It is currently 18:21 Pacific Time on Fri Jan 20 2006.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is partially cloudy. The temperature is 42
  degrees Fahrenheit (5 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from 
  the south at 6 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.03 and rising, and 
  the relative humidity is 92 percent. The dewpoint is 40 degrees Fahrenheit (4 
  degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waning Half Moon phase (58% full).

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. The angles of his face are severe, 
  the nobility in them scoured nearly to the bone. His thick black hair falls 
  past his shoulders; both it and his short beard show signs of premature 
  greying. His deep-set eyes -- the right dark brown, the left white -- have 
  the shadowed look of someone who does not sleep well. He looks older than his 
  thirty-something years.

At six-foot-three, he stands taller than many men, and an inherent athleticism
  indicates that he could probably hold his own in a fight. There's also an 
  aura of potential violence about him, a tightly-controlled, murderous rage 
  within the lanky, muscled frame.

He's dressed in a black t-shirt, a dark grey hooded sweatshirt, and a pair of
  loose-fit blue jeans that are worn at the knees. His black combat boots are 
  battered but hardy, looking like they've survived a few wars and could 
  survive a few more. For the cold, he wears an East German Army coat -- long, 
  heavy, and greenish-grey.

Odeon - Lobby(#4049RJ)

The Odeon's lobby is testament to a faded and perverted glory. The deep crimson
  carpet is thick in places but in others stubbly as velveteen, and the rich 
  pattern of tangling flowers is everywhere marred by dark stains. The walls 
  are clothed in kingly purple tatters of wallpaper, and covered with faded 
  posters featuring women and men in various states of undress, posing with 
  various degrees of tastelessness, and screaming out titles like "Male 
  Service", "Bang Bang: a Sexual Explosion", and "A Slip of Her Tongue" in 
  garish lettering. There's no light in the room but what comes in from the 
  street, and during the day the actresses look grey and ghoulish, and the 
  bright reds and purples of the room faded and dusky; and at night, the place 
  might as well be covered in thick black paint.

Immediately in front of the entrance is dull matte turnstyle which no longer
  turns, where once tickets were taken. To the right are a pair of doors which 
  some joker has labelled "Pimps" and "Hos" with red spraypaint: these are the 
  washrooms. To the left are a pair of doorways which lack actual doors, and 
  opposite is a grand set of boarded doors which lead into the theatre proper.

Please check +view for further description.

The Odeon is calm tonight, and wherever the Gnawers have hidden Squeaks away,
  she's being uncannily quiet. In the lobby, the cool air suppresses all the 
  sundry unsavory smells of the Odeon, so that all that is left is the musty 
  smell of cigarette smoke. Christine comes out of the theater and closes the 
  door behind her, making for the staircase.

A quick, sharp rap-rap sounds at the door, the sound curt and businesslike.

Christine turns and goes to open the door. Her manner is relaxed and
  comfortable; who but Garou knock politely at this place? She pushes one of 
  the double doors open.

She is an Korean girl of middling height and athletic build, in middle
  adolescence. Her black hair is cut severely straight, right at her ears, and 
  the jaw that juts out below there is small and pointy. There's never a hint 
  of makeup around her dark brown eyes, or her serious small mouth. She wears 
  only a T-shirt, brandless jeans, and secondhand sneakers.

Grey's beard has grown in since Christine last saw him, though the scarred
  Glass Walker looks as hard and dour as ever. He carries a brown grocery bag 
  under one arm. "Good evening," he says, his manner as brisk as his knock was. 
  "May I come in?"

There's a territorial quality to the way Christine hesitates--she looks Grey up
  and down and keeps him waiting longer than is hospitable. But it's all or 
  nothing with her. When she makes her decision (which that grocery bag must 
  surely factor into), it shows sincerely in her voice. "Yeah, sure," she says 
  amiably. She steps aside.

Grey waits patiently enough, keeping his face neutrally still. At the
  invitation, he nods once and enters, tall and straight, his posture balanced 
  and alert. "Christine, yes?" He hardly waits for an acknowledgement before 
  continuing. "Are you still looking for a fake ID?"

Christine gives an utterly insouciant shrug. "Oh," she says. "I'd forgot about
  that." She makes her way to the turnstile and sits upon the little pillar 
  that upholds it. "Wanna cig?" she asks, already rummaging through her pockets.

Grey's mouth thins, but his voice remains polite. "Why not?" This is,
  presumably, in response to the offer of a cigarette. In return, he takes the 
  brown bag out from under his arm. "This is for you. Your tribe, anyway."

Christine takes the bag wordlessly to balance it on her lap, and wordlessly too
  she extends an open pack to Grey. There is a trace more solemnity in her 
  eyes, and a sense of inquiry.

Grey, bagless, helps himself to a cigarette and fishes out a lighter from
  inside his coat. "Some nonperishables," he says, while doing this, and after 
  lighting up adds, "And something for Squeaks."

Christine, for her part, peels the last match out of a limp matchbook before
  tossing the used thing on the floor. "Cool," she says, approvingly. She 
  pockets the pack again and then lowers the bag down to slump beside the 
  turnstile. "So you guys can pull it off?"

Grey smokes like a man who's done it for years, the cigarette as much a part of
  him as the scars and sour humors. "Of course. The question is, what do you 
  need it for?"

And Christine smokes like she's done it for weeks, though the smell has already
  sunk indelibly into her clothes. She is abashed by Grey's ease with the 
  cigarette. She watches the Walker as though there were a trick to it, holding 
  her cigarete with a theatrical, Cruella-like air. In other ways, also, she 
  seems false--too determined to seem adult and hard-boiled in his presence. 
  "You're not eighteen, cops can do whatever they want with you. Take you back 
  to the station, foster care, whatever. Better to be older."

Grey cocks his head, favoring his good eye, and gives her a good hard look.
  "Mm," he says. He doesn't seem very impressed. "How far from eighteen are 
  you?"

"I turn sixteen this summer," says Christine, slouching sullenly under Grey's
  gaze. And, snappishly: "It's not like I want it for free."

Grey lofts an eyebrow at this, briefly, and then grunts and takes a long drag
  off the cancer stick. "Here's the thing," he says once he's exhaled smoke. He 
  speaks patiently and deliberately -- teacher to student, parent to offspring, 
  grown-up to child. "The effort and cost involved in getting to an identity 
  that would pass more than the most cursory, casual inspections would not be 
  worth it. It can be done, but in two years, you wouldn't need it, and you'd 
  probably still owe whoever set it up for you. You'd be better off simply 
  avoiding the authorities."

"It's not that easy," says Christine indignantly. "You go to sleep anywhere in
  the city that's not a shelter, that's a /crime/. Where people sleep, cops 
  come in just to shake stuff up and kick people out. If you're fifteen then?" 
  She shakes her head. "And if I get pulled in just once, then what? Then they 
  go 'oh look, this Asian girl ran away from home a couple years ago and her 
  family wants her back'."

"And you're the only Asian girl who's run away from home?" Grey looks skeptical
  and gives the dim lobby a brief glance 'round; his wandering eye ends up back 
  on the girl. "Sleep here, then. Or, if you wish, my tribe keeps a safehouse 
  just for this purpose. Beds and running water. You'd be asked to help out, 
  probably, but in the end it would be a good deal cheaper than setting up 
  anything more complicated than a forged driver's licence."

"Yeah, I know about it. Basil's always up there." The way Christine says this,
  it sounds like a wholehearted condemnation of the place.

Grey grimaces and gives his head a little shake. "Then sleep here. If it's not
  secure enough to keep out of the hands of the police, it's not secure enough 
  to keep an immature Metis."

Christine slides off the turnstile and scoops up the bag. "It's /not/. But
  where else're we gonna take her?"

An extremely perceptive person might detect a flash of sympathy in the Walker's
  otherwise stony face. His voice remains quite bland. "Someplace that doesn't 
  endanger the Veil." He flicks ash from his cigarette, letting it drift slowly 
  to the filthy, uneven carpet. "Look," he says, with that tone of patronizing 
  patience that he used earlier, "if you're /insistent/ on this, I'll see what 
  can be done. But what you're asking for will be expensive. Not because I want 
  to cheat you, or take advantage of you, but because /it isn't cheap/. You're 
  better off honing your skills at evasion and being unobtrusive."

Christine compresses her lips tightly around her cigarette. Then she lets the
  plastic turnstile pillar support part of the bag's weight, freeing her hand 
  to pull the cig down from her mouth. She blows out a tight, angry stream of 
  smoke. "Just say how much, OK?"

Grey takes in another breath of smoke and lets it out, deliberating for a
  second or two. "Tell you what," he says. "I'll set up a meeting, introduce 
  you to someone who can help you. No charge. Not from /me/, anyway."

Christine looks not at all grateful for the offer. She looks distinctly
  skittish, in fact. "What, you've never done this--you can't give me 
  ballpark?" she prods. "Fifty? Five hundred? What?"

"Quite a bit more than five hundred," the Glass Walker replies, unmoved.
  "Frankly, if you could afford this in actual /currency/, you could afford 
  buying a place to sleep off of the streets. But you might be able to pay it 
  off in installments. Or in labor." He shrugs. "I wouldn't be surprised if you 
  were still paying him back long after you turned eighteen."

Christine's eyebrows quirk, the one down, and the other minutely upward.
  "Crap." She worries the cigarette pensively between her lips. "Yeah, I can't 
  do that. Crap."

Grey gets that little flicker of sympathy again and this time lets out a minor
  sigh to go with it. The hand not holding the cigarette pinches at the bridge 
  of his nose. "You need a place to sleep off the streets. I strongly recommend 
  the city safehouse. If that's completely unacceptable to you, and you can't 
  convince, say, a kin who /has/ a home to let you sleep there... I know a 
  place you /may/ be able to use."

Again, Grey's pity earns him nothing but hostility. "I've got places to sleep.
  Sometimes I'm just out, and then I crash wherever's near." She digs a hand 
  into the bag suddenly, examining its contents.

Apart from the sizeable animal bone wrapped in butcher's paper, the bag
  contains several items of canned food. Nonperishables, as he said. Grey's jaw 
  tightens. "Fine," he says curtly. "I'll leave you to it, then." The remnants 
  of the cigarette hanging out of the side of his mouth, he turns toward the 
  door.

Christine uncovers the bone. Tugging it from its paper, she lifts it to her
  face to sniff at it. "Thanks for coming," she says, blank-voiced.

It smells like, well, a bone fresh from the butcher's block. Rather bloody --
  any carnivore would probably thoroughly enjoy chowing down on it. "Give my 
  regards to your elder," Grey replies, just as blank. He pushes the door open 
  and exits, heading out into the chilly streets.

[...Quite a bit later...]

From afar, Kaz ring.
From afar, Kaz er, cel phone. Y'know.

Long distance to Kaz: Grey picks up after a few rings. Driving noises in the
  background. "Yes?" Curt.

From afar, Kaz says, fairly curt herself, "Yo, it's Kaz. You got a sec?"

Long distance to Kaz: Grey grunts. "Yes. What's up?"

From afar, Kaz says, anger radiating out of her, "Them half moons is talkin'
  about whackin' Jeremy, an' they ain't plannin' on tellin' you Walkers about 
  it. Brom's got th' details. You should find him. He's at th' main house just 
  now."

Long distance to Kaz: Grey manages a, "What the--" before devolving into a long
  bout of cursing, most of it in Serbian and the rest barely intelligible.

From afar, Kaz snorts. "Yeah, that was kinda my reaction, only in English."

Long distance to Kaz: Grey eventually says, tight and seething, "I was on my
  fucking way to the god-damned house right now, as it happens. I'll see you 
  there." *click*


[...]

Farmhouse Porch:

Alesia blinks, "But there's no television at the farm house here... nor any at
  the Fury house. That's okay though. Never got to watch it at home before 
  either. Not a big change for me."

Thyra shakes her head, pushing a hair back. "Break into house and watch
  Tele-vision. So they don't not see Surviver."

Grey drives up in a dirt-brown Ford Torino, wheels rattling the gravel as he
  pulls up and parks. When he gets out, he slams the door behind him, and all 
  but smokes with fury as he stalks up the lane toward the front door.

Thyra says, jokingly.

Alesia blinks as she turns, seeing the angry Grey storming up. The girl almost
  wilts at his approach, curling back and going pale, as she sees the anger in 
  Grey's face and body. Any laugh she might have given to Thyra's joke is lost 
  in her reaction to Grey.

	Long dark black hair frames the fair-skinned face of this teen girl. There's a
  bit of firmness to her jaw line and her brown eyes bracket a thin lipped 
  mouth and a smallish nose. Alesia's frame is a bit thin or lithe while still 
  maintaining a hint of classical features. Her frame is thin and almost wiry. 
  There's almost a sadness in her eyes and her mouth looks like smiles might be 
  foreign to it. She stands just over five feet tall. She has no piercings or 
  jewelry.

	Alesia is wearing a loose sweatshirt that's an off grey and looks like it
  might have been picked up at good will. Her pants are blue jeans that while 
  tight only show that she doesn't have much in the way of curves, but more 
  look like they are tight because she grew some since they were bought. Her 
  shoes are a bit out of date as well, with one shoe having some duct-tape 
  holding the toe together from the inside if you look closely but otherwise 
  could pass for just a pair of really worn shoes.

Thyra's smile melts, watching the tallish, angry looking man storm his way on
  over.

Average height, this dark-olive skinned, barely-teenaged youth has almost a
  lithe quality to her. Her refined face still holds the signs of youth. Her 
  nose is slightly prominent, but doesn't serve to detract from her entirely 
  pleasant face. Her black hair is trussed up behind her in a loose bunch, 
  secured by a hair clip. Her hands, however, are notable: She looks like she 
  doesn't have any finger nails at all. She's wearing a light blue tanktop, 
  with a zip-front 'hoody' over top, and a (relatively) nice khaki colored 
  skirt that goes down to her ankles. Her feet are clad in a pair of black and 
  white Adidas 'Sambas.' With the winter weather, she often is wearing a red, 
  winter weight jacket.

Grey takes the porch steps two at a time, then stops abruptly to stare,
  narrow-eyed and tight-jawed, at the two women on the porch. "I assume," he 
  says, in clipped, authoritive tones, "that you two are supposed to be here."

Thyra nods once, shifting in the seat. "Um. Hi?" She greets tepidly.

Alesia looks like she'd rather hide. She stands, shifts her weight from foot to
  foot, then kind of moves behind Thyra, not saying a word as she keeps looking 
  down, as if afraid of looking directly at Grey.

Grey saves most of his glare for Thyra, since Alesia's already quite wilted.
  "Is Kaz in? Or Brom?"

Thyra shrugs slightly, frowning. The young teen looks slightly worried.

Alesia gives a confused and unknowing shrug, as she sort of retreats behind
  Thyra still, still not looking at Grey's face and doing her best to keep 
  space between her and himl.

"Krelats," the tall, scarred man spits. It sounds distinctly insulting. He
  turns away and thrusts through the front door and into the house, still 
  seething.

Farmhouse: Hallway and Living Room

All doorways in the front part of the house lead to the front hallway, a
  J-shaped area with the short tail starting at the stairs, the front door 
  hitting the bottom curve, the doorless opening to the living room halfway up 
  the long side, and the also doorless opening to the kitchen and dining room 
  at the very top. The hall has a simple wooden floor, and decorated with a 
  generic print of soft-colored flowers hanging on the wall to the right of the 
  front door, and a tall table sitting under the print which serves as a place 
  to toss keys. A closet under the stairs serves as a place to hang coats or to 
  toss shoes.

The doorless opening to the living room is halfway up the side of the hall's J,
  and the word cozy might spring to mind when looking into is, as it seems to 
  radiate comforting vibrations. A long couch sits against the south wall 
  beneath a large bay window curtained only by sheers that manages to obscure 
  the view in but only filters the day's light. A variety of out-of-date 
  magazines are strewn atop a low coffee table; more neatly presented are the 
  plethora of books filling the small bookshelves which line the eastern wall. 
  Three chairs sit about the room, focused inward, to allow group 
  conversations. Large floor pillows are stacked in one corner of the room, 
  except one, which lies carelessly in the middle of the floor, apparently left 
  out the last time it was used.

An opening in the northern end of the hallway allows access to the kitchen and
  dining room at the back of the house, while carpeted stairs twist up at the 
  other end of the hall, leading to the second floor. A door at the base of the 
  J lets out to the front porch.

Kaz flops back on the couch. "Huh. Suprised I never ran into it. I'm originally
  from Pittsburgh..."

"You should stop by, tell them I sent you." Brom says with another shrug of his
  shoulders. "They 'might' treat you a bit better." His head turns and tilts 
  towards the noise in the lane, straightening up more.

Kaz glances out to the driveway, then back to Brom. "Yeah, well, Septs like
  that, I kinda fade into the background, mostly. But I might try it anyways."

The front door bangs open a few minutes after the car noise, emitting a stormy
  ex-Shadow Lord. He's cursing in Serbian as he stalks into the house, hunting 
  through the front rooms.

Nodding his head, Brom tilts his gaze in Grey's direction, staring from the
  kitchen with his arms crossed over his chest. Two empty bottles of beer is 
  near by, with a third cracked open and begging to be drank. "Good evening."

Kaz sits up. "Hey. Figured you'd want th' skinny."

Grey stops dead and focuses on the pair like an orbital laser, nostrils
  flaring. "You're right," he says, clipped and snappish. "I want details. 
  Also, do we know the two little bints loitering on the porch?"

Tilting his head to the window, Brom takes a brief peek, then says. "Fury cub
  and don't know the other." He says. "From what I've been told, the girl has 
  ex daddy issues that has been dealt with, and KL is quite protective of her. 
  So if she is being seen out at night with another, I would suggest the other 
  is a Fury as well." He shrugs his shoulders slightly as he turns his gaze 
  back to Grey. "As I told Kaz, some of the Philodox got together at Half Moon 
  Pool and were speaking about the incident with Abraxas and the Resonance pack 
  on their territory. They seem at a loss of what to do with Abraxas, and even 
  the Gatekeeper, Dakota, whom they seem want to punish as well, but their 
  focus was primarily on killing the kinfolk, because they think he is crazy."

Kaz glances outside. "Yes," she says, "They're Furies. As f'th' rest of it--"
  She stops as Brom covers it.

Grey grits his teeth, hands opening and closing slowly. He stinks of cigarette
  smoke. "Who?" he demands. "/Whose/ focus?"

"Sabina and Justin seemed adament in killing him, and Justin continued to shout
  that they should do it without warning his mate." Brom says as he picks up 
  the third beer, tilting it to his lips, taking a long drink. "Blackriver 
  nodded her head to pretty much everything anyone said because she's a fucking 
  lupe, and Isaac was too busy picking his nose to be of any importance. Leslie 
  seemed open to anyone's opinion, and she asked mine, and when I gave it, they 
  called me a Fool. I do not believe in killing kin, especially in a 
  dishonorable way. Leslie, I believe, is searching for a majority vote."

Kaz shakes her head. "Fuckin' votin'," she mutters. "Them half moons ain't
  goddam humans."

"No," snarls Grey. "They're worse. Sanctimonious, self-righteous, cowardly--"
  The rest is in Serbian; he turns around and stalks toward the nearest wall 
  like he's going to start tearing it down, but stops short of causing actual 
  physical damage to anything.

Kaz glances at Brom. "I dunno, maybe you didn't need to stick around, really,
  if all he's gonna do is swear at 'em."

Brom nods his head slightly as he tightens himself up visibly at Grey's
  reaction. "My thoughts exactly." He plucks up his beer again and takes 
  another light sip.

"Anyone who lays a single goddamned /claw/ on him is /dead/," Grey says, once
  he's gained enough self-control to speak English again. He's still miles away 
  from a state of calm. "/Fortunately/, he's out of town at the moment. And 
  likely to stay there. Sranje! --Does Dakota know about this? Or anyone else 
  in the tribe, besides me?"

"I don't know. They are not talking to me about this. It is obvious they do not
  think very highly of my opinion." Brom says as he furrows his brows. "Though 
  if they are smart, they better get together again, and include all of us this 
  time instead of having a get together."

Kaz shakes her head. "You said yourself they wasn't gonna tell /anyone/ that
  they was plannin' to gack him. So, no."

"Dogs," says Grey, with venom. "Curs." He eyeballs Kaz. "Can I trust you to
  spread the news of this particular pile of shit?"

Brom clears his throat loudly. "I would suggest perhaps take a more tactful
  look on this?" He says with a furrow of his brows. "So far, it was just talk 
  and no action. I think I stirred their chicken coup up quite a bit when I got 
  in their face. My suggestion, would go straight to Leslie, since she is now 
  the reigning Truthcatcher and ultimately, she /should/ have the final say. 
  Perhaps drill what you want to say to her, into her head. Keep it calm and 
  quiet."

Kaz looks from Brom to Grey. "Tell you what. Find Leslie, or find Blackriver,
  an' talk to 'em. If they don't make sense, gimme a ring, and then I'll start 
  spreadin' news like wildfire. OK?"

Kaz pages to the room: Add Sabina onto that list of Philodoxen.

Grey considers that, teeth clenched and jaw muscles tight. After a moment or
  two he nods jerkily. "Fine," he says. "Fine."

Brom nods his head slowly, letting out a breath that he was holding. "Good...
  good." He says. "Now, if I am no longer needed, I am going to retire for the 
  night."

Kaz says, "Yeah, you do that. An' thanks, Brom."

Grey gives the Get another sharp, jerky nod and adds a curt, "Thanks."

"You're welcome. Fenris keep your claws sharp." Brom says as he angles for the
  back door, slipping out it and heading for the woods.