It is currently 19:20 Pacific Time on Thu Sep 15 2005.

Currently the moon is in the waxing Full Moon phase (82% full).

Somewhere in the woods.


Holds-the-Line picks her way through the darkness, a pale shadow through the
      underbrush. After sniffing around the base of a pine, and then again at 
      some shrubbery, she sends up a short howl: Grey one. I am here. She 
      stands for a moment longer, tail waving gently high over her back, then 
      shifts up to homid so she can tuck her thumbs into her front pockets.

Grey arrives soon enough; like his tribemate, he shifts up to homid once he
      arrives upon the scene. Both forms show his temper close to the surface. 
      In human form, he folds his arms across his chest and stares, 
      stone-faced, in her general direction.

Natalie mutters something sour under her breath as the minutes tick past; she
      kicks at a clump of something organic but otherwise unidentified. Even 
      after the Philodox has arrived she doesn't - as usual - notice him. 
      Instead her attention is on her cell phone which she's weighing in one 
      hand as if debating using the thing.

Grey's frown deepens as his patience quickly wears thin. "/Well/?"

Natalie whips around toward the voice, but even so it's another few seconds
      before she focuses in on the man. "God/damn/it, how long have you been 
      standing there?" She waves that off with an irritated flick of one hand, 
      then beckons him further into the clear patch. Even before he's had a 
      chance to respond she's cutting off that option as well, by striding over 
      to meet him. "You doing all right? No problems, or anything?"

Grey's upper lip wrinkles up, showing his teeth at the outburst. "I'm fine," he
      says testily. "Just fucking fine."

Natalie's own teeth gleam as well. "Well I'm not," she snaps. "My Pop's in the
      hospital again. I have to go."

This takes the Philodox by surprise. He blinks once, that frown hardly
      wavering, and unfolds his arms in order to push his hands in his pockets. 
      "I see. I assume that this'll be a longer absence than before."

"I don't know if I'm coming back," she answers flatly. She keeps her eyes on
      his face a moment longer, then looks off into the dark woods. "I don't... 
      I wasn't there when my Mom died. I'll be flayed alive with silver if I do 
      that to my Pop, too. The doctors..." She stops, the muscles in her jaw 
      tightening. "It didn't sound good."

"I see," says Grey again. He shifts his weight and stares at the ground for a
      few moments before speaking again. "What happens to the house?"

"I don't know," she says again. "With Jon gone... I've tried to call him, but I
      keep getting his voice mail. There's... back in Minnesota we'd have kin 
      to take up the slack. The rest of the slack. Here there's..." Nat shakes 
      her head and studies the ground. "Squat all. Tu might be able to pull 
      something out of his butt. Or see if the rest of the sept can pitch in. 
      It's the goddamned Sept's safehouse, after all."

"The Sept doesn't give a damn," growls the halfmoon. "Not about the city. But
      who knows. Maybe they'll surprise me." The cynicism runs deep and thick, 
      however, like the Mississippi River.

Natalie only shakes her head and doesn't look over at him. "As for the rest of
      it... I have to go. I have a few days, I think, so it's not like I'm 
      leaving tomorrow. I need to talk to Signe, and send out an email or 
      something to the rest of the tribe." She snorts, just once. "And fill in 
      whichever poor schmuck picks up my reins."

"Mmn," says Grey. He squints at her in the darkness. "You're taking the fetish."

Natalie says "I," and stops again. Glances over toward him. "I suppose I am. I
      hadn't thought about it. But I..." There's another pause. "You probably 
      need it - use it - more than I do. Did."

Grey shrugs tightly. "I'll live. I've done without it before. Take it."

"It's my damn fetish," Nat snaps back. "I can do whatever I want with it. And
      you can stop being such a damn martyr." She turns to - on - him, then, 
      one hand freeing itself to rake back through her hair as she scowls up at 
      the taller man. "Does it cause you pain, to ask for help? To get it? Or 
      is this some sort of masochistic fantasy of yours to pretend you're all 
      alone and unlovable?"

Grey's nostrils flare, and his teeth gleam whitely in the moonlight. "Go to
      hell," he snarls, and then turns to walk off, just like that.

"Screw you," the Galliard barks back. "Stick out here, then, and sulk." Then
      she's turning on her own heel and heading for the distant sound of 
      traffic.

Grey answers with a lupine snarl -- he's shifted back to wolf form -- that's
      more temper than eloquence; he's already out of view.