It is currently 18:59 Pacific Time on Sun Jan 22 2006. Currently in Saint Claire, it is a cloudy day. The temperature is 45 degrees Fahrenheit (7 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the southwest at 5 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.53 and rising, and the relative humidity is 79 percent. The dewpoint is 39 degrees Fahrenheit (3 degrees Celsius.) Currently the moon is in the waning Half Moon phase (44% full). Pool Hall(#3490RJ) Pool tables, with one foosball table and an air hockey table hiding among them, dominate the space of the hall, hardly yielding any space for the motley crew of players chalking their sticks and eying the brandy bottle at the bar lining one wall. The dust and scratches on all surfaces save the green velvet lining the pool tables indicate this hall as skimping on maintenance and cheap on cleaners. Its lack of flashy videogames and surplus of toothless kibitzers underscores its appeal to the older crowd. No natural sunlight is permitted into the hall, its lighting provided by bulbs swinging from the ceiling. A recent 'renovation' to the hall has caused many splinters and embedded bullet holes, adding much to the aged atmosphere. Ruddish stains, dark and ominous even under the lights, refuse to be washed out of the floor. A dart board brightens up the walls with its red-and-black scheme, and a moosehead looks down on the proceedings. Mounted from the ceiling, a television blares its glaring brightness and noises. A set of double doors, one locked, the other unlocked at the whims of the hall manager, lead out to the street. Unobstructive doors behind the bar undoubtedly lead to storerooms. The pool hall is largely empty tonight, save for an old, heavily bearded drunk who has nodded off in the corner near the door, and a scruffy looking fellow in his mid fourties who stares mindlessly up at the television, not quite ready to roam the streets. Off to the far side of the hall a rather out-of-place, well kept young woman stands, patiently eyeing the dart board that hangs on the wall a ways in front of her. The board has roughly two dozen darts embedded in it already, all of them inside the sin, or within a centimeter or so of it. She has a dart in her hand that she rolls between her fingers, absently. Standing five foot ten, around 140 lbs, this young woman's build is lean and athletic, yet fully feminine. She appears to be somewhere in her late teens to early twenties. Her thick black hair falls in loose, silky curls to well below her shoulders. Her eyes are a striking shade of green and immediately convey a sense of confidence and quiet amusement. Her complexion is fair and lightly freckled, complementing her fine facial features and high cheekbones. Her ethnicity is questionable, as the subtle shape of her eyes and nose would suggest her to have some Asian mingled in her heritage. She has a distinct attractiveness about her that can't be attributed to any one feature or expression. She carries herself in very much the same manner as how she speaks, with meticulous fluidity. She's sporting rather unremarkable cloths, though they happen to be fetching on her. Her black pants sit right at her hips and fall straight from there to her heels allowing them a baggy but not excessive fit. They all but cover her black leather boots, which are well kept and have a thick heel on them that adds further to her height. Her top is a collared button-up a pale shade of rose with half-sleeves. A long, delicate gold chain falls from around her neck, with its unknown pendant dipping out of sight beneath her shirt. Her earlobes are pierced, as well as in three places along the upper cartilage, though she is selective about what she places here and when. Grey stalks into the pool hall, looking like bad news with his too-long hair, scruffy beard, and sour humors. The bearded drunk nearest to the door gives a startled, frightened jerk as the scarred man passes by, and even the TV-watcher is distracted enough to give the new arrival a furtive, wary look. The bartender seems to know the guy, though he, too, looks nervous as Grey takes a seat at the bar. 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. The woman pauses her pondering to glance over at the abrupt entry of the new entry, watching the man with a sort of veiled curiosity as he heads for the bar. She focuses back on her dart game to avoid staring. The dart between her fingers is held oddly by the tip rather than the shaft, and then flung with a harsh flick of her wrist to spear the center of the dartboard. Two of the darts beside it are jostled loose from the force and fall to clatter lightly on the floor. She steps up to the board, pulling the large handful of darts out of the board before bending to retrieve the two that had fallen. She then makes her way up to the bar, sliding onto a stool near Grey but leaving an open stool between them. She places all of the darts onto the bartop and slides them towards the barkeeper. "All done sharking for the night?" she man mutters to her, collecting the darts and a five dollar bill she's dropped on top of the pile. The girl only smirks slightly. You paged Gypsy with 'Question. Is she sitting on Grey's good side, or his scarred (blind) side?'. Gypsy pages: The good side. By the time Gypsy's reached the bar, Grey's ordered and received his drink -- vodka on the rocks. He's in the process of lighting a cigarette as she sits down, the gestures easy and smooth, born of years of practice, years of lung-polluting habit. He cocks his good eye at her, mouth narrowed in suspicion within the white-touched black beard, and then faces forward. Gypsy casts a casual, darting glance Grey's way as the bartender turns to deposit the darts in a drawer. "You gonna show me some i.d. so I can get you a decent drink?" the man asks gruffly before turning back around. The young woman shakes her head slowly. "No, thank you. Water is fine." she stats, mildly. The bartender scowels "Thought so..." he comments, snidely. But he slides a glass of water to her all the same. Grey inhales a lungful of smoke and lets it out slowly. He glances sidelong at her again with that same narrow, calculating, closed expression. "New in town?" His voice is surprisingly smooth, educated, the accent (or non-accent, as the case may be) mostly local to the region. Gypsy turns her head, taking his question as both an introdudction and permission for her to study him to a subtle degree. "Yes, actually." she replies with a small nod. "Came in about three weeks ago." she offers, idly gripping the water glass with her left hand. Her tone remains mild and even somewhat friendly as she regards the man. Her speech pattern indeed betrays an upper midwest origin. She pauses, watching him closely but making an effort not to be rude about it. "Been here long?" she asks, finally drawing the glass up to her lips for a small sip. The scarred man answers with a shrug. "Too long, I sometimes think." He takes another drag, his other hand curled lightly around his glass, fingertips just barely touching it. Gypsy nods to him, spending abit of time finding her water completely fascinating as she muses over how much she should prod at the man...if thats even a wise idea to begin with. He seems the kind to appreciate his solitude. She doesn't opt to leave yet either, however. Grey turns away again to stare directly ahead of him, at the bottles all lined up behind the bar. The 'tender's all the way over at the other end by now, and it's clear from his expression that he intends to stay down there if given a choice in the matter. Grey lifts his glass and takes a swallow, not saying anything more for the moment. Behind them, the television continues chattering about football and the old, bearded drunk mumbles into his drink. Gypsy drains half of her glass before setting it down again. Assured that the man beside her is now the only one within earshot she asks him in a lowered tone, "Do you prefer to be on your own?...or is there a particular pack that you run with?" she mutters without looking over at him. Grey's nostrils flare. "Do I /look/ like a damned gangbanger?" He gives her another of those narrowed looks. Gypsy turns to look at him, very calm and evenly. She restrains a smile in fact. "No, you don't." she replies matter-of-factly. "If I had meant gang, I would have used the word gang." she informs him, eyes searching for some way of getting her point across to him without pissing him off any further. Grey seems, indeed, like an easy man to piss off, and the way he stares at her, hard and harsh, would be enough to make most people quail. He's almost entirely still, his posture like a held breath. "Would you now." Gypsy stares back at Grey, apparently unaffected by his coldness and harsh tone. Not so much that she isn't considering his annoyance...more so that she has no idea how to quell his poorly supressed rage. She still doesn't shrink away from him. "That's right." she affirms carefully, lifting her glass to finish off her water and slide the empty glass forward away from her. If there is an easy password for ending this kind of akward standoff, nobody has bothered to tell her yet. Neither is the man willing to give it to her, and the fact that she keeps staring back at him, meeting his eyes, matching his stare, isn't doing a damn thing to calm the rage that coils tight under his skin. "Drop your eyes," Grey commands, quietly. There's a threat in his tone, an unspoken 'or else'. The bartender, sensing danger, watches them with a worried expression. Gypsy rests both of her palms flat against the bar, instantly obeying his command once its spoken. Her head dips a bit along with her eyes. She fixes her gaze on the smeared water ring left by her glass. "I meant no disrespect." she states with quiet sincerity. She seems to freeze in place, breathing very shallowly. "I will leave, now. If you'd like." she informs him after a long pause to consider. Grey's upper lip lifts just enough to show a bit of tooth. "You do that," he says, voice low and thick. "And next time you think it's fine to assume you've met someone you know... don't." Gypsy slides off of her barstool slowly before standing to her full height. Her expression isn't that of fear, its something closer to pain. She'd be fit to argue her actual intentions, but knows better than to take such a risk. She glances down to the bartender and gives him a quick nod before gathering her long coat around her and moving steadily to the door. She opens it with one hand and heads out into the night without looking back even in a glance. He watches her all the way out, that same narrow, angry, suspicious, untrusting look on his lean, scarred face.