"My name is, um, Anna Vogel, and I was, uh, told to, um, call you?"

[hazlogs]

It is currently 14:32 Pacific Time on Thu Jan 15 2004.

Currently the moon is in the waning Half Moon phase (44% full).

You paged Calina with '*ring ring*'.

Calina pages: *click* "Privet?"

Long distance to Calina: Crocuta hesitates, going, "Huh?" Then, "Um, is there
      a, um, Calina Petrov-Levushka there?"

From afar, Calina mmhmms, taking a sip of her coffee. "This is Calina. To whom
      am I speaking?"

Long distance to Calina: Crocuta's phone manner remains hesitant and stumbling.
      "My name is, um, Anna Vogel, and I was, uh, told to, um, call you?" It's 
      likely that Calina would have been expecting this call, having gotten a 
      heads-up from Anna's mother yesterday. There'd been an old man cursing in 
      Russian in the background, swearing about headstrong little girls.

Calina pages: A short pause and the sound of a door being closed. "Ah, yes. I
      was hoping you'd call quickly. You're in the area, I take it?" she 
      inquires politely.

Long distance to Calina: Crocuta goes 'um' some more and says, "Yeah. I'm, uh,
      at school. The, um, college."

From afar, Calina ahs softly. "Alright. When would be conveniant for you to
      meet with me?"

Long distance to Calina: Crocuta uuhs. "I d'no, I mean... any time I guess? I
      don't have any other classes today."

From afar, Calina pauses a moment to check the clock, and ahs softly. "Alright.
      Meet me at half past three, at the Marina," she suggests. "I will be 
      carrying a white lily."

Long distance to Calina: Crocuta echoes dubiously, "A white lily, uh, okay.
      Bye." *click*

Marina

White-hulled boats extend perpendicularly from the sturdy wooden docks. The
      boats sit in their slips and the gentle lapping of water against the 
      hulls can be seen. Mooring lines stretch tautly from the docks to the 
      boats, falling slack with the ebb and flow of the river. Along the outer 
      edges of the docks, the white masts of the sailboats can be seen jutting 
      up into the sky, while smaller powerboats are tied close to shore.

The marina runs along the waterfront with the river to the east and Riverfront
      Drive to the west. The curve in the river at this location makes this a 
      fairly calm harbor.

The sun reaches the 3 O'Clock position, and the dignified form of Calina
      Petrov-Levushka is quietly walking the boards, a long-stemmed and 
      delicate lily grasped within her fingers.

Crocuta arrives at a little before half-past, slouching along in her old tweed
      overcoat with her hands in her pockets, headphones over her ears, and a 
      generally sullen and glum expression on her face. In her ratty clothes 
      and green mohawk, she looks out of place; out of place and wanting to be 
      _anywhere_ else.

A lean, slim specimen of _Homo gothius punkius_, Crocuta is a little under five
      and a half feet tall and looks to be around college-age. Her smooth, 
      youthful face is attractive in its way; her nose is a little large, but 
      it fits in with the rest of her features, and her dark blue eyes -- 
      touched with green in certain lights -- are especially distinctive. A 
      lack of piercings and tattoos gives the broodling goth-punk the naive 
      aura of a warrior that hasn't yet been blooded.

Her light brown hair has been shaved off along the sides, leaving an inch-wide,
      two-inch long strip down along the middle. This has been dyed a toxic 
      shade of green and spiked up into a short but perfectly servicable mohawk.

She's dressed in an assortment of ragged black, from the torn and safety-pinned
      jeans that hang low on her hips to the thrift-store tuxedo jacket that's 
      had its sleeves cut off at the elbows. The t-shirt of the day is black 
      with jagged white lettering that has "SLUT FREAK BITCH WHORE" writ large 
      on it. Smaller lettering above states, "You know you adore me" and even 
      smaller lettering beneath adds, "But, darling, you'll never afford me."

Red Chuck Taylor sneakers cover her feet, and a small padlock hangs from a
      chain around her slender neck. Another chain's been threaded through her 
      beltloops. To battle the cold, she's got a heavy longcoat made of dark 
      gray tweed, tattered at the edges and probably twice as old as she is. 

There's nobody else here, and as Calina hears footsteps, she turns to view the
      gothic punkish long-distant relative. Well.

Could there be more difference between the two? Oh they both have the same
      blood running in their veins, but at least Calina inherited the 
      refinement and good taste with it, instead of turning into 
      ....this....greb. "Privet," she greets, managing to maintain cordial as 
      she approaches the slouched girl. "Anna?"

Miss Petrov-Levushka is a stunning example of femininity. Attaining a midway
      balence between the extremes of petite and amazonian at her height of 
      5'6", with a build that is neither skinny nor overweight, she moves with 
      a sure grace that implies a knowledge of her body, without bordering on 
      acrobatic. Flawless pale skin compliments hair as black ebony, long 
      enough to reach to the small of her back and left loose in rich waves 
      that shine with a health and vitality that proves there's no dye 
      involved. Sharp, storm-blue eyes sit over a pert nose and full lips, 
      strong cheekbones giving her a somewhat arrogant, slavic look to her 
      features. She wears makeup, though tastefully - a touch of colour across 
      her cheeks to save her from looking washed-out, glittering silver along 
      the rim of each eyelid and a coat of dark red on naturally-soft lips.

A well-tailored suit-skirt is what Calina wears today, in a shade of indigo so
      dark that it could be mistaken for black in the wrong light. It's shot 
      through with pinstripes of silver. Cut perfectly to her figure, the 
      outfit consists of an ankle-length skirt tailored to follow the curves of 
      hip and thigh before loosening with a slit on either side from knee to 
      hem, while the jacket is lightly padded along the shoulder and 
      low-joining, the first button just below her bosom. Under this she wears 
      a simple white shirt with a touch of lace along the collar, pearls 
      forming the buttons that march up to her collarbone. Calf-high leather 
      boots that lack decoration other than their snug fit case her feet, the 
      heel raising her height by about two inches. Simple jewelry finishes the 
      ensemble, two silver rings on her left index finger, a silver watch on 
      that wrist and a silver chain about her neck with a pendant tucked under 
      the shirt.Her ears are pierced with small hoops, once through each lobe 
      and then again in the top of the left, just to prevent unfashionable 
      symmetry.

Crocuta looks at the other Shadow Lord kin and pulls the headphones off her
      ears, letting them dangle around her neck. Her exposed, unpierced ears 
      are red from the cold. "Yeah," she says in a thick New York/Long Island 
      accent, shrugging a bit.

"I suppose you'd better come with me," Calina replies, heading out of the
      marina and back onto land that isn't supported by wooden posts. Her tone, 
      while not disapproving, is at _best_ cordial.

Crocuta shrugs, mumbles, "Okay," and follows Calina, slouching along like a
      reluctantly obedient dog.

Calina leads the way to a small car, a fairly chirpy VW Polo. From there, back
      to her apartment, somewhere on the nice side of town.

Calina's Apartment

For an apartment set into the upper-class area of town, this one manages to
      feel surprisingly cosy. The main room is large and spacious, a polished 
      and walnut-panelled floor partly covered with large, fluffy white rugs, 
      this white matching the rich cream-coloured paint on the walls, silver 
      vines stencilled on up to waist-height, where a thin strip of plain 
      silver paper runs along, providing a clean cut-off for the stencilling, 
      the top half of the walls left bare save for a few hanging pictures. 
      These are mostly sketches that have been framed, though there are a few 
      photo montages, showing landscapes in Russia. Large white couches sit 
      opposite eachother on either side of a coffee table, while to the left of 
      these a dining table has been set up, black wood and glass set around 
      with black leather dining chairs.

A kitchenette is beyond the table, a long breakfast-bar seperating it from the
      lounge. Pristine steel appliances and a rich grey marble make up the 
      worktop, walnut-stained cabinets containing the usual kitchen clutter. 
      Doors lead off to bathroom and bedroom, both kept closed for the 
      mostpart, and a sliding glass door next to the kitchenette leads out to a 
      small balcony, providing an unfettered view of the city.

Calina parks up and leads you inside, up to a third-floor apartment with a nice
      view. The door closing behind you, Calina waves negligently to the 
      couches. "Make yourself comfortable."

Crocuta spent the car ride in glum silence, slouched low in the seat and
      staring out at the passing rich-people scenery, and she seems no happier 
      upon reaching the expensive apartment. "'Kay." She goes to the nearest 
      couch and flops herself down onto it, then wriggles her arms out of the 
      sleeves of her overcoat.

"Tell me a little about yourself, Anna," Calina invites, stepping over to
      the little kitchenette and beginning to make hot drinks. "And do you 
      prefer tea or coffee?"

"I d'no," the punk girl says with a shrug. "Whatever." She looks down at her
      hands, picking at a chewed thumbnail. "Whaddya wanna know?"

A slow breath as Calina tries to remain civil. "Where are you from? What do you
      know about your heritage? That kind of thing?"

Crocuta shrugs again, not looking up. "My grandpa's one of'm. Garou. He told me
      stuff." Apparantly, getting information from her is going to be like 
      pulling teeth.

"Like?" Calina is quite happy to start yanking out molars left right and
      centre, with all the prompting required. "Do you know what auspice he is? 
      Or for that matter, what his Garou name is?"

"Eyes-of-Storm or somethin' like that," the girl replies, glancing up sidelong
      at Calina with a sulky frown. "Ragabash, I think? The thief ones?" She 
      shrugs again. "He's old, like so old he's retired."

"How much do you know about the Garou?" Calina prompts then, coming over with
      tea and offering you one mug, a small jug of milk and bowl of sugar 
      brought along for the ride as well. "I mean, beyond just folklore."

Crocuta takes the mug and starts dumping spoonfuls of sugar into it. She talks
      while looking down at it. "Um, they can change when they want... 'n 
      there's, um, bad shit they fight called the Wyrm, which is spelled with a 
      'y', like a dragon. 'N the earth's called Gaia, 'n the Shadow Lords were 
      born from Gaia 'n Grandfather Thunder..." She stirs the tea after putting 
      in a sickening amount of sugar and shrugs. "Some other stuff, too, I 
      guess."

[Lost Calina. Handwaved -- Crocuta gets Konstantin's and Cutter's phone numbers.]