Currently the moon is in the waxing Crescent Moon phase (22% full).

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 empty beer bottle clinks down next to the other three as Brom leans over the pool table, squinting at the balls on the table. A fairly large cigar sits in an ash tray, still smoking, the tip ebbing in a dull red glare. The large man squints at the white ball before him, then flicks his wrist, giving the stick too much 'umph', sending the balls careening against each other, bouncing wildly along the table.

The door opens onto the cool Washington night, the fresh air without making a valiant effort at making the pool hall breathable but failing miserably less than a foot inside the doors. An envoy strides in, checking the readout of the clamshell phone at her hip and grimacing. She glances blankly around the room before angling over to the hall manager, with whom she exchanges a few words. The man nods and points to the cheroot-smoking Brom; Nat gifts him with a brief smile before heading over to join the Get. She waits until he's not in the middle of another shot before speaking. "--Brom?"

Tucking the stick against the table, Brom picks up his MGD and takes a slow slug off it, licking his lips as he regards the Walker Elder. His intense blue eyes narrow for a moment, before settling the glass down. "Yes, I take it from your voice matching your voice mail, that you would be Natalie?" He asks, a loud rumble echoing in the back of his throat as he tilts his head slightly to one side, looking her up and down, then relaxes his posture some, arms crossing his chest.

Standing tall about six foot five, Brom has the body of a brick wall. He obviously works out on an obsessive basis. His arms are thick and his chest broad, giving off the look of perhaps a well in shape football player. He has a pair of intense blue eyes that always seem to border on anger, and a well developed scowl.

Brom has long hair to about his shoulders, a dirty dark blonde that is typically tied up into a tight pony tail, pulled back from his head. He has a jagged looking scar along his neck that dips down into his shirt, and a few more along his arms that appear to have been made by claw marks. He tends to dress very plainly, a pair of beat up blue jeans with slashes and holes in them, a tight fitted black muscle shirt and a beat up looking leather jacket. Shit kicker boots adorn his feet and a large belt buckle with the picture of an axe on it.

"Got it in one," the woman says, sticking out a hand for him to shake. She's either supremely confident or supremely casual, considering the location, striding into the place like she owns it. "Sorry I'm late. Had a bit of a fuss with my kid, and had to get him settled. Can I buy you another?" A nod's dropped at his beer, though her eyes never really leave his.

"No, I've had four.. I think.. I lost count after four, but I've been here since nine in the morning so it could be twenty." Brom says with a squint, staring back at her without waver as he thrusts out a large hand, taking hers in quite the firm grip, giving it a shake. "No problem about being late. In the city, its never early."

Natalie matches him grip for grip, neither ceding advantage nor taking it. "My Mom would have smacked my ears for being late. But that's neither here nor there." She takes back her hand, hooking her thumbs into the front pockets of her jeans, and gives his cue a nod. "Just killing time?"

"Learning how to play pool. This game is stupid." Brom says with a snort under his breath, amused slightly. "I was told earlier by a tree hugger that its a game of precision. I'm only here because my mate has night classes at the College." He says with a shrug of his shoulders. "That and I think I've abused Signe's weight room enough for the week. I put in nearly a full time job there."

"It's all physics and math," Nat agrees, giving the felt table a once-over. "Or that's what they tell me - I only play good enough to pass the time." She leaves Brom to pace around the table's edge, one hand trailing along the edge where felt and wood meet. "If you're not desperate to stay, we can head out. Maybe..." She stops to turn back, head cocked to one side as she studies him. "My place?"

"Sure. Tired of this shit hole anyways." Brom says with a rumble in his chest as he reaches over, grabbing up his leather jacket and pulling it over his broad shoulders, tugging it into place. As he walks past the table, his hand skirts up and snags the Eight Ball, rolling it into a corner pocket.

A slight smile tugs at the corner of Nat's mouth, but she stays silent and jerks her head toward the door. "You walk here?" She starts for the door before he does, easily eeling through the slight Sunday night crowd.

"Yup. I gave my Fatboy to Signe as a gift. Its a 94' Fatboy. I rebuilt it myself." Brom says as he saunters after her, hands gliding into his pocket, eyes steady upon the door as he lets out one heavy breath after the other.

[Travel deleted]

A used couch and a pair of recliners are grouped around a coffee table in the living room, with a foursome of wooden chairs claiming the bump out for quieter conversation. The dining room boasts a white laminate table with four aluminum and vinyl-upholstered chairs - too new to be 'vintage', too old to be trendy. The appliances and cupboards in the kitchen are new - or at least refurbished to look like it - and a door leads out to the backyard from there.

Up the stairs are a number of empty rooms where anyone affiliated with the Sept can crash and an office for private meetings. The Glass Walkers have their own area accessible via a locked door off the foyer. The main doors themselves lead back out to the front porch of the house.

The drive through St. Claire passes swiftly - Nat's a reasonable driver, one who doesn't take many chances other than thinking yellow lights mean 'go faster'. Small talk passes the time until her small green truck pulls up in front of a large Victorian house; Nat gets out and leads the way within, flicking on light switches that illuminate both porch and living room. "--Take a seat," she invites, nodding toward a row of coat pegs studded along the stairwell, then flicking a hand toward the living room. "Want anything?"

Sliding out of his jacket, Brom wads it up in the fist of his hand and carries it over to a chair, sinking down heavily, slouching down some as his heavy boots land on the ground with a thump. "I'm fine, thank you." He says with reasonable politeness as he glances about the Walker's area, sniffing the air idly, eyes squinting. "So... I was thinking there would be more... gadgets... and wires... or... something."

Natalie snorts faintly, another little smile gracing her lips. "This is the public safehouse, not the Walker side. It's where Emma's been staying." Her smile creeps a fraction larger as she adds, "Don't want to scare the normals. I'm going to go get a beer. I'll be right back. Sure you don't want anything?"

"In the White Oak in Ohio, we don't have a Glass Walker foundation. That is in Cincinnati. I heard rumors that they live in sky scrapers and they have all of this... gizmo shit, like laser guns, something you'd see in Star Wars." Brom rumbles as he continues to look around. "Us Fenrir lived in log cabins in the woods. Lake Erie was not a big city." At her question, he zips his eyes back over to her. "...I suppose a water."

"The rent on skyscrapers is astronomical," Nat drawls, nodding once before heading back down the hall. "I'll just be a second." Back in the kitchen there's the sounds of a refrigerator door opening, then a merry little 'dingledingle' of a cell. A pause, and then her voice, neutrally cautious. "Hello?"

Letting out a breath, Brom waits patiently, fidgeting just a bit as he continues to look around, almost suspiciously. He continues to sniff the air at times. After a minute, he fishes out a buck knife from his pocket, flicking it open, cleaning out from under his fingernails.

Natalie continues rummaging about in the kitchen, pulling open cabinets accompanied by the sound of clinking glass. "Thomas," she says coolly - into her phone, most likely. "Are you back in town, then?" A second later the tap starts up, masking anything else she says. ("You're close. We're at a new address.")

Grey grunts something that sounds like an affirmative. "I'm over at the Wal-Mart. So, yes."

The Get has already drifted off into a world of ADD as he focuses on his large knife, running it under one fingernail, then the other, working out a bit of dirt that has caked under them. He is quietly rumbling in his throat.

There's a brief pause before he answers, "No, I have a car. I'll be there in a few."

The sound of water continues, gurgling into a container of some sort. When it turns off her voice comes clear through the hallway: "Do you need a ride? --All right. I'll see you then. I've got company, so knock." A few seconds later she's coming back up the hallway, unopened beer in one hand and a tall peach glass with worn flowers in the other. "Sorry about that. Going to have company in a bit."

"Mm." Brom murmurs as he glances back up, snapping the blade shut with a loud clink and then puts it back into his pocket. "I can go then if its important." He says, rising back up to his full height.

Natalie shakes her head at him, scowling, though it's not aimed at the big Get. "No. We've been trying to hook up for Gaia only knows how long. This is just as important." She aims the last of the scowl at the front door before heading into the living room to hand him his water glass. "Emma tells me you're interested in joining Havoc."

"I am. It seems to be the only pack that would fit me on both a physical and spiritual level. I am used to not only running with, but leading the best, and there is no better than the Jarl's pack under a totem of rage." Brom says with a deep bassy tone in his throat. "I would have pondered requiem, but they have fucking Shadow Lords in it."

"They're babies," the Galliard says dismissively as she takes the other chair. "If you wanted to lead, there's your pack right there." She gives the Get another once-over as she twists off the bottlecap. "If leading's what you want, Havoc isn't for you."

"I don't want to lead. I want to kill the Wyrm. I don't care how I do it, Alpha or not, and like I said, I'm not going to pack with -fucking- Shadow Lords." Brom says with a rumble in his throat. He shifts his gaze to the front door for a moment, then back to the Glass Walker. "I would be more honored to pack with the Jarl Rhya, than try and lead a pair of back stabbers and Dillen."

Natalie studies him a moment longer before one eye shivers. Acceptance? Amusement? "Have you seen our territory?" she asks instead, following the question up with a pull of the beer. The label's under her hand and unreadable, but it isn't one of the big American pilsners.

Nodding his head, Brom puts the glass of water down off to the side. "I have went with Emma on patrols through the territory since I have gotten here so that I can get used to the atmosphere of this new city, and what to look out for. I'm alright with it."

"Heard about the little problem with one of our gangs?" she presses, still watching him.

"Yeah. Kind of. Heard there was a mishap and the veil got scratched." Brom says with a nod of his head. "I also heard it was being cleared away soon and so I shouldn't worry about trying to get involved."

"Scratched is one way of putting it." She leans back in her chair, as confident here as in the pool hall, left arm draped across her lap while the right elbow balances on the arm of the chair. "Big foofahrah with Signe and a gang. It's finally taken care of, though. Most of our problem is with gangs - they like to bring in imports from Seattle."

Brom raises up a brow. "Imports? As in... weapons or vampires? I heard they have plenty in that shit hole of a city."

Natalie says, "More like D, all of the above. Guns, bodies... hell, maybe the occasional leech or two. I don't know. There's some weird things out there. As long as they don't make themselves obnoxious or bring themselves to my attention..."

Nodding his head, Brom appears to be thinking, letting out a slight breath from his nostrils. "I've seen a lot of weird things in my life. Killed a lot of 'em too." He shifts his shoulder slowly to crack the joints, then furrows his brows. "So, if you have any tips of where the 'weird shit' is hiding at, just point and say 'sic', because thats what I'm good at."

Rina tries the front door and walks in, a grocery bag dangling from her free hand and motorcycle helmet hung on her elbow. She kicks the door closed, wincing when it bangs.

Natalie and Brom have claimed two of the chairs in the living room; Nat's got a bottle of beer while a pale peach glass waits on the floor at the Get's feet. "Subtle as a brick through a window," the Galliard tells him - approvingly?, taking another pull before wedging the bottle between her knees. "Why not..." The rest of her question's cut off by the banging of the door: Brom could see a flash of anticipation in her eyes before she quickly turns, sinking back at the kin's arrival. "--Evening, Rina. Surprised to see you here."

At the sound of Rina's name, Brom turns and rises up out of his chair to regard the kin, arms crossing over his broad chest. "Hey there Italy." He says with a slight grin drifting over his lips as he shifts his weight some to center his gravity.

A flicker of... something crosses Rina's face, and she stops at the edge of the living room's dividing wall, giving the Get a nervous nod and looking to Natalie. "We got a fridge yet?" she asks.

"Two," the Galliard answers, nodding at the security door past Rina's shoulder. "Are you stocking up the tribe, or the passers-by?" Brom gets an apologetic nod before she rolls out of her chair, bottle held easily on one hand, and heads for the foyer. "I'll have to let you in to our half this time, but I'll show you where the spare keys are kept."

The kin heads for the door, glancing over her shoulder with a raised eyebrow. "If I had a key," she says, "I could keep our ammo stocked."

From outside comes the sound of a car pulling up, but a couple of minutes pass before a knock sounds on the front door.

The smile drops away from Brom's face just as quick and lets out a heavy breath, arms crossing once more over his chest. "I take it this wasn't the company you were expecting. It seems that you will soon get a full house. I should just take off." The knock draws his attention and he jerks his chin over.

Natalie looks from kin to door to Get and back to door before breathing out a soft, heartfelt, "Hell. Brom, I'm sorry. If you can cool your jets a few, this'll just take a couple of minutes. Or if you want to run, that's fine, too." Rina gets an apologetic grimace before she moves to the front door, pulling it open... and freezing with a scowl on her face. "Thomas," she says flatly, stepping back to let the other man in.

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. If not for the scars, he'd probably be fairly handsome in a severe sort of way. The angles of his face are sharply defined, the nobility in them scoured nearly to the bone. His thick black hair hangs shaggily around his face, clean but unkempt, and he typically wears a few days' worth of black beard-growth. He looks older than his thirty-something years; his deep-set eyes -- the right dark brown, the left blind white -- are often shadowed as though from lack of sleep, and the set of his mouth is usually tight and grim.

At six-foot-three, he stands taller than most men, and an inherent athleticism indicates that he could probably hold his own in a fight. There's also an aura of pent-up violence about him, a tightly-controlled rage and bitterness within the lanky, muscled frame that could be lethal if unleashed.

He wears a long-sleeved cotton pullover shirt, off-white, and a pair of dark green cargo pants. The pantlegs are untucked over a pair of black tactical boots. Outside, he wears a knee-length green-grey military coat.

Rina drops her groceries, by contrast, and runs for the door--only waiting, impatiently, when it's clear that Natalie intends to answer it herself. Her greeting is a good deal less restrained; she lets the man get about two steps inside before launching herself at him.

Letting out another grunt under his breath, Brom stands in place, arms once more crossing over his chest as he eyes the door and the one she greets behind it. He looks rigid, like a statue of rage as he goes back to being patient, or attempting to.

Where ever the hell the Philodox has been, it wasn't Tahiti, and it sure as hell wasn't fun. Thomas' lean face is set into a neutral mask that only hardens at the expression Natalie greets him with. "Natalie," he replies, coolly enough, as he steps inside and past Natalie... and then gets nigh-tackled by an enthusiastic Rina. A grunt escapes him at the collision, and the granite facade cracks slightly in a wan smile. He manages a deadpan, "Miss me?"

Demoted to door-keep, Nat closes the door behind the gaunt-looking... not-a-stranger, then turns to face the abruptly entangled pair, her arms folded and face still set in a disapproving mask. Brom seems to have dropped off her radar for the moment, unsurprising considering the flurry of emotion and movement in the entry.

Watching Rina fly across the room and Nat seemingly forget about him, Brom continues to stand in the middle of the room, looking much like the viking statue that he can silently becoming when needed to. He squints his eyes some, staring over at Thomas, before deciding to glance around the large safe haven once more, studying.

The pint-sized missile wraps both arms around his waist and clings, leaning her head against his chest and closing her eyes. Abruptly, she makes a face and looks up at him with a comically wrinkled nose. "You smell like Angelo. You seedy guys and your freakin' cancer sticks." Her face, thinner than it should be and more shadowed, somehow transforms itself into a beaming angelic smile. "But yeah. It's good to see you." The smile fades away into seriousness, and eye contact that conveys something perhaps only intelligible to the Philo.

Grey simply nods to Rina, the smile fading from his face as looks up from her. The steel shutters are back down over his face as his gaze skips over Brom, barely registering the other man, and settles on Natalie. "We need to talk," he tells the Galliard, as blandly as tiredness will allow. "Or, rather, I need to talk."

Natalie returns the newcomer's look with equal blandness, letting him wriggle for a second before nodding. "Right." Another beat and she turns to the patient Brom with a rueful grimace. "Brom, I'm sorry. I'd like to talk to you another time, but tonight's gone suddenly tribal. You're staying at the brownstone, right? And you've got my cell?"

The blue eyed Viking narrows his eyes a bit, then lets out a frustrated grunt under his breath. "Fucking hell." He says and throws his jacket on, making his way for the door. "Yeah." He rumbles under his breath, reaching for the handle and jerking it open, slipping out the door. Thump. These boots were made for walking.

Rina watches the Get leave through neutral, narrowed eyes, almost keeping Grey's body between her and the Viking. "I thought it was practically the new moon," she murmurs, slowly detaching herself from Thomas and glancing to Natalie. "What's got his panties in a bunch? D'you know?"

Grey moves aside to give Brom a path to the door, once more giving the larger man -- and thin or no, Thomas isn't short by any means -- a flat glance. Then he turns his attention back to Natalie. The scarred face remains neutral.

Natalie moves out of the way of the door, nodding a farewell to Brom as he passes. "He wanted to talk to me about joining Havoc," she says as she closes the door, her voice still neutral. "We got interrupted." Obviously. She turns and takes a step back toward the pair, her fist rocketing into the man's chin without any further warning. "Bastard."

Rina dodges back as if she thinks the punch is meant for her; her expression crumbles when it connects, and she stumbles backward slowly, looking utterly stricken.

Grey's head snaps hard to the side with the force of the blow, and he takes a step back. Recovering slowly, he turns back to Natalie, one hand coming up to touch his stubbled jawline carefully. His body is taut, and there's a hint of teeth showing in his grimace. He stares at the Galliard for a moment, that one good eye burning. Then, quite deliberately it seems, he breaks the gaze. His hand drops back down to his side as he turns his head away, tilting it to expose his throat.

"I've been waiting," Nat spits out, "A damn year to do that." Her eyes narrow at his throat-baring, and most of the tension drains out of her like the ubiquitous bathtub. "--Come inside, both of you." Which 'inside' becomes clear as she moves to the other door in the foyer and punches a quick code into the pad near the door, then pulls the door open to hold it for the others. "Need any help carrying, Rina?"

Rina looks as if she's the one who just got punched--in the stomach. Her eyes are down as she shakes her head, and she looks almost near tears as she walks over, picks up the grocery bag and her helmet, and steps into the Walker half of the house.

Grey closes his eyes briefly, taking a deep breath and letting it out. His own tension seems to leak away slowly, and when he opens his eyes again, he just looks drained. Stuffing his hands into the pockets of his coat, he moves through to the tribal side of the house.

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.

Nat comes in behind the Philodox with an air faintly reminiscent of 'sheep dog', the door snickting closed behind her. "Welcome back to St. Claire, Thomas. I'm glad you're here." She's as sincere about these words as her little outburst of a few seconds ago, though the two moods are worlds apart. "We've got a hell of a lot of catching up to do." Her thumbs hook into her pockets, the movement automatic. "You look like you need a cheeseburger. Wanna go back to the kitchen?" Her eyes slide over Rina's at the invitation, including the Kin within it.

Rina's heading in that direction the minute she walks in, in fact, to put away the contents of the grocery bags. And to splash her face with water at the sink, for some reason.

"Fine," Thomas rasps. His gaze sweeps over the interior as he follows Rina into the kitchen, and he notes, rather distantly, "The place looks good."

"Thanks." Nat continues to play Corgi as she follows the pair back into the large kitchen - it's almost the size of the one at the Dominion, if not as well-equipped. A deluxe coffee and espresso-maker has pride of place in the center of one of the larger counters. "We just got it finished up: less than a week ago. Help yourself," she adds, nodding toward the fridge. "Assuming Kevin hasn't cleaned it out, there's half a pizza left from supper. Mushroom and ham."

Rina quietly unpacks two frosty glass baking dishes covered with foil, and several little cartons of Ben and Jerry's Mint Cookie and New York Super Fudge Chunk. She turns on the oven to about 350, and sticks the Ben and Jerry's in the freezer without speaking a word. There is, however, an eloquent snort at the mention of leftover pizza.

Grey glances over at Rina at the snort and just barely smiles, just for a second or two. "I'm fine, thank you." Leaning an elbow against one of the counters -- still on his feet, still in his coat, like a stranger who expects to be sent away in short order -- he rubs his chin again, then rakes long fingers back through shaggy black hair. "I'm not sure where to start."

"Quoting from _Sound of Music_," the Galliard half-drawls, "Start at the very beginning, it's a very good place to start." Her thumbs free themselves as she crosses to the fridge, pulling it open to bring out a plate covered with plastic wrap and three large slices of pizza underneath. "And for the love of Pete, take off your coat and stay awhile. I'm not going to throw you out."

"You want any lasagne?" Rina asks, glancing over to him worriedly. "Or I got you Ben and Jerry's. You oughta have a snack, anyway."

Grey's jaw tightens briefly, tense, and it's strange -- for those who'd notice such things -- how he's not quite looking at either of them now. "Lasagne would be wonderful, thank you, Rina," he says, keeping his voice even, and he straightens up to shrug out of the grey trenchcoat. Except for the boots, it seems he's decided to forgo the black hole approach to his wardrobe. "First of all, it's Thomas Grey now, not Walker." He looks at Natalie. "Is there a place I should put this?"

Natalie frowns at the offer and acceptance of lasagne, gives the fridge door a sharp yank to pull it open - seal's a bit stiff, it would seem. "There's pegs back by the door. But you can just lay it over there," the low wall between dining room and kitchen is given a nod as she replaces her offering back within the chill chest. "Thomas Grey, huh? Good. Calling you Walker the Walker was just too damn weird." Fridge door closed again, she turns to place her back against it and watch the pair.

"Good," Rina murmurs. "You look like you've been living on street garbage and ramen noodles. God only knows what you had for dinner." She turns her back to the counter, standing a little straighter and crossing her arms over her chest, watching the man with big worried eyes. "I like Grey," she says a bit more gently. "It suits you."

Grey drops the coat over the half wall between the dining room and kitchen and leans against it, arms folded across his chest. "Secondly." He pauses, glancing downwards, then looks back up at Natalie. "Are you still Elder?"

Nat's taken to watching the Philodox, apparently trusting her ears to let her keep track of Rina's whereabouts. "There's a hell of a question, but yes. I am. And I'm Challenging for Fostern at the next Moot, so if you want it back, you've got about ten free days." Confident, isn't she? "Come on, Thomas. Give. You've got a year's worth of story backed up, and I know right where my pliers are."

Rina's jaw tightens visibly, and it's a good thing Natalie doesn't catch the look shot at her by the woman's dark eyes. She looks back to Thomas, chewing on her lip.

Grey is shaking his head already when Natalie talks about him wanting the Eldership. He grimaces again at the Galliard's impatience and straightens up from his lean; the beast under his skin snarls, and its impatience is echoed in the sharp, abrupt snap of his voice. "Fine, then. We'll skip to the end." Teeth visible, he yanks up one sleeve of his long-sleeved shirt and bares his right forearm, holding it out for them to see the scar carved into the flesh there. Carved deep, as by Crinos claws. Discolored with ash to make it permanent. Rina may not recognize the glyph, but Natalie should know the ~Charach~ glyph when she sees it. "I'm not Fostern anymore." Angry. Angry and bitter.

Rina makes a choked sound, and turns away, her shoulders hunching. She stares at the counter, and holds back several strong currents behind empty eyes.

He can see Nat's eyes go big, her hands dropping to her sides in shock as she stares at the glyph. "...The hell?" Blue eyes flick from it to his sullen, scarred face and back again as though she's expecting - hoping - for the scar to have changed while she wasn't looking. She pushes slowly off the fridge and up onto the balls of her feet, then just as slowly back down. "Oh hell, Thomas..." Her voice has gone thin and thready, hollow. "Yeah, yeah, you've got a hell of a story to tell."

Rina doesn't move until the oven beeps. Then she mechanically puts in the tray of lasagne, and sets the timer, and leans on the counter again as if it can hold her up.

Grey pulls the sleeve back down and pushes his hands into his pockets. He takes a deep breath, pulling his interior frothmonster back on its leash. He nods at Natalie's words, gives Rina a brief, apologetic glance, then addresses his words more or less to the opposite wall. "Around the turn of the century, back when I was still an Ahroun, I was in Vegas helping some of our tribemates fight to take a caern away from the Bone Gnawers." He grimaces. "That turned out to be shit, since our people there were fucking sick with the Wyrm... but that's another story. I met a woman there, Metis, Ragabash. Ronin. Mercenary. Fighting for our side. We ended up paired up much of the time, in battle, and..." He grunts. "I found a lot to admire about her. Didn't go further than that, though, until one night when it was quiet, and there was a lot of alcohol, and." He shrugs. "A mistake, I thought. Lapse of judgement. We parted ways soon afterward, but kept in touch. As I said, I admired her, and the feeling was mutual."

Natalie doesn't even twitch when the oven beeps, but continues to watch Thomas. Now that the story's on its way, she seems content to let him tell it in his own way.

Grey continues talking, his voice rough, almost a monotone. Once leashed, the rage seems to go to sleep... or collapse unconscious. "I tried to persuade her back into the Nation... more than once. She'd chosen to be Ronin, though, and had objections to the way the Nation was run." There's a hint in his voice which suggests that he likely agreed with her. "Some time after I'd settled in again in St. Claire, a Philodox now, Beta to Smith's Elder, she called me up. Needed a favor. I'd promised myself I'd look out for her. I was gone, I think, a week or so. What happened in Vegas happened again. After I came home, I think it was, that I realized I cared for her more than is, traditionally speaking, at least, legal."

Natalie breathes another, "Hell," but makes no other move to interrupt. Despite her earlier threats of pliers, she doesn't seem as though she's about to leap at him or otherwise cause damage.

Grey shifts his weight, once more giving Rina a look that's both regretful and, again, apologetic. Then he turns more toward Natalie. "She knew the danger. I knew the danger. We were careful." He grimaces again. "I hated it. There was no other choice, though. Nevermind that she's sterile, that no Metis offspring were possible. Nevermind that I've got Homid bastards scattered across Europe and America, probably. Nevermind that ever since I Renounced I've done my damnedest to keep close to our kin, to make them feel wanted, needed, valued." He spits out a short, curt Serbian word, angry again; he shakes his head in disgust. "We kept it secret. I would have married her if I could. But we kept it secret." He takes in a breath, lets it out. "Then she disappeared."

Rina straightens, and turns to watch him with more than a little concern for what follows. She wets her lips, presses them together hard.

Natalie continues to watch, to listen, her face impassive.

Grey rakes his fingers back through his hair, rubs the back of his neck. He's looking at the opposite wall again. "I tried every method I could to get in touch with her and failed. Questing Stone produced no results no matter how often I tried it or on what side of the Gauntlet." He folds his arms across his chest. "That is why I left." His voice has dropped back into a monotone. "Took me almost a year to find her, and when I did, she'd gotten corrupted. I don't know how, except that it wasn't voluntary. If I'd found her a month later, she would have been irredeemable... but I didn't, and she wasn't. I called up a friend I knew at another Sept, the one I'd Renounced at. We got her there, got her Cleansed. But it went out hard, and she talked during it. Screamed." He looks at Natalie. "The rest, you can imagine. My friend spoke up in our defense, but she wasn't the Judge in charge. Lara was Scorned, scarred, given the Jackal's Voice, I was scarred, Satired, and the only good thing I can think of in all of this is that she's finally gotten scared enough to rejoin the Nation. The Children of Gaia said they'd lift the Jackal from her once she's passed their tests and been accepted into the tribe, and my friend -- one of our Family -- said she'd keep me up to date on how she's doing. And, so." He's no Galliard, really; the story just seems to peter out there.

Whatever comfort Thomas might take in the "good" part of this whole sordid tale seems small at best, right now.

Rina swallows, and just watches him--conveying what she might say with eyes rather then words, a clear pain and sympathy.

Natalie takes in a deep breath and lets it out while raking fingers through her hair, unconscious mimicry of the older man. "Hell. And now you're back." One thing that hasn't changed in the past year - Nat's still mistress of the obvious. "I... I've got a lot to think about. I think I'm gonna... head up." She glances back toward Rina, then back to Thomas again. "Bedrooms are upstairs. You can have the one at the end of the hall. Don't... when you go up, keep it down. I don't know if Kev's sleeping, but if he is, don't wake him. I'll get you sheets, and the like. We'll talk tomorrow."

Grey nods. "Tomorrow," he echoes.

Rina turns to get something from the freezer--and then frowns at a bit of paper stuck on the door.

Natalie moves to go, lips tightening into an awkward smile at finding Rina right there. She sidesteps awkwardly and strides down the hall without so much as a goodnight for either of them. A few moments later her feet go thumping up the stairs - pausing about halfway up before continuing.

Rina presses her lips together, hard, and then turns with admirable poise to get plates out of a cabinet. Well, it's admirable poise considering the tears welling in her eyes.

[End of log]