It is currently Mon May 23 2005.
Currently in Saint Claire, it is raining lightly. The temperature is 62 degrees
      Fahrenheit (16 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the 
      northwest at 12 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.25 and steady, 
      and the relative humidity is 49 percent. The dewpoint is 43 degrees 
      Fahrenheit (6 degrees Celsius.)
Currently the moon is in the waning Full Moon phase (98% 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.

Grey may have noticed after picking up Kevin for the morning run that the
      British cub was in a mood more sullen even than one might expect at so 
      full a moon. As the jog progressed, he seemed to lighten up a little, but 
      he remained close and untalkative until the return home and breakfast, 
      his now-shaggy mane of hair, uncut since his cubnap, dangling into his 
      face and helping to conceal his expression. Breakfast is cooked, eaten, 
      and cleaned up after, and still he's quiet, sitting on the couch, keeping 
      his thoughts to himself.
Grey has never, in the time Kevin's come to know him, been a chatty sort; he
      talks most when he's lecturing... or cursing people out in Serbian. So 
      the Philodox doesn't comment on the young Ragabash's quiet, and after 
      breakfast, he retreats upstairs for a shower, as usual.
Jeren has been absent both for the morning run (an occasional occurrence), and
      the following breakfast (something that's become rather routine the past 
      two weeks). She's also nowhere to be seen after, though Grey might notice 
      that the bathroom's been used recently enough for the mirror to still be 
      fogged up.
Kevin remains where he is, staring quietly into space, seemingly lost in
      thought.
Grey comes back downstairs in due time, black hair wet and combed back (not
      that it'll stay this neat for long), and dressed in something other than 
      jogging sweats. Glancing into the living room, he spots Kevin, frowns, 
      and then steps into the room.
Kevin's eyes seem to focus back in and he gives Grey a long, tired look.
      "Thomas-rhya," he says formally. "Good run. Thanks."
Grey folds his arms across his chest and looks unsmilingly down at the boy.
      "Heard some snarling last night," he says. "Care to tell me what 
      happened?" His tone of voice suggests that the cub doesn't have much of a 
      choice.
Kevin closes his eyes a second. "Just a couple of stupid cubs in a pissing
      contest. Nothing to worry about. Jeren-rhya kept us from doing anything 
      too stupid and gave us both a good talking to." He opens his eyes again 
      and looks critically at a spot on the wall well removed from Thomas 
      Grey's position.
Grey grunts. "Dominance contests on a full moon can be dangerous, yes." He
      heads over to his usual armchair and settles into it, leaning back.
A door opens upstairs. There's a pause of about half a minute, and then
      footsteps can be heard treading softly and slowly across the upstairs 
      hallway, and down the stairs.
The sound of approaching feet doesn't escape Kevin. "I guess it was really
      someone else I wanted to take it out on, after that day at the bunker," 
      he confesses. "But that would have been an even worse idea, so your cub 
      drew the short straw instead."
Grey pays no attention to the footsteps; he sits up and focusses fully on
      Kevin. "Elaborate."
The footsteps come to a stop just before their owner is actually in view of the
      living room. Sneaky Ragabash and their eavesdropping.
Kevin's eyes drift back to Thomas. "What's more to say?" he asks. "Being shot
      without warning is never gonna be fun. Being shot without warning, and 
      afterwards not even getting a 'sorry, but it was all part of training and 
      necessary' is even less fun."
Grey's eyes narrow slightly, though the lid of the blind one droops low enough
      to reduce that orb to a thin sliver of white. He stares at Kevin for a 
      few seconds before asking, blandly, "Talked to Jeren about this?"
Yet more silence from the direction of the stairs.
Kevin shakes his head. "I thought it'd be better left till a smaller moon,
      given what happened the last time I tried to bring up an awkward point at 
      a full moon." Ah, tact, thy name is Kevin.
Grey sits back again, slowly, muscles tightening in his jaw. "So, instead, you
      turned your ire on a tribemate who didn't deserve it. One who couldn't 
      beat you in a fight." His nose wrinkles, and he lets a touch of scorn 
      enter his voice. "Very noble of you."
Kevin purses his lips. "That's assuming rather a lot about Cy," he shoots back.
      "As a matter of fact, /she/ got the jump on /me/. You've obviously been 
      training her damned hard. She's saying she's going to rite not long after 
      me." A world of words lie unspoken in that statement. "I really couldn't 
      say who'd have taken down whom if Jeren hadn't separated us."
Jeren finally shoves her way into view, hands stuffed into jeans pockets. For
      all the time she took that she could have been working on her temper, it 
      doesn't seem to have done much. The Ragabash's eyes are bright and 
      red-rimmed, her hair is sticking up in all sorts of fun, wild 
      combinations, and the muscles in her face, shoulders, and back seem drawn 
      as tight as they possibly can. She doesn't pause in the living room--she 
      strolls, or rather stalks, straight through and down the hall toward the 
      kitchen.
"You've been training longer than Cy," begins Grey, "and--" He stops as Jeren
      passes, frowning, and then resumes as though she hadn't appeared at all. 
      "And you've gotten combat training from Natalie, from me, /and/ from 
      Emma. Cy, as far as I know, has only gotten the most basic lessons from 
      me. And unlike her, you're not apt to lose your head in a fight."
"Okay," says Kevin with apparent equanimity. "It wasn't her being good, it was
      me being bad. She just seemed to suddenly... be right up close and shove 
      me into the wall..."
Things go rattling about in the kitchen--sounds like the refrigerator. Moments
      later, Jeren's footsteps indicate she's coming back down the hall.
Grey raises an eyebrow and stares very hard at Kevin. "...With no provocation
      whatsoever?"
"Oh, I /provoked/ her like a bitch," Kevin admits freely enough. "I just didn't
      know she could move so damn fast. From zero to in-your-face-you-bastard 
      in nought point three seconds."
Jeren appears, bearing a freshly opened bottle of beer. Mmm, breakfast. She
      looks as stormy as she did a moment ago, but much like last night, she 
      gives Grey and Kevin a wide berth, then settles into the farthest 
      possible seat--on the floor, with her back to the wall.
"She's learning her rage," Grey tells Kevin flatly. "Part of that is
      channelling it for such things." He glances at Jeren, jaw tight, then 
      looks back at Kevin. "Besides the point in any case. Cy wasn't the person 
      you were pissed at." His stare is still hard, intent.
Kevin's answer comes slowly. "No... no, she wasn't." His eyes flick to the
      obstentatiously distant Jeren, and back to the philodox. "I messed up 
      again."
"So," says the Philodox, still staring at the cub, "remedy it."
Jeren is distant in more ways than one. She doesn't make any effort to join in
      on this conversation, at least until she's addressed--no, her 
      concentration is on trying to down the first swallow of beer.
Kevin gives Grey a sullen look as he slides out of his chair and takes a couple
      of cautious steps in Jeren's direction.
The second swallow seems even more difficult for Jeren to force down than the
      first. Or at the very least, she's putting across that it is; so much 
      easier not to acknowledge Kevin's approach that way.
Kevin comes to an awkward halt a couple of feet from Jeren, and an equally
      awkward silence reigns for several moments.
Jeren finally lowers the beer bottle from her mouth and looks up. She doesn't
      break the silence, however.
Kevin takes a deep breath, then another, seemingly trying to nerve himself to
      say something.
A scene like this deserves a rolling tumbleweed. Too bad they're in a city in
      the Pacific Northwest. Jeren, predictably, continues to say nothing.
Grey rests his elbows on the arms of his chair and laces his fingers together,
      bearing silent witness.
Kevin is it who finally breaks the still-life tableau. He doesn't speak,
      though. He whirls to his side, face contorted, and stamps, STAMPS, as 
      loudly as he can, up the stairs to the cubs' bunkroom. The sound of a 
      slammed door comes in his wake.
Something unpleasant crawls swiftly over Jeren's expression and disappears. She
      lifts the beer bottle almost immediately to her mouth, and takes the 
      biggest swallow yet--it's doomed to failure, because she chokes on it, 
      spluttering most of the amber liquid back out and down her chin. Lovely. 
      She swipes furiously at her mouth to try and catch the drips before they 
      reach her shirt, but she's only marginally successful.
Grey's lip curls, disgust to be read plainly across his scarred features. He
      snaps out a few words, then pushes to his feet and stalks out of the 
      living room.
Jeren swears loudly, something that sounds like it's a mangling between English
      and Mother's Tongue, as if she can't quite decide which to use. The 
      Ragabash too, leaves the living room, going only as far as the bathroom 
      before a sound of breaking glass is very audible. One hopes that was the 
      beer bottle, not the mirror.
Grey, meanwhile, takes himself into the computer lab and seats himself at one
      of the computers. Not, one may note, the new 'demon case' one. He glowers 
      at the monitor for a moment or three before logging in.
More sounds of glass breaking, though these trail closer to crunching rather
      than shattering, and continue long enough for whatever is being broken to 
      be so well ground up that only a faint clink can be heard above the 
      louder sound of something forceful impacting repeatedly with something 
      hard and solid. And then that trails away into silence too.
Grey grits his teeth at the sounds, trying to ignore them and failing. He
      mutters something under his breath as he pulls up the webbrowser, and 
      then finds himself staring at Google.com without any real idea of what he 
      intends to look up.
For the span of about two minutes, there isn't a single sound that escapes the
      bathroom. And then, as if to completely conflict with the violence of 
      before, the faucet is turned on, and left to run. This almost, but not 
      quite, hides the sound of tiny glass splinters being scooped into the 
      garbage can.
Grey cocks his head, listening with narrowed eyes, then grunts and starts
      typing. He knows how to touch-type (fingers in the proper positions and 
      everything) but isn't quick about it. Not by a long shot.
After an inordinately long time, the faucet is turned off. Even longer, and
      Jeren emerges from the bathroom in glabro with a wet face, wet hair, and 
      knuckles that are swiftly healing the rather significant damage she just 
      did to them.
Grey, hearing this, closes down the browser and swivels his chair around in the
      direction of the bathroom, his expression unreadable.
Jeren returns the unreadable expression with a rather dark, but equally blank
      one of her own. She looks more tired than angry now, but there are lines 
      of frustration in every muscle of her body.
Grey breaks the mutual stare first and looks at the monitor, which now shows
      nothing but the login window. "Drinking doesn't suit you," says the 
      Philodox.
"Yeah." Jeren's otherwise gruff voice in this form is even huskier. "I guess
      not."

[Jeren, Glabro]
If her surroundings are dark, she might just pass for human--very dark, that
      is. This creature is simply too hairy, too reminiscent of old horror 
      movies to otherwise go unrecognized. She has a sloping brow, with her 
      eyebrows coming nearly together in the center, and deepset eyes that 
      appear grey, but something about them suggests an animal presence just 
      below the surface. Her ears come to a slight point, below which a thin 
      line of hair (fur?) follows the line of her jaw about halfway to her chin 
      on each side of her face. Her black hair is short, but nevertheless a 
      wild, untamed thing that doesn't want to lie flat. She has long limbs, 
      long nails, and teeth that are just slightly too pointy for comfort. When 
      she walks, it is with a definite lope, as though she were walking 
      primarily on the balls of her feet. She stands just below the six foot 
      mark.
Carrying:
Fang of the Wyrm

Grey folds his arms across his chest and turns partially back toward the
      Ragabash, looking at her without meeting her eyes. "I dislike it when 
      people pry into my business," he says slowly. "So I don't do it to 
      others."
Jeren grunts. "That's why this Tribe has Natalie." She shrugs one shoulder.
      "She already knows." Hesitation. "--I'm just working through something. 
      It'll blow over." This last sounds more like a wish than a statement, but 
      ah well.
"Mnh," says the Philodox. He nods, seeming to accept this, and then rises from
      the chair with smooth, controlled dignity. "In the meantime, you might 
      want to talk things over with Kevin. He seems to have some issues with 
      you."
Jeren exhales sharply. "At this point," she mutters darkly, "who doesn't?" A
      hand is raised almost immediately, however, to try and stave off any 
      anger at the smart-ass remark. "--I'll talk to him."
Grey's eyes narrow dangerously, but her gesture seems to have its intended
      effect... more or less. The anger's there; he just represses it. Pushing 
      the chair back in toward the desk, he moves past her and toward the 
      kitchen. "Planning to join us at the Moot?"
Jeren hesitates rather longer than such a simple question warrants. "--Yeah."
      She trails the Philodox at a respectful distance. "Yeah, I am. Look, 
      um...Thomas." She lifts a hand to rake at her hair, then wisely decides 
      against it in this form. "I know I've been damned aggravating. I'm sorry. 
      This is...different. I'm not used to teaching cubs, or living with people 
      I still barely know."
Breakfast has been recent and it's not time for lunch yet, so Grey gets himself
      a glass of ice water. "The Sept Alpha didn't get pissed off at you," he 
      notes blandly. "You must be doing /something/ right."
"Hrf." Jeren eyes the refrigerator as she reaches up for her own glass. No beer
      this time. She's having some of Natalie's uber-pulp orange juice. "I 
      think I might have said five whole sentences to Megan-rhya when she was 
      here." Pause. "Or maybe I was just so terrified of screwing up with her 
      too that I actually managed to put all the 'yes sirs' and 'no sirs' in 
      the right places."
Grey leans against the counter, his free arm held across his chest. He grunts.
      "Maybe," is all he says, and that in a distinctly noncommittal tone of 
      voice. He stares at a spot on the opposite wall and swallows water.
Jeren gets the orange juice down a hell of a lot easier than she was able to
      drink the beer. In fact, the juice practically disappears within the span 
      of a few seconds. "--So, your cub. Last night. She hit Kevin. But she 
      didn't frenzy on him, and she held herself together the whole night."
Grey cocks his head, eyeing her, then absently brushes a still-damp lock of
      hair away from his good eye. "Good."
Jeren pauses, then adds, "She's got a damned good head on her shoulders. And,
      looking back on what happened, I don't know if I could have intentionally 
      bugged her as much as Kevin did." There's yet another hesitation. "--He's 
      not happy about how fast you guys want to move her along."
Grey's eyes narrow, and a note of sharpness creeps into his voice. "I'm not
      going to hold her back just because /he/ got off to a slow start."
Jeren snorts. "I'm not suggesting you should. The boy needs a priority check.
      He's worried enough about his own Rite, he doesn't need to be brooding 
      about how soon someone else is or isn't ready. He can't concentrate on 
      learning what's important if he's that distracted."
Grey sets his glass down on the counter and folds his arms across his chest.
      "Cubs," he says, both irritated and long-suffering.
Jeren crosses to refill her glass. "Y'know what my elder told me once, before I
      rited?" she says over her shoulder. "He said, 'cubs are Gaia's way of 
      punishing us twice over for all the grief we put /our/ elders through'."
Grey snorts. "Sounds like what people say about parents and children."
Jeren's lips twitch. "Yeah, I've heard that parents say the same thing
      sometimes."
Grey remains solemn. Not to mention restless; he takes up his glass again and
      carries it into the dining room. He doesn't continue the conversation -- 
      not right away, anyway.
Hesitation. And then Jeren follows Grey, with her newly filled glass in hand.
      She's wary, as if half expecting to be shooed away. "...Maybe that's 
      appropriate, for you guys. Cy did say you were a family. A bitter, 
      dysfunctional family at times, but a family all the same."
Grey prowls around the big table until he reaches one of the curtained windows.
      "Mmn," he replies, making the ice clink in his glass and keeping his back 
      to her. "We /are/ fairly tight-knit. Always have been, here... when there 
      were enough of us to /be/ a tribe, instead of a... few scattered 
      individuals."
"Very tight-knit," Jeren agrees. "I'm...rather impressed by it, actually. Maybe
      a little intimidated. I mean, you, and Natalie, and the cubs--I haven't 
      so much as /met/ Tu yet, but..."
Grey half-turns around, his good side toward her, his brow furrowed.
      "Intimidated?"
Jeren hesitates again, the glass halfway to her lips. "...Yeah," she says
      quietly. "A little. It's not...bad. I mean, like you said, tight-knit. 
      But, for instance--" Her lips twitch into a very poor approximation of a 
      smile, "The day after I found out about your mistake, Natalie told me I 
      could take my fetish and hit the road to B.C. if I had a problem with 
      your presence here."
Grey stiffens, his face going visibly stony before he turns it away. Again the
      glass is put down, this time on the dining room table before he paces 
      along the windows. "Mm." He stops, arms folded, still not looking at her. 
      "...She said that?"
"Yeah," Jeren says. Her stupid looking smile disappears. "Yeah, she did. You've
      got a really good elder here, Thomas."
"...I've been fortunate, in that." His voice is muted, the exact emotion in
      them difficult to read.
Jeren falls silent for a few moments, before she adds, "--I don't. Have a
      problem with you being here, that is. Or. Or with you. Just so you know."
Grey nods slightly, his back still to her. "Thank you."
Jeren echoes the nod, then lifts the glass of orange juice and proceeds to
      empty it almost as fast as she did the first. It's an excuse to pause the 
      awkward conversation.
Awkward indeed, and Grey makes no attempt to continue it. After a few moments
      more of staring at the window, the taciturn Philodox retrieves his glass 
      of water and carries it back out to the hallway.
Jeren's going to earn the deed-name of Tags-Along if she's not careful--she
      hesitates again, but once more trails after the older man, pausing only 
      to leave her glass in the sink. "--Can I...Can I tell you something? 
      Something a little private?"
Grey stops and turns back, his expression more than a little wary, more than a
      little guarded. "If you want."
Jeren stiffens and halts her own steps a good five feet away from Grey, gnawing
      at the inside of her cheek. "This is...I don't want to make it sound like 
      I'm trying to say I know at all what...or that I'm trying to offer you 
      any kind of pity..." She grunts. "Shit. This is just going to piss you 
      off. Sorry."
A flash of something angry and dangerous passes across his face at 'pity', and
      his jaw tightens. "Then perhaps you shouldn't," he says curtly, and turns 
      away, heading for the stairs.
"Yeah," Jeren says quietly. This time, she doesn't follow him. The Ragabash
      shrinks back down to homid, stuffs her hands in her pockets, and turns so 
      that her back is leaning against the wall.