Currently the moon is in the waning Gibbous Moon phase (66% full).

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.

Natalie admits the Gnawer Elder soon after the doorbell is pushed, keeping mostly behind the door to hide her Glabro self. "Evening," she rumbles, closing the door behind Olga. "Didn't expect to see you here." Despite the moon and her injuries she's genial enough, though she's more than careful with her splinted left arm.

Olga has her bag, dirtily fluorescent, and her 'kerchief, just plain dirty, though the latter she's in the process of pulling off her greasy head just as Natalie opens the door. There's a tight frown on her face all the time she's standing out on the porch, standing out and degrading property values by the second, and it doesn't immediately disappear when Natalie opens the door, though she's quick to step in, jamming the almost-rag in her hand into her pocket. "Hey," she returns the greeting, not relaxing much once the door closes, not removing shoes or lifting bag from shoulder or the armour of her heavy jacket which she still wears despite the spring. It's only at a second glance that she really seems to notice the other woman's state, her form and her wounds, and it gets a quick sympathetic grimace but no words. She stands in the doorway, mute and awkward, looking around at the work done on the safehouse, appraisingly.

"I was hoping to get out this week and talk to you, actually," the Galliard says, making no comment about Olga's presence or state of (un)cleanliness. "That got put on hold, though. Did you want something?" A second, and she amends it to a marginally more polite, "Can I help you?"

Olga seems to find that statement foreboding and at it her eyes stop, and then begin to dart here and there, into the nooks and cavities of the place, before they finally siezed the front door as if considering an early retreat. "I's looking for Kevin," she reveals as she turns her attention back on the rest of the house, not without a look of regret. She doesn't enter any further though, she remains there in the entranceway still wrapped in the shielding and excuse of outside clothes. "You done the place up nice," she says, almost a beneath-breath mumble, before glancing up at Natalie's Glabro and asking, curiously, quietly, "So, he in?"

Olga is tall, strong, and pale. Her face is long, her nose protrudes, and her shoulders are hunched up, making her look a little like a bird trying to warm itself in the cold. She is better dressed than one might expect from her poverty: her clothes are trim and well-constructed, and though far from fashionable, far, also, from tatters. She prefers layers of clothing, wearing as much as possible short of sweltering. Her fine blonde hair is always tucked neatly under something, be it a hat or a cleverly tied 'kerchief. Olga has in fact so managed her wardrobe that she looks more like one of the faux homeless, a rich kid in dirty boots and patched jeans, than a real street person; with the difference that Olga wouldn't be caught dead in dirty boots. She wears a long, stiff, green army coat, which while presumably quite warm, doesn't suit her in the least. She's almost always seen with one arm thrust up around a shoulder, clutching the mouth of her heavy orange bag. Olga is in her early twenties.

Natalie certainly looks foreboding as well; with one arm already folded grimly across her chest it doesn't take much imagination to consider her unwelcoming. "He's out," she says shortly, "With Tu. --And thank you." This to the compliment for the house, which seems to relax her somewhat out of her stiffness. "Come in and sit?" She takes the other's obedience as a given, moving past the tattered woman and into the living room itself.

Olga hesitates just as long as she can without seeming too impolite, one moment or two, before she drops her bag to the ground with a crackle of plastic. "Sure," she concedes, pulling bare feet out of her crumbling shoes, making her ginger way inside, though she keeps her coat on, unbuttoned, and she doesn't sit, she just stands behind one of the reclining chairs, hands wrapped around its neck. She asks, hesitantly, watching Natalie sit down, "What's up?"

Natalie takes the other recliner, carefully lowering herself into it with a wince of anticipation - or perhaps it's a series of winces, strung together. "Jacinta," she sighs once she's down, with another grimace. "Since we're supposed to," her uninjured hand circles once, "Work together to decide how she's doing and if she's passed. I wanted to see how things were going on your end, fill you in on mine."

There's caution in Olga's voice as she answers, and she watches Natalie like there's some catch here, some unseen concern. "She's done everything I asked 'er too, and done it well," she says tersely, as preparation.

Natalie snorts once, impatient. "But what, is the question. I tried to get..." Another impatient flip of her hand. "It doesn't matter. What are you having her do?" She's sitting in one of the recliners, while a grubby, grimy Olga lurks behind the other. There's a large orange trash bag and a pair of shoes in the foyer. They smell like they're probably Olga's as well.

Olga rubs a greasy hand at her neck, tension in her posture but rather deliberately answering Natalie's impatience with slow, almost lazy thought, watching the Galliard out of the corners of her eyes. "Not much," she answers after a couple seconds. "Not much, yet." She puts her hands into the pockets of her coat and opens it, stretches, flapping out either side like wings, as she mentions, looking around again, "Warm in here. She organized a check on the perimeter of Harbour Park, brought together some Garou for that, led it. Hasn' been done, so far as I'm aware, since Rough and Tumble fell apart, but we didn' find anything we could kill; still, she got it together." There's a pause, and a thin smile, to hide either hesitation or weak belligerence. "And we had 'er kill a guy. He was a bad guy, but he had friends, so we couldn't do it ourselves without making trouble."

Natalie pounces on that last, either the moon or her usual edginess making her the falcon to Olga's elephant. "Kill a guy. What guy? What sort? Human, or... something else?"

There's a muffled jingling on the other side of the front door, the first audible hint that someone's there. Click. Snick. The door opens, though the first view anyone in the room might get is of Jeren's side, as she uses her shoulder to push the door open. The woman is looking sweaty, which, judging by the mild temperature, would probably indicate that she's done some serious exercise recently. Her hands are occupied--a half-gallon carton of milk in the one, a plastic bag dangling from the other. Look who went shopping?

"A guy," Olga answers unhelpfully, almost comically. "A bad guy. A-" and she breaks off immediately, sentence throttled at the throat at the first sound. Her hands come out of her pockets and they dangle loosely off the ends of her arms, but other than that she doesn't react to the intrusion with anything other than a blank-faced, hook-nosed stare.

Natalie looks over as well, her impatience easing as the Ragabash enters far enough to be identified. "Evening, Jeren," she offers, her voice Glabro-tenor, letting both of them know that the small Ragabash is both known and expected. "--New face," she adds for Olga's benefit.

Jeren pushes the door closed with the opposite shoulder. "Evening," she calls, without actually looking over to them. "Sorry about the lateness. I meant to get back before it got dark, but I ran into Jeremy and we both babbled at each other for a while." As she talks, she ducks down the way, into the kitchen with the groceries.

Olga continues to stand mute, a statue covered in the knick-knacks of wardrobe like pigeons. She turns to watch Jeren as she moves through the house but the movement is a full-body one so that she seems almost to rotate on a stand, blank, not even inquisitive.

Natalie clears her throat, then again when it doesn't catch Jeren immediately. "Um, Jeren?" When - if - the other Walker turns, she nods meaningfully toward the silent Bone Gnawer lurking behind their furniture.

There's the noise of the fridge being opened and shut, then things being shuffled around, and the clear sound of something--the old milk carton--being emptied into the sink. A quick turning on and off of the tap. And then the now empty carton being dropped into the garbage can. All in all, about a minute and a half before Jeren pokes her head back around. "...Eh? Oh." She steps out from the kitchen and offers Olga an acknowledging dip of her head.

During the empty minute Olga puts her hands in her pockets, uncertainly, and then pulls them back out; she inspects one, digs beneath a nail, and then scratches awkwardly at her throat. She gives up watching the kitchen about thirty seconds in and instead moves to sit down on the recliner, boredom finally settling in where Natalie's invitation failed. The way she sits, knees together, at the edge of the chair, is strangely prim, and her coat stretches out behind her regally, robe-like; her hands fold together on her lap. "So, uh, anyway," she tries out - and when Jeren appears again she gives her silent greeting a dull and unconsidered "Hey."

"Introduction, Jeren," Nat orders, biting off each syllable; while the Ragabash was gone she watched the hallway like a hawk, tension steadily weaving itself through every muscle and tendon. "And then... scoot. We're busy." And a nice good evening to you too.

"Jeren Harper, Cliath Ragabash of the Glass Walkers, formerly of the Sept of the Eternal Sentinels in Colorado." She keeps her eyes at about chin level throughout this introduction, and then, quite obediently and after Olga's return introduction, she moves swiftly across to the door leading to the Walker only section of the house, punches in the code with only slight hesitation, and disappears through it. Whoosh.

Olga returns the greeting, rather informally, a slow gritty drawl to her voice: "Olga, Fat-Ripper," she says, annoyed. "Theurge of the Bone Gnawers. Hey." She doesn't appear to feel much more is called for: she watches Jeren's departure with sullen eyes, her head dipped an inch or two so that as she watches the woman's half-obscured by puckered eyebrow. When she's gone Olga looks back to Natalie: "Well," she says, dry and expectant.

Natalie stares after the Ragabash, silent, nostrils flared and teeth grinding. She grips the arm of the chair with her free hand, clutching it as though the chair is the physical manifestation of her Rage, and the whiteness of her knuckles is all that keeps her from flying into Frenzy. She gets out a thin, "I... apologize for my tribemate, Olga," before wrenching her head around, yanking her eyes off the sanctum door and back to the other Elder.

A couple seconds pass in which Olga seems to consider her answer. Her eyes flash between the door through which Jeren had passed and the elder's hands, her knuckles. She almost smiles but she stops, there's just a twitch of her lips and a slight twist of her head, and then her legs spread out and she leans back into the chair. Oddly the rudeness seems to have made her more comfortable, more familiar, on more even footing: "S'alright," she says, and leaning over she grabs with one thick hand the lever at the side of the chair and with a yank and a hiss her feet go up and her head goes back and she sprawls across it more leisurely. "So where were we?"

It takes the Galliard longer to be ready to resume conversation. Nearly a minute passes while she breathes heavily through her nose, eyes flicking over the walls behind Olga's head but never focusing on the other woman. "--The Wendigo," she finally manages, closing her eyes for one last near-silent sigh. "You said you had her kill 'some man'. Why is that the act of a Fostern?"

"Because it turned 'er stomach to do it," Olga answers simply, with just a half-second's hesitation to suggest this reason may have been cooked up on the spot. "Ice isn't used to killing people, normal people. This may've been the first time she done it - and sometimes it's got to be done. She argued with me, 'forehand: she said it wasn't the Garou's business what humans did, that human justice should take care of it. But in the end she done it, because he was a blight on Gaia and 'cause I, her fake-Elder, asked 'er too." She leans again, she stretches, trying to make herself more comfortable, straightening shoulders and then pounding them into the back of the chair. "It doesn't prove she's ready, no," the Theurge admits easily, "but it's something."

Natalie listens to this with her eyes still closed, nods once and opens them, finally looking at Olga again. "All right. It doesn't sound to me," the last two words are faintly stressed, "like it's, like she's acting as a Fostern. Maybe - organizing the Garou for Harbor Park is something, but it's not... I don't know." She purses her lips, as if surprised by a lemon. "I don't know, Olga. She hasn't... I haven't given her terms yet. When she came to me, I was caught off guard. I told her I didn't have anything for her, asked for contact information. She told me to my face, flat out, that she didn't trust me with it, but that I could talk to Thomas, because he had it. It's... I don't know."

Olga listens to Natalie's words and her face changes; the process is slow but it's there. There's surprise, there, though it's thin and spread out, and a general softening. She leans forward a little, watching Natalie again, more inquisitive now like she's caught a glimpse of something and seeks another, her eyes all bunching up. She doesn't say anything though except for a hollow "Huh," as if asking the other for more, withholding an opinion.

Natalie still holds the arm of the chair, but no longer clutches it like it's her last hope of salvation. "I... Well, look." She leans forward as well, dropping her voice though there's no one else around to hear. "She and I don't get along. That's obvious to anyone with eyes. But I don't want to screw her over, you know? It's just... I don't see her behavior with me as sterling Fostern material. With you, eh. She's halfway there, maybe. Maybe more. I can't, I don't even want to give her her terms until after this thing between us is cleared up. There's a new Philodox in town. Uktena. Her Chiminage is to clear this crap up. I'm already working with her on it. According to her, Jacinta wants to get together with me during the next small moon and have this all mediated, and only -then- will Nascha get to run this Rite of Reconciliation and it'll all be popcorn and candy hearts. But... small moon? That only gives her two damn -weeks- to act like a Fostern."

"--And," she adds after only the shortest of pauses for breath, "That's two weeks - max - out of eight. That's not exactly..." She shakes her head again, sinks back into her chair with a grimace. "Hell. I don't know."

Olga rubs at her mouth and scratches at her ear. When Natalie leans forward she starts to as well but the gesture stops after a half inch, and she just ends up sliding her head along the top of the armchair towards the other. Then, again, she scratches, fiercely, at a spot just above her ear, coming away with loose ends of hair between her fingers. She waits a long time before coming up with anything, and her face goes through minute and erratic changes as she thinks, small little puckers and straightenings as if she's trying to find the best one to adopt to answer. "I like Ice. She's my friend and a good fuckin' Garou. But if she wants to be Fostern," she finally begins, slowly but firmly, "she should bite her tongue and tell you `yes ma'am`. Those're her terms, and if she can't live with 'em she doesn't want it bad enough, yet. Warriors aren't expected to be any too clever but they do gotta be charitable - generous - and sounds like she's not being that. Like I said, she's a good Garou, and a helluva full-moon, as they go; but if she can't deal with the terms as they stand, she's just gonna have to wait 'til next time." She scratches again, angrily and with furrowed eyebrows, like she's trying to get right through the skin. "Unless," she says slowly, glancing up at Natalie curiously, "you got any fault, in this."

Natalie waits through it all, listening as intently as if there's a coded message that she'll have to repeat back after only hearing it once. "No. No, I..." Finally she shakes her head, ignoring the wince that comes from pulling the insulted skin of her jaw and neck. "I don't. That's part of why I wanted to talk to you. If it was just me, people could say, "Oh, it's just Nat, she hates her and that's why she screwed the Wendigo over". I tried to talk to Alicia about all of this, but all she said was that her telling me Jacinta's terms would somehow be... hell, I don't remember any more. But basically if she told me the terms she gave to Jacinta, she'd have to fail her. And I backed off."

Olga concedes without concern or very much thought, "Yeah, they'll say that, but -" and here she stops, glancing up at Natalie, her eyes harder now, not fierce, just hard, like two little unyielding marbles placed in her sockets. "You want me to fail 'er, too?" she asks, the tone conveying nothing more than a curiosity more than casual.

Natalie shakes her head again, a quick little tremor. "No. I don't want you to do anything. I'm just trying... I just want you to know what'd going on on my end, and for me to know what's happening on yours. What you decide regarding her is all..." Another grimace and she pushes up and out of her chair in one smooth, immediately regretted move: her free hand presses flat against her belly as the blood drains out of her face. "--Crap. How you decide this ends is up to you."

Olga stands when Natalie does, and her rise is equally regretted, though she doesn't have the same excuse the other woman does: she is just lazy, and had gotten comfortable, and as she pulls herself up the creak of joints and a heavy unsatisfied grunt attest to that. "What's between you and her, Nat, is between you and her," she says simply, thinly, as she regains her feet. "I don' even know what the hell it's all about it - the curiosity's drivin' me batty but I'm not stayin' right the fuck away from it." She pauses a moment, some thought pops into her head, possibly irrelevant and the change in tone makes that obvious. "What's the shadow like, here?" she asks, more easily now.

"Dangerous," she spits out, with a twist to her lips. "Jamethon said he was going to do something with it, back in January, but he never did. And I've been up to my eyeballs in cubs since then. Haven't gotten a chance to do anything."

With a hunch of her shoulders Olga offers, with the halting hesitation of the suddenly uncertain, "Maybe's something she could do. Area'd have to be swept first, 'fore any Theurge could really take a crack at it, and a `Fostern` Ahroun should be able to gather a war party in a couple months and lead it in. Maybe. I dunno, it's your Umbra." Again those shoulders come up, making her coat rise up around her ears like a mantle.

Natalie studies the other woman for a few seconds, then sighs again. "It's an idea. But she doesn't have a couple of months. She has until the next Moot. That's only a few weeks away. As it is, I'm thinking... well. I'm still tossing around ideas in my head. Nothing set in stone yet, but then again..." A faint, decidedly wry non-smile lifts the corner of her mouth on the uninjured side. "There's been no rush. Anyway, Olga, thanks for stopping by. And thanks for letting me know what's going on with your side of things."

Olga stands there a moment, unmoving, dumbly considering whether that's it; when she decides it is she bobs her head once, easily, and she says to the other "Yeah, no problem." With that she begins moving to the door, shoving her feet into her shoes again and heaving her bag over her shoulder.

Natalie escorts Olga to the door, seeing her out, then disappears back into the Walker side of the house.

[End of log]