"I am not afraid of a hard task. No good garou should be."

East Bridge Street
The power plant to the south, chain-link fence delineating it sharply from the street, takes up two blocks, from Fourth to Second. Across the street, and down along Second and to First, are tenements, small bars, and the occasional slightly-better-maintained building. Teenagers give older, grim-looking men and women nowhere near enough space for respect, jostling them and sometimes knocking them down while brushing arrogantly by. Trash in the gutters and along the sidewalks is a glum reminder, with the filth spewed from the power plant itself and the factories beyond to the south, of the poverty of the area and the lack of care given to this section of the city. The occasional shot rings out, down the street or in the tiny, darkened alleys burrowing between buildings.

The return address of the package sent to Clemency's old Sept turns out to be in one of the worst parts of town, a relative stone's throw from the big, ugly power plant. The exact block is littered with homeless and other trash, along with other 'colorful' sorts, some of which look both territorial and violent. The specific address leads to an ugly five-story apartment building that looks like it hasn't seen a proper tenant in years. Thomas Grey, still quite busy with putting the interior in order, is currently in the process of lugging several large trash bags out the side entrance and toward a nearby graffiti-strewn dumpster. Unsurprisingly, he's dressed in sweats and long-sleeved t-shirt and certainly looks like he's been spending the day cleaning up other people's filth and debris.

Cedric looks so out of place amid this grimy and unprepossessing scene it'd be funny, if it didn't have every appearance of being the preparations for a tragedy. The immaculately dressed, slightly effete-looking, tall guy picks his way along the street, glancing at house numbers as he passes, avoiding puddles and trash which are both plentiful on the sidewalk. Several people eye him with envy, distaste, or outright hunger for his evident comfortable means. One teenager dressed gangsta-style actually starts to follow him and move up behind him for half a minute, but then peels off into an alley, an expression of puzzled fear on his face. Finally Mr Immaculate reaches the house number he seems to have been looking for and moves towards the front porch, then pauses when he spots the guy hauling trashbags to the side of the building. "Excuse me," he calls out in a transatlantic accent.

Grey pauses just before swinging the first bag over and into the foul-looking and foul-smelling trash receptacle to glance over. His disinterested expression changes into a puzzled and then suspicious frown as he takes in the other man's appearance. Almost imperceptibly, he straightens, raw nobility glaring out despite his less than regal attire and surroundings. "Can I help you?" he asks, polite enough but not especially friendly.

"I hope so," comes a crisp reply. "I'm looking for a fellow named Thomas Grey." His eyes pass over Grey's salt-and-pepper hair, his milky eye, the myriad small scars and marks on the visible flesh. "Would that happen to be you, at all?"

Grey's good eye rakes over the other man critically. "It would. Why?" Curt, crisp, and to the point.

Cedric considers a moment. "Would the names Ruth Meredith and Clemency Haynes mean anything to you?" he then asks.

Grey purses his lips for a moment, then nods. "I knew Clemency." His stance relaxes a hair, but only that, as he turns away and finishes what he came out here to do -- dispose of trash. As the dumpster's lid clangs back down, Grey starts for the door he came out of, gesturing for the other to follow. "We can talk inside."

"I think it's best, don't you?" drawls the other man, following Grey towards the door.

Grey flashes the other man a narrow-eyed frown, but says nothing else until they're inside.
Grey goes into the graffiti-covered tenement building.

Tenement Building(#2451RJ)
The lobby and first floor of the five-story building are quite dingy, but here at least are the most obvious signs of renovation and cleaning. The further one goes up, the more chaos and decay reign, the ravages of years of abandonment and the abuse of squatters. The lights don't work up there, and many of the pipes -- rusty and old, like the rest of the building -- have been blocked off until they can be replaced. The vast majority of apartments are still quite trashed and unlivable.
Thomas Grey lives in the basement-level super's apartment; the spacious floor plan and privacy make up for the lack of windows and the neighboring boiler. It's sparsely furnished and vaguely dingy, but cleaner than the rest of the building. Also, the lights and water work. More so than anywhere else, the basement area is a haven for cockroaches, but the rats keep their distance, and their numbers are dwindling.

Cedric looks almost as out of place in the ancient apartment as he did on the street. "I take it," he says once Grey has closed the door, "that you are aware of Clemency's nature, Mr Grey?"

Grey gives a, "Make yourself at home," as he lets Cedric in, then heads into the kitchen to wash his hands. "She was my packmate. And, if I can hazard a guess, you're a relative of hers."

Cedric sits on the couch, legs together, hands crossed in his lap. "I am. Not a close one, but I am a silver Fang. Cedric Ambermere, your servant. Fostern and galliard."

Grey comes out of the kitchen, drying his hands off on a dish towel. He gazes at the other blandly. "Thomas Grey. Philodox of the Glass Walkers. Son of Wolverine. Cliath." The stamp of his birth tribe is strong, though, and he looks both far too old and far too... authoritative for his rank. "How can I be of assistance, Mr. Ambermere?" His tone manages to be perfectly respectful without kowtowing.

Cedric inclines his head smoothly on one side. "To be frank," he says, "I was rather of the thought that it might be the other way about. From what Ruth was telling me she knew from Clemency, both my tribe and the sept here as a whole were in some disorder, and prone to squabbling. I need hardly point out the dangers of this. My task, assigned by Falcon Himself, is to lead where leadership is needed. So," he concludes with a modest little shrug, "I am here."

Grey has that look on his face that most halfmoons get when they're listening for a deceptive word. "You people are always getting tasks from spirits, aren't you?" Broad shoulders lift and fall. "The Sept is... you'll find it unusual. I won't deny that it could use a strong dose of leadership. I warn you that you won't find the task easy."

Cedric's head comes out of its sideways slant, and his chin tilts upwards. "I am not afraid," he says firmly, "of a hard task. No good garou should be. But trust me, please, Mr Grey, when I tell you that I know I can do it. Falcon would not have sent me here to perform a task that was impossible." His hazel eyes fix on Grey's. "What is so unusual about this sept, then? Apart from the greater than usual mix of the tribes, which is no secret to the garou nation?"

Grey's jaw tightens at the joined gaze. "You'll find out when you've been here for a while," is his answer. "Especially when you take in the nature of the Sept and ponder the fact that it has, somehow, managed to not lose its caern to the Wyrm. At least not permanently." He turns himself away, heading back into the kitchen to hang the dishtowel back on its hook, his back stiff.

Cedric keeps watching Grey as he walks into the kitchen. "I do your caern no dishonor," he says firmly. "To keep your flag flying in those circumstances is evidence of determination, and so are the scars you bear, no doubt," he adds. "But there is more to our struggle than simply keeping our strongholds. The time has come to take the fight back to our enemy, and that is my task."

Grey, when he returns, seems less than convinced; cynicism lives on his scarred face like it was home. "I can point you in the direction of the Bawn," he states. "The current Alpha is an Adren Shadow Lord named Vera. Your tribe's current elder is Blackriver, a cliath lupus. The guardians are mostly Pure Ones and, to give you fair warning, likely won't take kindly to your presence."

A ghost of a smile plays across Cedric's lips. "I'm used to being seen as a nuisance," he confesses. "There are those who find me troublesome, because I won't let them keep rolling along in their rut. There are those who call me crazy because I believe in the fact that we can actually do what Gaia made us for rather than fighting a constant losing battle. But I do not give up lightly, and I am about more than words," he says. "As for the elder being a Shadow Lord, why, there's a fine example. Back in Ontario a couple of years back, I stayed for a while at a sept containing several of them. At first they were openly hostile. By the time I left, one of them had presented me with a tribal artefact, acknowledging my worth to bear it exceeded his." He smiles, revealing even, white teeth. "I look forward to meeting this elder and telling her the story of how her tribemate acted so selflessly."

Grey arches an eyebrow. His skepticism remains, stubborn and ground-in, like the worst of stains. Even so, he gives the other a slight nod. "I'm sure she'll be pleased to meet you as well," he says evenly. He folds his arms across his chest. "How much city experience do you have, if you don't mind me asking?"

Cedric gives another of those faint smiles. "I was born just outside London," he explains. "Spent many years in and around it. There's some nasty filth in cities," he says, the smile vanishing, "and sometimes you have to get closer to it than you'd like... but as a Glass Walker, I'm preaching to the blessed choir, what?"

Grey grunts. "I can tell you plain, that if you want to make a difference, it'll be here. The forest has enough protectors. Not that I deny that it needs them." He shrugs, rubbing a hand absently over a stubbly chin.

Cedric looks towards the door beyond which lies the filthy street. "Is this your pack's territory, where Clemency used to roam?" he asks thoughtfully.

Grey shakes his head. "We patrol further west. I simply live here."

"This city, it seems," Cedric muses as he sits back in the chair, "has seen a lot of hard times. In both a human sense and a garou one. She's like a woman. The sort who's not young any more, but who's seen a lot. The sort that a lot of guys would pass by and think was not worth looking at any more, but who some guys can look at and see the remains of the beauty masked by her experience, and go to her and learn from her and at the same time, keep her feeling as though she still has something to give, some purpose in her life..." He turns away from Grey for a moment, looking as though at something on the other side of him, though there's nothing obviously there. "Yes, there are several cities like that. And St Claire is one."

Grey's expression remains forcibly neutral, though Cedric's mannerisms and way of speaking have a certain... pull. This is, of course, why Falcon's tribe has led for so long. Add in a Galliard's tongue and the fact that he's speaking of a subject near and dear to the bitter urrah's heart, and it takes Thomas some effort to resist the urge to be impressed. He shifts his weight, unfolding his arms and pushing his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants. He asks, gruffly, "Have you arranged a place to stay yet?"

Cedric focuses back in on Grey. "I've been staying in an hotel in the middle of town, or 'center city', or whatever the local term is," he replies. "I don't expect it to be more than temporary. Once I establish some ties, and can fix a chiminage-service or gift, then I can look at some more permanent residence."

Grey nods slightly. "The Sept maintains a safehouse on the outskirts of the bawn," he notes. "I believe that Falcon's tribe has its own residence, though in less than good repair. Locally, the Fangs are richer in pedigree than in worldly goods." There's the faintest hint of humor there, though the Thunder-touched Glass Walker doesn't crack the slightest smile.

Cedric frowns for the first time. "Then my presence here may indeed be welcome," he says. "I am fortunate in my family, and not short of financial support. Apart from Blackriver, who else do we have here? I have heard some suggestion that I am not the first of the First from overseas to end up here."

Grey's shoulders lift and fall. "Blackriver was the only member of your tribe that I saw at the last Moot. There were a couple of others who were recently Rited, but no one's seen them for several months. Likewise a couple of Metis."

Cedric's lips compress at the mention of metis. "All around," he summarises, "much to accomplish. How would you recommend I make myself known to those in positions of responsibility? The less time that I waste, the sooner I can get on with the washing, if you'll pardon the expression."

"Head to the woods north of Wolf Woods National Park," says Thomas Grey. "Give a howl of introduction. You'll meet who you need to meet."

Cedric's head nods once, slowly, in understanding. "I rather thought it might be somewhere that way," he says. "I drove out there a few days ago to have a look round. Plenty of wolves, but no garou... and I don't like to howl unless I know the ears which will hear it are definitely safe ones. If you follow me."

Grey grunts agreement. "I can't guarantee friendly," he says, "but they're not the type to drip ichor, at least."

Cedric gives a rather more complete and long-lasting smile, this time. "I shall make my way over soon," he promises. "I am your debtor for guiding me. Can I be of any assistance in return?"

Grey's mouth twists into a vaguely irritable expression. "Don't kill any civilians while you're in town. That will be thanks enough."

Cedric puts his hand to his mouth, perhaps to hide a broader smile still. "I don't make a habit of running riot on the streets. The Veil is too fragile as it is. Can I at least take you to a watering hole for a drink to show my thanks, then?"

Grey arches an eyebrow. "If you're still here after a month, yes." Cynical, isn't he? And he /still/ hasn't smiled back.

Cedric reaches into the inside pocket of his immaculately cut suit and pulls out a small leather-bound pocket diary. He makes a note in it. "One month from today," he says firmly. The smile leaves his face, too. "I should leave you," he says. "Before I do, though, I have a message to pass on from Ruth. She is grateful that you passed on the news concerning Clemency, and also that you and her other packmates made her welcome despite..." His brow furrows as he strives to recall the words. "...despite her difficult nature." He shoots a glance at Grey.

Grey's eyes narrow. "We didn't find her difficult," he says, frown deepening a notch. Pack loyalty extends beyond the grave.

"Falcon grant that you and your fellows find such ease in dealing with me," Cedric replies in that crisp manner of his. "If you're quite sure I can't take you for a drink or a meal, I shall return to the hotel. Should you need to contact me, here is its number." He passes Grey an honest-to-Gaia visiting card with the name printed on it: THE HON. C.G.St M. AMBERMERE and a room and telephone number handwritten beneath.

Grey steps forward to accept the card, tilting an eyeball down at it and nodding slightly before looking up again. "Thank you."

Cedric extends an arm towards Grey as he stands, in an obvious offer to shake hands.

Grey takes the proffered hand firmly, meeting the other's eye as he does so. His grasp is firm, though not so brutishly so.

Cedric returns the grasp with equal firmness to the micron, neither weaker nor stronger. His hand is dry and cool without being cold. "Thank you," he murmurs,and turns to go.

Grey sees his guest out and watches him head off back down the street for some moments before grimacing to himself and withdrawing back into the building to continue work.