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It is currently 09:55 Pacific Time on Tue Mar 13 2012.
Currently the moon is in the waning Gibbous (Galliard) Moon phase (63% full).

Tenement Building - Ground Floor

Duly caught on camera and buzzed in, Shelby steps inside the tenement, coffee in one hand and bag in the other. In her usual two-steps-behind-the-fashionistas clothes and in her eye-catching blue heels, she seems the very image of a celebutant out for an exhausting day of shopping - save that no celebutant would be caught dead in this part of town, lest they be caught dead. "I," she announces to the room at large, "cannot -tell- you how happy I am y'all have a place here in town."

Not very long after Shelby's been buzzed in, Flint emerges from the office with a brief nod and mutter of conversation with whoever's inside. "Hey, Shelby-rhya," the teen offers in greeting. For all the cheerfulness of the words, there's a good bit of tension in the boy's posture as he walks over and flops down backwards onto the couch, hand coming up to rub at his eyebrows.

Flint stands just shy of five and a half feet tall, still slight of frame and build. Black, partially untamed hair hangs past his ears in need of a haircut, framing a slender, fine-boned face and equally dark eyes. Much of the time, his hair is pulled back with a simple tie, leaving only the occasional strand loose to fall in his face. His fair skin is freckled across his face and arms, though not discernibly tanned.

His clothing, visibly secondhand or hand-me-down, hangs loose on his gangly frame. Most often, Flint is found in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, or other similarly loose items.

"--Flint," Shelby decides after a moment's study, and flashes him a brief, bright grin. just before he flops. "How are you? I brought doughnuts," she adds, offering the bag as she moves to join him. "Almost ready for your Rite of Passage?"

There is a wry, amused grin on the boy's face, as he reaches into the pocket of his sweatshirt, coming out with a half-crumpled pack of cigarettes and pulling one out. "Mm, donuts," he says, grinning a little wider, although there's still the subtle unease from it being his moon, which he attempts to push away by actually lighting the cigarette. "I. I passed my Rite," he adds. "Finished on Thursday."

Shelby settles into a chair and stretches her legs before toeing off those shoes. "Oh? Well, congratulations. You get first pick, then." So magnanimous, she, though she follows it up by actually handing him the bag. "What are your plans now?"

Flint pushes himself back upright to seated in order to take the bag of donuts, reaching in blindly and coming out with two of them--one chocolate covered, one with sprinkles--before he offers the bag back to Shelby. "Thanks," he says. "Dunno. I. I have a project, a. That I'm working on. A memorial, that... because with the wasps and brambles, we'll lose the burial mounds." Then the galliard pauses. "Other than that, no plans."

Shelby merely nods the doughnuts onto a nearby table - maybe she had one earlier? "Oh? Sounds interesting. That's a good idea." A sip of coffee and she adds, "Thinking packs? I know I was, in your shoes."

"I am, yes, though. I don't know quite what yet," Flint says, pausing to manage to eat one of the donuts and not drop the cigarette and obviously for the teenager it's a slightly complicated version of 'more than one thing to do at once'. "I'd like to pack, but." A pause, and a shrug. "Maybe after Alexandra has her Rite of Passage, and."

Shelby echoes, "Alexandra?" with an encouraging up-tilt of both tone and chin. "Need at least three, of course. Have you thought about that Chimera pack Salem-rhya was thinking about? Or aren't you thinking Wisdom? War, perhaps?"

Flint furrows his brow in thought a moment. "Alexandra Morgan, Calm Clouds Mask the Storm. She's a Shadow Lord cub," Flint explains, taking a bite out of his second donut. "And she's my friend." A shrug follows. "I'm not sure, I." The boy shakes his head. "Not that I would mind a Wisdom totem, and Salem-rhya is well 'nough, but."

"Gracious," says Shelby, slightly taken aback, and promptly follows that with, "They certainly have a lot of cubs these days." Coffee serves as a fine break in the conversation while she listens. "--But? But you don't want to follow Chimera? But you're not sure about packing with Salem? But you've already asked and he hasn't made a decision yet?"

Flint holds up two fingers. "But I'm not sure about packing with Salem-rhya," Flint admits, shrugging and then puffing on the cigarette a bit more.

"Fair enough," the Fang says with a nod. Flint's sprawled out on the couch, eating a doughnut (or two!) and smoking, while she's settled on the edge of a nearby chair with coffee in hand. There's a semi-crumpled bag on the coffee table, and her outrageous blue shoes have been kicked off and are waiting their turn. "We were thinking of asking him about joining Equinox, but then he made that announcement at Moot." She shrugs, opportunity lost.

Nicodemus lets himself in through the front door, lugging a box that lies about how comfortable the folding cot within will be. He glances briefly at the occupants in the lobby as he swiftly closes the door behind him--then double checks to make sure it's secured. "Uh. Hi?"

Flint twists where he's sprawled, glancing first at the monitor screen and then at the doorway when Nick comes in. "Hey Nick," comes the more-or-less cheerful greeting, with a wave. A nod to Shelby. "I've got the project that. It's taking up most of my time, and. And I really just, I dunno quite what, as far as a pack goes, yet."

Shelby looks toward the opening door, faint eyebrows lifting in surprise (though perhaps only Flint can see them). "Mr. Dalton! What a surprise to see you here," she claims, sounding pleased, and with a smile to match. "Flint, could you help him with that box, please?" She continues to Nick, "I'm sorry I haven't made it for our morning runs - the last month has just been awful. I've been trying to keep in practice, though."

It's almost immediately obvious that Nick's initial hesitation to go beyond an 'Um. Hi?' was far more due to Shelby's presence than Flint's. "Oh, I've got it, Flint," Nick assures the young Walker with an added wave of his free hand. Then he scrutinizes Shelby, and finally just voices what's on his mind. "I had no idea you were a Glass Walker." Then to both Flint and Shelby. "You people really do blend in so seamlessly with the masses."

Flint half chokes on his donut when he begins to laugh. "She's not a Glass Walker," the galliard explains to Nick, though there's absolutely no judgement in his voice. "The lobby and non-tribe areas of the building, are open to any of the Sept who. Who aren't otherwise barred."

Shelby's about to answer when Flint does; she shoots the teen a look that's more amused than anything else. "I could say the same of you," she counters to Nick, standing and offering a hand. "I suppose we ought to do proper introductions." There she stops, looking pleasantly expectant.

Nicodemus places the box down, propped up against the lobby wall, and takes a few steps forward to close the distance between himself and Shelby. "Probably," he agrees, shaking the offered hand, gloves still on. "I'm apparently related to the Glass Walkers. Kin," he clarifies, in case that might not be obvious. "Just found out a few months ago via Mouse. Weird, huh?" His formal introduction is decidedly not up to Silver Fang par, but comes across as genuine.

Flint grumbles a little at the 'proper introductions' before speaking up. "By the way, Shelby-rhya," the cliath adds, "'s Carves the Requiem for Cockroach's Children, now and all. But. Um. Jus' Requiem, yeah?" That said, Flint busies himself with shoving the rest of the sprinkle-covered donut into his mouth.

Shelby laughs, "Speaking of people who blend seamlessly with the masses...!" and retrieves her hand. "Shelby Zaleski-Leveque, Fostern Ragabash of the Silver Fangs, called Bright Eyes Sees to the Heart of the Ambush. --Doughnuts are free for all," she adds as she retakes her seat. "How much do you know about us?" A nod to Flint indicates which 'us' she's speaking of, and to the now-Cliath, "Not 'Carves'? Sounds more dangerous. I agree that 'Children' isn't the way to go."

Nicodemus returns to his box, hefting it by the flimsy slot nominally used for porting the carton around. "I know enough to know I don't know all that much. And to not piss anyone off unless I've got a death wish. Mouse covered a lot of the big picture stuff, but when it comes to societal/cultural aspects, I feel like the first anthropologist to hit the beaches of the Troibriand Islands."

Flint rolls his eyes at Shelby. "Seriously, no no. Just Requiem," he says, insistent. The butt of the cigarette is ground out in the ashtray on the coffee table, frowned at, and another one immediately drawn out and lit. "Also, Nick?" A pause. "Thanks, 'kay? I... appreciate what you did." Whatever the galliard is referring to is left uncertain, but. "If you need anything, any-- that I can do, let me know."

Shelby watches Nick - not with the intent stare of a predator, nor even the lazy, well-fed-predator sort, but with polite interest. "Sure you don't need help? And yes, there's a lot to learn, especially if you come to it late. I won't step on any toes, save to say 'Welcome to the family'. I'm looking forward to doing parkour again, though it might be a few weeks." She twitches a smile over at that Galliard and retrieves her coffee, sipping at it.

Nicodemus gestures with his free hand towards Flint, signaling he's talking to the young Walker. "No problem. And thanks for the offer, but I'm fine for the moment. Maybe I'll raincheck you later," he offers, adding in a faint smile. "Let me know if you need help tracking anyone down. I've got access to all kinds of databases via my PI license and I've still got contacts over at the SCPD." He hefts the box up and makes his way towards the stairs, addressing Shelby as he slides past. "I'm always game for chatting. No harm in that, right?" he surmises, though the last word comes out a question, as if suddenly realizing mid-sentence that perhaps chatting with non-Walkers invited into the tenement might somehow be taboo. "I'd imagine?"

Flint looks over at Nick, again. "One of those contacts at the police happen to be some woman, nosey-like? She. Um. Recognised me while I was out, last night." A faint furrow of brow and Flint grabs another donut from the bag.

Riley quietly slips in through the front door, carrying a small shopping bag with a smaller brown bag inside of it. She cranes her head to take stock of the lobby for a moment, a small little smile on her face as she heads toward the stairs, unobtrusive.

"Useful and athletic," says Shelby, with far too much admiration for it all to be sincere. "I'll keep it in mind, thank you. And," she seconds with another glance Flint's way, "if you need help, just ask. You may not be my Tribe's kin, but you're still kin. That will get you a lot." She has more coffee and eyes her shoes, though makes no move to return them to her feet.

"And I can advise you on proper parkour footwear, so as to balance out this whole give and take thing," Nick offers as a tongue-in-cheek response to Shelby. He then addresses Flint. "Think you could decribe her better than female, cop, and nosy?" Come to think of it, that's probably a good description of half the female cops.

Riley pauses a moment as she reaches the door to the stairwell, as though recalling something. Taking a few half-steps backward to glance in the direction of Flint, the ragabash inclines her head upward. "Hey," She calls, "Flint. Forgot to bring it up yesterday. Was... distracted." She gives a little nod, "Congrats."

"Thanks Riley," the teenager says with a grin, before looking back at Nicodemus. "Long black hair braided back, pale skin, short, like, shorter than me short?" Flint says. "Shiny silver-looking necklace-thing. Skinny, too."

Riley doesn't appear to have had anything else to add. She lifts her plastic baggy as though in salute and wanders off up the stairs.

Shelby dangles her heels through the peep-toes. "You mean these aren't proper footwear?" she mock-mourns before laughing and setting them down again. "Don't worry, I will. You probably won't see these too much longer anyway. --Hello, Riley. Goodbye, Riley." There's a brief eye-rolling for the other woman, but Shelby makes no move to call her back.

Nicodemus watches the woman depart up the stairs, then shrugs and assures Flint, "I think I know who you're talking about. Used to work with her a lot when I was a detective. She's good people, and I wouldn't sweat it if I were you. But," he cautions, "you probably want to change your looks up a bit more if you think she recognized you. If she can, someone who's actively looking for you will be able to identify you in a heartbeat. And you never know when you might run across your grandparents in town." He takes a few more steps towards the stairs. "I've got to go try and set my temporary room up. See you two around later," he suggests, almost as if an invitation. He's nowhere near as skittish as he was the night before.

Flint grimaces, and nods to Nick. "Yeah, you're. You're right. Haircut, or something, and. And yeah, she. She definitely recognised me, she. Called me by name, and. I'll get on that, and such." A sigh, and the teenager goes for yet another doughnut.

"Not just a hair cut, but dye it as well," Shelby cuts in with a considering look at Flint. "Or possibly a wig - it's easy to go shorter, but no one would expect longer." "--I hope so," she adds with all seeming sincerity to Nick. "At the very least, I have another place to look for you when and if my mornings ever open up again."

"And subtle so as to blend in and not be noticed," Nick advices before heading up. "Bald with tattoos or blue hair draws attention. I'd go with the longer-haired wig," he says, backing up Shelby. "Later." And he disappears up the stairwell with the cot in tow.

"Ugh, no wigs," the cliath says, as Nick disappears up the stairs. "Absolutely not." The last word is snapped, and then Flint grimaces. "Sorry. It." Pause, and Flint twists about to face Shelby more properly, hand raising to rub his forehead again. "Didn't mean to snap."

"Well, goodness no," says Shelby as she turns away from the door and back to properly face Flint, one eyebrow arched. "Of course not a wig. You certainly wouldn't want to take advice from a private detective who specializes in finding missing people. There's no way he'd know anything about how to avoid being found." And there she stops, expression gone still. Frozen, one might say.

Flint just grumbles irritably, getting to his feet and glancing towards the stairwell. "Whatever," the boy grumbles, walking past Shelby while being very careful not to bump into her.

For her part Shelby draws herself very upright, almost throne-like, and lets him stalk. "I'll let myself out," is more neutral than disapproving. "Goodbye, Flint."

"Seeya," Flint says, not quite neutral but more belying the tension of it being the galliard's moon. And then, the cliath disappears not into the stairwell, but crosses over to the door to the basement, which slams shut of its own volition behind him.
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May 2012

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