It is currently 14:50 Pacific Time on Wed May 18 2005.
Currently in Saint Claire, it is raining heavily. The temperature is 57 degrees
      Fahrenheit (13 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the 
      south at 10 mph, with gusts up to 31 mph. The barometric pressure reading 
      is 29.49 and rising, and the relative humidity is 74 percent. The 
      dewpoint is 49 degrees Fahrenheit (9 degrees Celsius.)
Currently the moon is in the waxing Gibbous Moon phase (68% full).
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.

The door of the bunker is heavy steel, and fastens at top and bottom with
      sliding bolts. There's a pull handle on the outside, the sort you find on 
      the outside of convienence stores. The inside, however, is another story. 
      There are no bolts here, and only one small handle high up near the 
      ceiling to pull open the door. Homid fingers can work it easily, and a 
      Crinos, if they concentrated, could get a claw or two into the loop of 
      metal.
The room is usually furnished sparsely - an army cot with a couple of olive
      wool blankets, a thin 'pillow'. The single light bulb is guarded by a 
      sturdy metal cage, while a bit more light comes in at the top of the wall 
      where blocks were left out and replaced by a series of iron bars.

You paged the room with 'So, /does/ the bunker have a post-Cy cot?'.
Natalie pages to the room: Yup. Probably gotten at the first small moon post
      her release. Yay army surplus.

The basement is, and has been, dark, and Grey keeps the company of roaches.
      After that initial angry Crinos-ruckus last night, right after Natalie 
      kicked him down the stairs, it's been... quiet.

Grey sits on the cot in the bunker, his back against the wall, slouched but not
      sleeping. The door is not quite closed, and anyone coming down the 
      basement stairs can easily catch the whiff of staling cigarette smoke.

The light over the washing machine flicks on a few seconds before the sound of
      the doorlatch snicking closed carries down the steps; footsteps clatter 
      down the treads, too heavy to be Jeren or Kevin, too non-sulky to be Cy. 
      As the footsteps fade there comes the subtle sound of joints popping, and 
      the even fainter noise of toenails clicking against the concrete. 
      Holds-the-Line sniffs, then sneezes against the acrid tang of nicotine 
      and carbons, her feet carrying her on a long circuit of the basement 
      before ending up at the door to the bunker. More sniffing there, and she 
      shoulders her way into the concrete room. Holds-his-Tongue? What are you 
      doing down here?

On the small side for an adult, this beige female wolf probably doesn't tip the
      100 pound mark. Unlike many wolves she doesn't sport a darker mask around 
      her eyes; instead a scattering of darker brown hairs fleck her entire 
      body. Frequent small scars suggest she is the survivor of plenty of 
      fights. She isn't as long-legged as other wolves, her build more like a 
      brick than a gazelle, hinting at stamina in addition to speed. Her eyes 
      are not a typical wolven gold, but more of a pumpkin-orange.

Grey stares dully at the small, pumpkin-eyed she-wolf, the bags under his eyes
      almost large enough to hide a Grand Klaive or three. He answers with a 
      shrug, then reaches over, picks up the pack of Camels sitting on the cot 
      next to him, and discovers that it's empty. Not only empty, but crumpled. 
      He grimaces tosses it back onto the cot.

The darkness in the bunker may keep her shadowed, but he may as well have a
      neon sign above his head. She pads over, nudging her shoulder against his 
      leg, then hops up onto the cot and its tentative footing. I have been 
      thinking, she tells him. And speaking to no-longer Dances-in-Shadows. 
      What of you?

A hand lands on her neck, fingers automatically digging into the ruff, 
      stritching passionlessly. "You should take the jar to Megan," is his 
      answer, once he's deciphered the in-the-dark wolf 'speech'. "She can 
      sense the nature of things. Imbalance, not just Wyrm."

Holds-the-Line arches into the scratching with a happy little grunt. That is
      wise. I will do that. Will you go make the lights? I am lazy. I do not 
      want to leave the wolf.

Grey grunts, then shifts himself onto his feet, more out of obedience than any
      shared desire for illumination. His sneakers scuff the floor, dragging, 
      as he heads across the basement and to the lightswitch at the top of the 
      stairs.

Cockroaches, dozens of them, go scuttling away when light floods the basement
      and bunker, and in due time the Philodox comes wearily back, one hand 
      rubbing at his face, raking back through his lank, unwashed hair.

Holds-the-Line hops off the cot to sniff after the roaches, the metal frame
      thocking into the concrete. Her tail waves lazily, ears pricked forward 
      as she communes with their Totem, and when Grey returns she is in the far 
      corner of the bunker from the cot, investigating the angle of floor and 
      wall. She turns to face him, tongue lolling slightly. Thank you. Why are 
      you here in the dark?

Grey re-enters the bunker and leans against a wall just inside the door, arms
      folded across his chest. He answers her question with a shrug and then, 
      "...Thought I'd stay down here until I was fit for polite company."

Holds-the-Line is not polite, with another brief wag of her tail.
      Dances-no-more says you did not go to fight last night. Are you well, 
      Grey One?

Grey's brow furrows. "Fight?"

At the... the wolf begins, then snorts irritation. It does not matter. I will
      tell you later. Are you well?

His scent certainly isn't healthy; beyond the acrid reek of cigarette smoke
      there's heavy fatigue, poor eating, stress. He stares at a blank spot of 
      floor for a few long seconds, then shakes his head.

Holds-the-Line's toenails mark her path back across the bunker to him; again
      she bumps into his legs with her shoulder fondly. Tell me? she asks 
      without much expectation that he actually -will-.

Grey looks down at her, then sinks into a crouch, his back against the wall;
      his fingers dig into her ruff again, seeking the possibly itchy skin 
      underneath. "Anya wasn't lying." He doesn't really look at her. At least 
      not her face. More her back, toward the tail.

Holds-the-Line's tail stills, but only so she can concentrate on arching her
      back into his hand. Her, Who?, is distracted, at best.

"The judge who made me Ronin," says Grey, fingers still working her ruff. His
      weight shifts, too much for his sleep-deprived self to keep balanced in 
      that pose, and he sinks further, sitting full on the floor with a grunt.

All the better for the wolf to shove her head into the sudden appearance of his
      lap. You are not Ronin. You are Glass Walker. Right there, please.

Grey stops. He looks down at her with a frown, then shrugs and starts
      scritching again, more slowly. Sensitive lupine ears can pick up the 
      slowing of breath that usually signals either incipient unconsciousness 
      or a depressive turn of mood.

Holds-the-Line sighs happily and likewise settles down, her forelegs curling
      against his upper thigh as her head drops into his lap. She seems 
      oblivious to his mood, at least until the quiet, Tell me? It's decidedly 
      a request, not an order, and she's not looking at him to enforce her 
      dominance. Just a boy and his dog.

Grey's mind seems to be running along that track, though he reverses it.
      "...I'm a dog, Natalie," he says a few moments after her urging. "A very 
      well-bred, very well-trained... dog. The things Anya said... it wasn't 
      lies. And the Sept knew. She wasn't..." He trails off, shakes his head. 
      "I thought I knew the worst of myself."

Holds-the-Line's ears flick at him. You do not?

Grey's fingers slow further, barely moving. He shakes his head faintly, shame
      and guilt tightening his jaw. He swallows once, not looking at her, then 
      resumes his previous scritching-pace.

Holds-the-Line tilts her head on his lap so she can look up at his face. I did
      not hear that. Do you want me to shift? You have clever fingers; I do not 
      want to.
There's a layer of 'But I will if you want me to' from the wolf.

Grey turns his head slightly, one tired brown eye shifting to the wolf's face;
      his blind eye is barely visible under its heavy lid, though its mate is 
      only half-obscured. "Up to you," he says dully, and then leans his head 
      back against the concrete wall. "...Dog." This is not directed at the 
      Galliard herself, or at least he doesn't seem to be addressing her with 
      it.

Holds-the-Line stretches out her nose to nudge under his other hand, her nose
      cool and moist against his skin. You are not, she offers in a whine, her 
      ears folding back unhappily.

The nudged hand remains limp, much like all the rest of him apart from the
      fingers that continue to work their magic in the Elder's yellow-brown 
      fur. "I am, actually." He sounds... resigned. "Do you know what the 
      difference is, between a dog and a wolf?"

A heavily blown-out sigh is her only answer.

"A wolf has its own mind," ill-kept pure-bred Garou continues. "Whatever its
      status. It may roll over before everyone, but it still has its own mind. 
      A dog... doesn't. A dog is nothing without a master to obey. It might be 
      a /bright/ dog, it might be so well-trained that people think it has its 
      own mind... but it doesn't."

I do not understand, the Galliard complains quietly, shoving her nose farther
      under his hand, then giving his palm a quick lick.

Grey sighs, his head coming forward, bowing as though just a mite too heavy for
      his neck. He looks at her wearily from behind hair long enough to cover 
      his eyes. "I'm a dog," he says again. "The pure blood fools people, but 
      that's all it is. Blood. A quirk of genetics." He grunts. "Take me to the 
      next AKC competition, I'll win a ribbon. Or would, if not for the scars. 
      Probably bite a judge, too. So. Not even a very /good/ dog." The humor in 
      this last bit is black, more acidic than cheerful.

Holds-the-Line tells him fiercely that he is -not- a dog. She does not -want- a
      dog. -Or- a wolf. He is the Grey One. He is Garou.

Grey grimaces. "Metaphor." His fingers have stopped scritching her ruff. And
      speaking of 'Grey One', there are a few of those mixed in the black 
      beard-growth at the corners of his mouth. Were they there a few weeks ago?

Holds-the-Line churfs at him, a whining yawning sound, and pushes herself off
      his lap. She presses up against him, seeking to deliver comfort, her nose 
      investigating the hollow of his ear, and the curve of his neck. I do not 
      understand, she repeats. You say you have a... master? Who? No one. Only 
      I get to tell you what to do.

Grey grunts, pulling away slightly from the cold wetness against his skin.
      "Exactly. You. John before you. Malone before him."

And you, she insists, leaving off shoving her nose in her ear and sitting
      instead. Does that mean Long-Climb-Ahead is a dog? Silent-cub? No!

Grey grits his teeth. "/They/," he says, with force, "are /wolves/. /Look/." He
      pulls off his t-shirt -- the hooded sweatjacket having been discarded on 
      the cot hours and hours ago -- and bares his chest, angrily, and 
      shamefully, displaying the Crinos-sized, seven-fingered hand imprinted in 
      his flesh. "I. Am. A. /Dog/."

Holds-the-Line does not understand, laying her ears back. A second, and she
      shivers up into Crinos, and from there down to the more conversant homid. 
      "--Hell, Thomas. What the..." She stares at the imprint, then at his 
      face, confused. "What the hell is that?"

Grey's face is flushed, an expression rarely seen -- if ever. "It's a vampire's
      mark." He's still seated on the floor of the bunker, staring directly at 
      her now, though this seems less a challenge and more an intent desire to 
      make the Galliard understand. "Sabbat. /Tzimisce/." His left hand curls 
      into a fist against the concrete, while the other grips the plain black 
      cotton of his doffed shirt. "/Anya wasn't lying/."

Natalie drops down to one knee beside him, taking no challenge from his eyes on
      hers. "Tsim..." she repeats blankly, shakes her head and reaches out for 
      the strange distortion of flesh. "I don't know. I don't... are you a 
      danger?" Her eyes lift from that mark, back up to his. "To the tribe? To 
      my... to /our/ cubs?"

Grey lets her touch him, though his whole body is tight and tense. The flesh
      feels normal enough, apart from the fact that something's used him as 
      their personal block of play-doh. When she looks at his eyes again, his 
      own gaze twitches away. He shakes his head. "It's dead. Years ago."

Natalie barely touches him before flinching away; two seconds of hesitation and
      she gently lays her fingers on the... "What /is/ it? Is it a burn? Acid? 
      /Damn/, Thomas. It looks like it hurt like a bitch."

"Fleshcrafting," is his answer. The actual touch makes him twitch, jaw
      clenching; he shuts his eyes and lays his head back against the concrete 
      wall. It takes him a moment to speak again, but he goes on before she can 
      ask him to elaborate. "It could... do that. Mold flesh and... bone... 
      with a touch. At will." He swallows hard. "It... heals. Like anything... 
      not mortal. But /that/... didn't."

Natalie yanks her hand back again, as if whatever did that could reach across
      time and space and do it to her. "Damn. And this... you were captured by 
      the Sabbat, right? Vampires? Those... Tsimech?" There's concern in her 
      voice, but also a fascinated horror. Not for him the latter, but what was 
      done to him all those years ago. "Damn. Can you... put your shirt back 
      on? That's just freaky as hell. I'm gonna take some time to get used to 
      it."

Grey's jaw /tightens/, so much so that it's a wonder his teeth don't shatter
      with the force of it. Face averted, he pulls the t-shirt back on and, 
      barely a heartbeat later, is surging up onto his feet and pacing across 
      the bunker, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

Natalie actually falls back a step from him, her own arms folding across her
      belly as she turns to watch him pace. "What can I do? You're... Look, 
      Thomas. I don't know who the hell this Anya was, and I don't know what 
      she said. And I don't know who you were all those years ago. All I know 
      is what I've seen since I moved here: you're brave, you're loyal as hell. 
      You love - maybe not wisely, but well - and you /came back/. You didn't 
      have to. But you did. You took a pushy bitch convinced of her own 
      stupidity and told her you'd pack with her. You know what that did for 
      me? I'm not going to let you... I /am/ going to help you, Thomas Grey." 
      Whether he likes it or not.

The bunker's too small; he doesn't have far to pace before coming face to face
      with the opposite wall. He stands there, staring down where wall meets 
      floor, his back to her, his body stiff and tight, shoulders hunched. He 
      listens to her in silence and doesn't reply.

"I'm going to..." she begins, ends. Silence. "You're not a dog," she says
      finally. "And I'm going to go upstairs. Don't... please. I..." So much 
      for the Galliard's vaunted coherency. Eventually she manages a quiet, 
      "Please don't self-destruct. I'll help you, any way I can. All you have 
      to do is... ask." Without another word she turns and slips out of the 
      bunker, then up the stairs leaving the lights burning behind her as 
      silent witness.