It is currently 17:41 Pacific Time on Sat Jul 30 2005.

Currently the moon is in the waning Crescent Moon phase (37% full).

Location: Safehouse, Grey's room.

Natalie pages: And knock-knock on the door.

"It's open," calls the ever-elusive Thomas Grey from behind the closed door.
      The man's been damned scarce the past few weeks, though everything that 
      he typically does around the house (like yardwork) gets done. And of 
      course, with the moon gone thin again, he's been working during the day. 
      But he's still been tough to pin down since Natalie came back from her 
      trip.

The person on the other side of the door is silent for a moment "It may be
      open, but I'd still like to come in," Nat says, sounding amused. "Not to 
      mention, I didn't think you'd installed a lock on this thing."

There's a muttered, grouchy-sounding word, and a few moments later, the
      unshaven Philodox pulls open the door, then turns and stalks, barefoot, 
      back to the chair he'd so recently vacated. A well-worn copy of _Into 
      Thin Air_ drapes facedown over one of the chair's arms. "Most people," he 
      grumbles, "understand that 'it's open' /means/ 'come in'." He still 
      hasn't gotten his hair cut, and it's gotten nigh around jaw-length. And 
      his three-day growth of beard continues to show signs of grey at the 
      corners of his mouth.

"I'd rather stand on excess formality." She excuses herself with a faint smile
      as she follows him in, glancing around the room as she always does. The 
      door is closed behind her, of course. "One of these days you're going to 
      answer, 'Come in!' and I'm going to faint. Well, and find that you've 
      blocked the doorknob with a chair, or something. --How are you doing?" 
      she continues, following up her babbling with a bright-eyed look at the 
      older man. "You don't have to take over the position of house-ghost, you 
      know. Never saw them at the Dominion; don't need to have them here."

The room's as neat as always, everything put away and in its place, in stark
      contrast to the its shaggy-haired occupant. Grey shrugs in answer to her 
      question and comments, then says, "I heard that Kevin passed his Rite." 
      He settles back into the old armchair.

Natalie says "Yup," adding a nod in case the agreement wasn't enough. "Squeaked
      by with hours to spare. Got - stole - a generator, plugged a lamp into 
      it, and there you go. It's not pretty, it's not long-term, but he did 
      what he needed. Calls himself 'Power in the Darkness' now; Power-Up for 
      short. I like it."

"'Power in the Darkness'?" Grey echoes the name with a hint of of incredulity.
      "What is he, a bad eighties hair band?"

Natalie flat-out grins. "I won't tell him if you don't. Besides, he wasn't
      /alive/ for the hair band days. And you don't have much to twit him on, 
      Mr. I-Need-a-Haircut." Another grin, and she slips over to the bed, 
      glancing at him for permission. "You sleeping all right? The fetish 
      working for you? I'm assuming it is, since you haven't... well. Since you 
      haven't said anything about it."

Grey snorts. "My hair's been longer than this." He glances past her to the bed,
      where the little pillow sits neatly atop the real one, in a place of 
      honor, or at least comfort. "No nightmares," he says, turning back to 
      Natalie with a bland expression.

A quick eyeroll and she apparently takes his lack of protest as invitation to
      perch on the edge of the bed. "Good. Glad to hear it." She studies him, 
      head cocked to the side but too blocky to be any sort of bird. An 
      interested fire hydrant, perhaps. "--Got a few minutes? I wanted to ask 
      your advice."

Grey props his elbows on the arms of his chair and laces his hands together.
      "Shoot."

Perhaps her earlier babbling dried up her vocabulary, for Nat just looks at him
      for a few long seconds. "I'm... hell. How do you know when a totem isn't 
      a good fit for you any more? Or... or when it's time to leave a pack?"

Grey's brow furrows slightly, and he cocks his head, focusing his good eye on
      her. The other's half-veiled behind a stray lock of black hair. "Thinking 
      of leaving Havoc?"

"I'm not..." A grimace, and she shrugs, then nods. "Yes? No? I'm not sure. See,
      no one can say that I'm not a good fit for a Wolverine pack, yeah? I 
      mean, my first pack was Cockroach, and when that went boom I went for 
      Bull. I can see the big lack of surprise. And now Wolverine. Bull and 
      Wolverine... they're not subtle. They're... they're scream-and-leap, with 
      a little more class. And I'm just... I don't know. I don't know if that's 
      where I need to be. Where I -should- be. Hell, I'm elder now, and I 
      need... something. I don't know if Vex can provide. I don't even know how 
      to leave a pack gracefully - never done it before."

Grey utters a grunt to acknowledge the 'big lack of surprise' but otherwise
      remains quiet as she talks. "There's no ceremony to leaving a pack. You 
      just do." He shrugs. "Some Garou get upset when a packmate leaves, but 
      packs aren't forever."

Natalie grimaces again, and for a flash shows every one of her twenty-two
      years. "What do you think, though? I haven't... I don't like working 
      without a pack. I can't exactly join Birdseye. I mean, I /could/, but 
      Magpie? Just not my style. And I'll be flayed alive with silver before 
      I'd consider Requiem. There's nothing else even vaguely city-ish, and 
      -this- is where I need to be."

Grey grunts again. "I heard that Requiem turned ranger anyway." He unlaces his
      hands and rakes back the stray lock of hair. "The last I heard, Kaz was 
      thinking of forming a pack."

"Kaz," Nat echoes blankly. "I met her once. Made a fool of myself. But she's a
      good neighbor - I hardly know she's around." Once more she falls silent, 
      studying Grey's face as though it's the Rosetta Stone. Finally she 
      offers, "I don't know her. Not well enough to... well. Who does she have 
      her eye on to follow? Any ideas who she's asked to join?"

Grey grimaces faintly and shrugs. That lock of hair falls back over his dead
      eye. "To be honest, I haven't talked to her in weeks. But, knowing her, 
      something unpretentious. Probably a family-style pack, more laid-back 
      than Havoc."

Natalie says "Habeneros are more laid-back than Havoc."

Grey snorts. It's not really a laugh. "Yes." He pauses a beat, then shrugs
      again. "You could always form your own, of course. If you knew what you 
      wanted out of it."

Natalie answers his snort with a little smirk of her own, acknowledging his
      acknowledgement and then letting it lie. "Well. That's the rub, isn't it? 
      The city could always use another war pack, but I don't know if... hell." 
      She props her elbows on her knees, and chin on folded hands. "I don't 
      know if they need a -war- pack, or another pack of people who can kick 
      butt. The two aren't the same. We've got Birdseye for scouting - 
      theoretically - and Resonance to pass information - again, theoretically, 
      but at least there's Alicia. You've been in St. Claire loads longer than 
      I have. What do -you- think we need?"

Grey shakes his head and looks down at his folded hands. "I don't know. Maybe
      something no bigger than another set of eyes to watch over a neglected 
      block or three." He picks up his book, dogears the page he was on, and 
      closes it.

Natalie says "Huh," then nods. "Yeah. That's... See? That's why I come to you
      for advice. You take all this flailing around and frothing I'm doing, and 
      cut through all the crap." She straightens, adds, "I'd still pack with 
      you, you know. Only reason I didn't suggest you join Havoc is because 
      Signe would have had kittens."

Grey looks up from the book, blinking once. Then his expression goes bland
      again. "Signe would. And I would not feel... comfortable... packing under 
      Wolverine again."

Natalie continues, "And since she's supposed to have Garou, not kittens..." Has
      she been spending too much time with Kevin again? "But... maybe I'll see 
      if I can talk to Kaz. I don't know. She's... She's a Gnawer. But, she's 
      /Fostern/. And she -seemed- decent. Then again, so did Olga when I met 
      her for the first time. I just don't... I don't know if I can trust a 
      Gnawer to do anything but cut and run. Then again, I don't know how much 
      of that is -me- speaking, and how much influenced by Vex."

Grey's eyes narrow. "I'd trust Kaz with my life. I'd certainly trust her to
      watch my back. She packed under Weasel, at one point, you know."

Up go Nat's eyebrows. "I didn't." Another thought seems to strike the woman.
      "What about you? You looking for a pack?"

Grey's gaze shifts away from her again, wandering over to the window. "Not
      actively."

"Meaning... at all?" The Galliard leans back and plunges onward before he can
      reply. "Well, I'll check out Kaz and her possible pack. It may be she 
      wants to pack under... hell, I don't know. Butterfly, or something 
      /completely/ unsuitable. I'm just... think I ought to cut ties with Vex 
      before I start scouting around? Part of me says I shouldn't leave them in 
      the lurch, especially with the hospital gone to hell, but another part of 
      me says that if I think I'm done, then I'm done, and I shouldn't go 
      behind Vex's back while I'm checking out other packs."

"I agree," says Grey, nodding slightly. "I'd do it soon, too... before the moon
      gets fat."

Natalie snorts sardonically and pushes to her feet. "Oh /hell/ yeah. Well,
      this'll take away Emma's excuses. It'll be interesting to see who ends up 
      Beta. --Come downstairs?" she adds, jerking her head toward the door. "No 
      one else is home. Kevin and Elanora went off to tackle the smog bane 
      yesterday, and I haven't seen Scratch, Tu, or Trent for days. There might 
      be something decent on TV."

Grey seems to consider it for a second or two before uttering a grunt and
      pushing to his feet obligingly. "Fine." He takes a moment to turn off the 
      reading lamp next to the armchair, then starts for the door. "Though, in 
      regards to the TV, I doubt it."

"Yeah, well, that's why we've got DVDs." Nor does she seem particularly ruffled
      by the lack of programming. "Pop some corn, have a beer or something, 
      maybe watch... hell, I don't know. Something. We're adults. we can figure 
      it out." Nat lets him leave first - or perhaps she's playing sheepdog, 
      and just making sure he actually leaves his hermitage.

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.

                       +views and +places are available                        

Obvious exits:
Common Area  BAsement  

Grey lets the Galliard herd him downstairs, then angles off toward the kitchen,
      saying, "I'll get the beers."

"Sweet!" Nat calls after, then goes to browse their collection of movies. When
      he returns, beer in hand, she has a selection laid out on the coffee 
      table: _Stargate_, _Moulin Rouge_, _Van Helsing_, and _X-men_. "I'm 
      thinking something light and brainless - take your pick. If you can't 
      stand /anything/ I've picked, go find your own bunch, and I'll pick out 
      of it."

Grey eyes Natalie's choices as he hands her one of the two bottles he's brought
      from the kitchen. "Put in _Van Helsing_. I could use a laugh." This is 
      delivered in such a dour, Alan Rickman-like tone that one has to wonder 
      if he actually remembers how.

"Hey now, don't you go dissing my Hugh. Or what's his face, the guy who played
      Faramir." Nodding him toward the couch, she takes a pull of her beer 
      before installing tonight's entertainment of choice. "On the other hand, 
      you can laugh at the chick running around in a leather bustier and high 
      heels all you want. --Crap, have you seen the remote?"

"Check between the cushions," Grey advises as he drops himself down at one end
      of the couch and cracks open his beer.

Natalie glances over her shoulder at him, then drops the disk into the player.
      "You're closer." A beat and she adds, "Too bad you can't use Questing 
      Stone on the remote." A push of the button, and the disk slides 
      obediently into the player, whirring up into automatic play a second 
      later. She ambles back toward the couch, checking out the side tables for 
      the missing remote.

Grey dutifully shifts himself to hunt down the remote, finding it stuck between
      the cushions and the arm of the couch. He hands it over to the Elder.

Natalie waves it off and flops down onto the other side of the couch. "So I
      guess you never did answer. How -are- you doing? Everything all right? 
      Well, as all right as it can get?"

Grey's face is closed, no admittance. "I'm fine." His tone suggests that
      anything further is not up for discussion.

Natalie's lifted eyebrows suggest otherwise, but she has more beer and leans
      back against the couch without saying a word. "You want to hear the 
      commentary, or just the movie? I'm good with either."

"Without, unless you're interested," the Philodox says, again blandly. His free
      hand comes up to again push back that rogue lock of hair.

Natalie flips her hand at him again, slouches down in the couch and stretches
      out her legs. "Without, then. --Oh here, lemme go get the lights." 
      Leaving her beer on the coffee table - on top of a coaster, thank you - 
      she heads over to the hallway and flicks off the living room lights 
      before rejoining him on the couch. Such bad posture.

Grey's posture isn't all that good, either; the halfmoon shifts his weight into
      a slightly deeper slouch, one bare foot propped up on the opposite knee.

Nat's quiet for a couple of minutes, until Mr. Hyde swings down from the
      ceiling. "At least they got the voice right. Wasn't he the guy who played 
      Hagrid? Damn, I need to check out IMDB." A glance Philodox-wards and she 
      shuts up by means of more beer.

Grey answers this with a flat, "Wouldn't know." His scarred face is only
      partially lit by the lighted images from the screen, and in any case he's 
      sitting with his blind side toward the Galliard.

She glances over at him again, whether or not he can see her. "--You've read
      the books at least, right? Or are you one of the... what, twenty people 
      who haven't?"

Grey takes a swig from his bottle. "Some of them. I had to do a book report for
      _Tom Sawyer_, once upon a time."

"Yeah, that's him. Robbie Coltrane," Trent answers, sipping on a bottle of
      Mike's. "He was also in From Hell, The World is Not Enough, and he was 
      Tweedle Dum in the TV version of Alice and Wonderland." Isn't he a font 
      of trivia. "Hi, by the way."

From afar, to the room, Natalie blinkablinka. Where did Trent come from? Just
      magically appear in the recliner?
Trent pages to the room: Isn't there an entrance from the kitchen?
Natalie pages to the room: Not to the outside of the house, no. Grey was just
      back in the kitchen. Trent could have been down in the basement, I 
      suppose or in the computer room. Lemme run with it.
Trent pages to the room: Oh, sorry. =P Must have read that wrong.

Natalie opens her mouth, closes it. "_Tom Sawyer_ isn't exactly _Harry
      Potter_," she begins, smirking, and then whips around to glare at Trent 
      as though he'd be caught peeping into the girls' locker room. "Where the 
      hell'd you come from? I haven't seen you for days."

Grey looks up sharply, just as Natalie does. His eyes narrow at Trent, and if
      anything, his face closes shut even tighter. He turns back to the movie 
      without a word of hello.

"Computer room," Trent shrugs. "I was updating my livejournal. Heard y'all
      talkin, so I came to see what y'all were watchin." He raises an eyebrow 
      at Grey's reaction and wonders what he did to piss him off, but then 
      shrugs it off. From what he's seen so far, he's always pissed off. "Y'all 
      missed the fight, by the way. We worded that mother up good."

Scratch stumps in looking -- what else -- irritable. He doesn't immediately
      speak, but the sound of the cane is unmistakable. He takes in everyone 
      with a cursory glance, and then continues into the main room proper. The 
      aging garou stops several feet from the back of the couch and eyes the TV 
      idly. "So," he says abruptly, "can you get pay-per-porn on this thing?"

"I was on patrol," Nat tells the two-toned Galliard, beginning to relax out of
      her 'scream and leap' posture... and then in comes Scratch. "Good god, 
      what is this, prodigal children return? Hell yeah, probably. I've never 
      looked. Sit down, both of you." There's probably a silent, 'and shut up, 
      Scratch' appended to the command.

Elanora is right behind the aged Ahroun, one hand lifted and toying with a lock
      of cream-white hair, which she seems to be trying to shove 
      unceremoniously back up under her faded baseball cap. In comparison, she 
      doesn't look at all irritable. Maybe a little less pleased than she was 
      the other day, a little more tired, but really none-the-worse for wear.

Grey's jaw tightens a bit, though in the semi-darkness of the living room, only
      the most perceptive would probably notice it. He takes another pull from 
      his bottle of beer and acts as though _Van Helsing_ were the most 
      fascinating movie ever.

Trent leans on the back of the couch and shrugs. "I'm good here. I didn't mean
      you missed like, /you should have been there/, I meant you missed it 
      like... man, you should have -been- there!" he tries to clarify.

Scratch handily ignores the conversation and flops down on one of the easy
      chairs. He gradually slumps into a comfortable position, his cane in his 
      lap -- and all things considered seems to be savoring the air 
      conditioning (if not the movie).

Elanora settles against the back of the couch, seemingly content to stand--or
      in this case, to be more accurate, lean. She glances toward Trent, then 
      to Natalie, and finally to Grey, the last and unfamiliar Philodox getting 
      a teensy bit more of a looking over than the other two. "What, the fight?"

Grey's attention drifts back toward Trent, though his face continues to reveal
      little more than the fact that he's in a very dour sort of mood.

Trent nods to Elanora, "Yep. You were there - we killed the hell out of that
      thing."

"I get a lot of accusatory 'you should have been there' crap, thanks," Nat
      says, though she nods her acceptance of the other Galliard's 
      semi-apology. "As if I didn't have enough to do leading the tribe and 
      essentially leading Havoc while Signe's waddling." A glance toward the 
      movie and she stands, jerking her head toward the hallway. "Let's take 
      this somewhere quieter, so we don't interrupt the flick."

Scratch'eyes are already half-closed... but they open wide as Natalie stands.
      "Need to talk to you, Nat," he says over the movie. "Though... you know," 
      He gives a lazy wave of one hand. "...whenever." This little shot of 
      motivation spent, Scratch only seems to sink deeper into the chair.

"We sure did," Ela agrees, with a cheerful undertone to her otherwise even
      voice. "Except, y'know, for the part where we completely didn't." She 
      starts to lean off of the couch--clearly intending to follow, since the 
      movie hasn't quite drawn her attention in any way.

[Elanora]
The lines and shapes that make up this young woman's face hint very strongly at
      latino descent. She has a sloping nose, rounded cheeks, and lips that are 
      somewhat too thin for the rest of her. Her build is moderate--she's thin, 
      without much in the way of curves either at hip or bust level, but also 
      without anything beyond simple, healthy muscle tone to fill her out. At a 
      height nearing 5'9, the term 'beanpole' would be appropriate.
Certainly the most overwhelmingly striking feature of this woman is her
      coloration--or in this case, lack thereof. She has very pale skin, far 
      too pale for her bloodline to produce, and her hair, while at first 
      glance seemingly white blonde, is in fact far closer to being sheer 
      white, with only cream highlights to break the starkness of it. The only 
      real color on her face, beyond the penciled in eyebrows, comes from her 
      eyes--light blue these are, quite striking but almost watery, and a pair 
      of thin framed glasses almost always obscures them. 
Raggedy works well here. This woman looks like she dug most of her wardrobe out
      of the bins at a goodwill store--possibly a more well-to-do goodwill 
      store than most, but still. Her jeans, for instance, look incredibly 
      worn, but they haven't actually got holes in them. Her tennis shoes, 
      while ancient and more brown than white, are still in one piece. She's 
      got a battered old baseball cap on her head that is so faded that the 
      team it initially advertised can no longer be made out--the cap is turned 
      so far sideways it is nearly backwards. She's wearing two shirts--one 
      fairly clean white one with no sleeves underneath, and a faded old red 
      plaid button-up over, which has been knotted near the bottom.

Trent gets up to follow Natalie and scowls at Elanora. "Shh--utup!" he mutters
      aside to her. "Let the galliard tell the tale," he waves her off, with a 
      small smirk.

Grey's attention shifts over toward the only person in the house older than he
      is. "Get you a beer?" he offers Scratch, sounding more polite than 
      friendly.

Scratch perks up. "No shit?" He grins and nods. "Thanks, Tom, that be swell."

"The /other/ don't interrupt the movie," Natalie says firmly, pushing past
      Trent and Elanora to head for the basement. "Sorry," she adds vaguely 
      over her shoulder before disappearing into the hallway. If she caught 
      Scratch's muttered request, she doesn't give a sign.

'Tom' obligingly sets down his beer and gets up, following the others out of
      the room to head, one presumes, into the kitchen to fetch the old Ahroun 
      that promised beer.

It's not hard to please old soldiers, and AC combined with a cold beer might
      well be Scratch's idea of paradise.

Grey returns shortly, offering a cold brown bottle to Scratch before resuming
      his spot on the couch. "I didn't hear the Indian drive up," he notes.

Scratch screws the top off and issues a snort that might be a laugh. "That's
      'cause it didn't," he answers quickly, knocking back about a third of the 
      bottle in two massive gulps, "bitch kicked out on me two blocks from my 
      fleabag. Had to walk it back to the parking lot and flag down a ride with 
      some nice amigos heading home." Another couple of slugs and the bottle's 
      already on its last legs. "Wouldn't have even made the trip 'cept the 
      fleabag's AC fried a few hours ago." He finishes the bottle with a few 
      loud slurps and sighs contentedly. "Now I'm glad I came." Apparently with 
      Scratch, one bottle takes two minutes -- including talking.

Grey is nursing his, obviously, since it's still half-full. He cocks his good
      eye at Scratch, studying the older man -- as much as is possible in the 
      flickery light. "Planning to stay?"

"Have you /been/ outside?" Scratch seems to think this question also serves
      nicely as an answer and doesn't bother to elaborate.

Grey grunts. "Not since noon," he admits, but seems to accept the explanation,
      question-form or no. He glances over toward the TV screen again, letting 
      the conversation lapse. When his beer runs out, he fetches more -- both 
      for himself and the Ahroun.

[Fade out to watching TV and drinking beer.]