emerging from the back door of the house. Whatever she was about to say is replaced by the cigarette, as she pulls in a long lungful. Jacinta appears behind Jeren and passes her as she leaves the house. Cy is greeted with a shadow of a smile, where Grey gets a solemn nod. Grey looks over at the new arrivals, his gaze going flat again as it touches Jeren, then Jacinta. To the latter, the tired, ragged-looking Philodox dips his eyes, avoiding a meeting with hers, and then, like Cy, takes a drag from his cigarette. "Afternoon." Whatever else she's wearing, Jeren's also donned her thin jacket. Still adjusting to the climate change, it would seem. She shifts to the side as Jacinta passes, taking up a sentinel's position against the right side of the back door. Her hands slide into her jacket pockets, and she looks down at her shoes, as if those were far more interesting to look at than the other three Garou. Cy glances between the three adults with a brief bob of the head for Jacinta. "She stopped by this morning," she informs the older Philodox, sotto voce. With that, she drops into a cross-legged position on the lawn and focuses on poking at the soil again. Jacinta acknowledges the cub, disapproval unhidden in her glance at the cigarette. Still, Grey quickly becomes the focus of her attention. She doesn't force eye contact, though her gaze seems to waver for a moment. It eventually settles on the older Philodox's face. "With the help of the Uktena, Nascha, and Skadi's Defiant Storm, your elder and I have reached an accord." She seems ready to continue, but pauses to study Grey's reaction. "Good," says Grey, though there's no real enthusiasm in his voice. He studies the cigarette in his hand. Up close, his eyes are bagged with ill sleep, the flatness in his expression more from weariness than the usual careful control. He pulls more smoke into his lungs, turns his head to exhale -- not wanting to blow smoke into the Wendigo Elder's face, obviously -- and studies the ground that, until a moment ago, he and Cy were poking at. The cub at Grey's feet occupies her attention with smoking and fiddling with some blades of grass, keeping her head down and her presence as unobtrusive as possible. Jeren lifts her head only a little, a physical indication that she's paying attention to the conversation. Nothing else about her changes, however. Jacinta remains silent for several seconds, expression growing cautious as she watches the scarred Glass Walker. Eventually she grunts and returns to her original purpose. "Natalie has also given me my task, for my challenge." A brief glance toward Jeren and then she returns her gaze to Grey. "I am to determine a significant weakness of your Tribe, and address it, find a solution." Grey fiddles with his cigarette, his free hand buried in a pocket of his sweatjacket. His eyes flick upward to Jacinta's face, briefly, his brow furrowing. "Oh? That's..." He frowns slightly, then takes another drag, his gaze shifting away as he does so. "...Broad." "...Challenge?" Jeren asks quietly, her eyebrows pricking towards each other. Lo and behold, she remembers how to speak. The Ragabash's weight shifts from one leg to the other, and her posture straightens very slightly. Jacinta's brows rise and fall at Grey's statement before she turns to answer Jeren. "My Fostern challenge to Guards the Flame. A part of it requires me to act as a member of your Tribe, completing the tasks set by your elder." She steps to the side, until she can more easily see both Jeren by the door and the Philodox. "To find a weakness, I must begin by knowing your strengths. So I have come to ask you what you view as the strengths of your Tribe, as it stands, here in St. Claire. And if you can help me to contact your kin, that I might also speak with them." Cy extracts a small stone from the soil with grubby fingers and tosses it absently across the yard, clamping the mostly-finished cigarette between her teeth. The cub adds nothing to the conversation of the older Garou, and might not even be listening at all. "Fine," says the rather muted ex-Ahroun, after exhaling another breath of smoke. Grey tendrils curl upward, dissipating into the urban atmosphere. "Strengths..." He rolls his shoulders, summoning up a thin thread of something resembling his usual briskness. "We have a home. Not paid for entirely, but someplace we can all gather. Nobody's isolated unless they choose to be. We have an Elder who would, quite likely, tear her own heart out if it would help the tribe. Our cubs are... promising." Not a flicker of a glance over to Cy. "Our numbers could be better, but they could be a lot worse. Could use a good Theurge, one that knows the city, knows Cockroach." He grunts. "Could use a proper Ahroun, too." The whole speech is given blandly, with a slight pause between each sentence. Jeren falls silent again, with a slight nod as Jacinta explains. Once more, she studies her shoes, though clearly paying more attention to the conversation now than she was before. Jacinta's thumbs hook into her front pockets as she listens to Grey's recitation. Her gaze does shift to Cy as he talks of cubs, and a frown creases her forehead wen he suggests that the Tribe's numbers could be greater. "Tu said as much, when I spoke with him this morning." Looking to Jeren she asks, "And you? They said you were only recently arrived, but sometimes new eyes have better insight. What strengths do you see in your tribe?" Grey pulls in another lungful of smoke, tips his head back slightly, and exhales in a brief series of wavery smoke rings. There might have been a pause in the movement of Cy's hands in the dirt at the mention of 'cubs', but nothing more. As she finishes off her cigarette, she stubs it out in the grass and pockets the butt, then casts an imploring look up in Grey's direction. Cy pages: NICOTINE NICOTINE NICOTINE Yrk. Jeren clearly wasn't expecting to be put on the spot, as her lips thin, and she stalls for a few moments by raking her fingers through her mussed hair. "--I." Pause. "--Really haven't been here long enough to be able to say." A very brief, aborted glance flicks toward Grey. "I think Thomas covered most of it." Grey takes a final pull off his cigarette, glances down, and catches Cy's look. The older halfmoon settles down next to the younger one, cross-legged in the afternoon sunlight, and after stubbing out the butt and shaking out a second cig, he once again offers the pack to the girl. Jacinta grunts, elbows waving outward in a disappointed sort of shrug. She watches the exchange between mentor and student with a bit of a frown before asking of Grey, "And your kin? Are they a strength for your Tribe? And would you tell me how I might contact them, to find what they might say?" Cy takes out another smoke with a nod of thanks and passes the small box back to Grey, one proverbial ear trained on the Wendigo and Ragabash. Jeren falls silent once more, finding refuge in studying the disturbed dirt near both Philodox. Grey lights the cigarette while the Wendigo speaks and doesn't look up at her. "...I'd like to think so," he mutters, and then, more clearly, adds, "I'll get you their numbers." He offers the lighter to the cub as he takes back the box of Camels. Jacinta allows a faint smile with the small nod she offers Grey. "Ii. Quyana." The red-haired cub fires up her cigarette, then flicks the lighter shut with a metallic *snckt*. "Family," she says abruptly. Her dark gaze rests on the Wendigo. "We're family." Grey's eyebrows flick upwards, then down, pulling together as he frowns. He looks over at Cy, then flicks a brief glance up at Jacinta. Jacinta tenses at Cy's words, jaw setting and the skin around her eyes pulling tight. She grunts wordlessly and crosses her arms over her chest, but whatever thoughts led to those reactions never receive voice and she turns to Grey, expectant. Cy shifts a look between Jacinta and the older Philodox, her expression shadowing stubbornly. "That's a strength, innit?" She exhales a sharp puff of smoke. Grey drops his gaze down to his cigarette. He grunts, takes a drag, exhales smoke along with his next words. "Indeed it is. We are, very much, a family." Jeren regards Cy carefully, then shifts her gaze toward Jacinta. No verbal remarks from her. Jacinta schools her features into an expressionless mask, avoiding, for the moment, looking at any of those present. The cub's frown deepens--it's the expression of someone who's unwittingly stumbled into a hornet's nest. "--I think I've got some dishes t'do," she mutters, stubbing out the barely-finished cigarette and pocketing the remains. Nevermind that the safehouse has a dishwashing machine. Clambering to her feet, she brushes both soil-filthy hands off on her jeans and heads for the door. Grey looks up sharply at the cub's retreat, his mouth pulling into a faint grimace. Still seated on the ground, the halfmoon flicks a brief, sour gaze up at Jacinta, then lets it fall to the grassy turf right in front of him. He takes another pull off his cigarette. "...Anything else?" Jeren moves aside for Cy. The cub is given a rather half-hearted, thin lipped excuse for a smile as she passes, an expression that almost immediately disappears once the Ragabash looks back toward the remaining two Garou. Jacinta watches the cub go, her mask slipping as a look of regret crosses her features. "No," she says to Grey. "Only the contact information for your kin, if you would." Grey grunts. "Right." He pushes to his feet and starts stalking toward the house. Jeren takes this moment to turn in as well, following in Cy's wake, but before Grey. Jacinta follows after, giving space to the Philodox. 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. Grey stubs out his cigarette before he goes into the house, but carries the odor of smoke with him as he stalks into the kitchen. A quick rummaging in drawers produces a notepad and a pen; he starts writing, not once looking back to see if Jacinta has followed him in. Jacinta stands by the back door, staying out of the way as she waits. The silence is awkward, repleat with unspoken words that fill the air and make it heavy. As for Jeren, she crosses into the living room, rubbing at the back of her neck. Without a word, she heads for the Glass Walker side of the house. Grey writes down three names -- Rina, Jon, Jeremy -- and three phone numbers to go with them. He has to check his cellphone for Jon's number, but he knows Rina's and Jeremy's by heart. Tearing off the page, he looks up, then heads for the back door to where the Wendigo stands waiting. He offers the paper to her between two fingers, his face unsmiling and solemn. Jacinta takes the paper, equally sober in expression. "Quyana, Thomas. Is there anything you can tell me of these? What roles they play for your ... family?" The word is used with thought, but no malice. Grey folds his arms across his chest, looking at the paper in Jacinta's hand. "Rina's been in town longer than any of us. She's... well-connected in some of the city's less-savory aspects. Jon's Natalie's mate, and without him, we wouldn't have this house. Jeremy's..." He hesitates a bare second or two. "Jeremy's technical. Very technical." Jacinta looks down at the paper as Grey gives his introduction to the people listed. "Ii," she says again. "Quyana. Hopefully after speaking with them I will be able to see more what it is your Tribe needs." She looks up at the Philodox and then glances toward the front of the house. Grey nods; the gesture has an automatic quality, as though he's not really 'there', as though he's distanced himself from the conversaion already. He offers a dully polite, "Good luck," and then adds, in the same tone, "Anything else I can do for you?" Jacinta doesn't reply initially, instead walking toward the front door. Before she reaches it, however, she turns to regard Grey. "Nothing. For me, nothing." Her gaze travels over his form, top to bottom and left to right. "Nothing for me. Piurra, Thomas." Grey looks at her, his eyes narrowing, his lean face turning hard and brittle. "Walk with Gaia, Jacinta," he says in farewell, and his voice matches his expression. Jacinta nods in return, then opens the door and walks out. Her deep sigh of regret is probably not audible as she closes the door behind her.