The old church is dark, dimly lit by outside light coming in through scum-encrusted windows during the day, and tomblike during the night. There is a coatroom in the back of the nave, with separate doors leading off to mens' and womens' restrooms, and two staircases, one going up to the balcony and bell-tower, and the other leading down to the basement. The double doors leading out to the street are at the back of the coatroom.
The hard wooden pews in the sanctuary are, for the most part, still intact. There are even Bibles and hymnals left in the shelves along the back of each row, although many of them look rather chewed on. The altar on a dais at the front of the church is empty, and the lectern that once stood next to it has been knocked over. Rotting red cloth hangs at the very front of the church; there might once have been a design on it, but it has long since faded or been eaten away.
In another era, she might have been considered terribly attractive. As it is, she sits just on the prettier side of average. At about 5'6", the girl looks to be carrying around a hundred and sixty pounds, giving her a rather full, hourglass figure unusual for a girl in her mid-teens. She has quite a pretty face; it's a bit plump and tawny freckles are scattered across her nose and cheeks, but otherwise her complexion is unblemished, and her features are well balanced. Full lips frame almost-straight teeth, often revealed in a cheerful grin, and large, almond-shaped eyes, the irises a warm, gold-flecked shade of brown and the lashes thick and dark, peer out brightly through wire-rimmed glasses. Her mass of unruly black curls has been forcibly corralled into a fairly high ponytail, one or two strands escaping to frame and dangle before her face. She's actually wearing noticeable makeup today: a light dusting of gold eyeshadow and a bit of reddish lipstick. The only thing resembling jewelry, though, is a silvery key hanging about her neck on a dog-tag sort of chain.
In a bit of a break with her usual style, she seems to be wearing a soft, fuzzy dark red sweater, either angora or a reasonable facsimile thereof. The fabric clings closely to the curves of her chest and waist, and the v-neckline dips low enough to display a demurely attractive hint of cleavage. The sweater's hem reaches almost to her hips, overlapping the black leather trousers she's acquired somewhere. The pants, which look about as well-broken-in as her jacket, are borderline snug in the hips and rear, but the legs hang loosely, cloaking the ankles of her decrepit black Docs, the latter laced with sparkly silver laces which have also seen better days. Atop all this is a huge and ancient black leather motorcycle jacket, the cuffs of which constantly fall down over her hands. Slung over her shoulder is a bulging canvas backpack, probably military surplus, dotted with patches and pins in various colours and states of repair.
Lancelot seems to be the epitome of a junior varsity jock. Fairly muscular, tall, and blonde, he has a thin scar over his left eye that neatly divides his eyebrow in half. This, combined with the twinkle of unusually high intelligence behind his blue eyes, gives his features a roguish appeal. His smile is broad, and thanks to diligence and providence, retains a full head of teeth.
Lance is dressed in a Blue and Red hockey jersey, emblazoned on the chest with the white, toothed cog emblem of the SCCU Machine. On the back, white letters spell "MacGruder" across the shoulders, above a big number forty-eight. Under this he's wearing a khaki thick wool cardigan, and a pair of lined blue-jeans. His boots are hastily tied, and over the whole ensemble he's thrown on his letter jacket from high school, black with red sleeves and a big red 'T' on the front.
The doors to the Church are cracked, just slightly, to let in the sound of the rain, and Bernie's lying stretched out on the dais, backpack beside her, reading a text book. The open backpack reveals the corners of at least two or three more of them. She's humming to herself, the acoustics amplifying the sound and sending it outward a bit, as it was designed to do for the minister's voice; the song sounds like California Dreamin'.
Lancelot is disheveled, looking as though he has not slept very well. His scowl and determined posture predicate the storm cloud hovering over his head. As he enters the church, he glances around, as though looking for something. When he sees Bernie, he visibly /tries/ to calm down.
Bernie looks up from her work at the sound and draft of the opening doors, and gives Lancelot a quick smile before noticing his mood. "Hey... haven't seen you in a while. 's wrong? Y'look like someone mistook your Wheaties for a urinal."
Lancelot smirks. "What's left of my Wheaties probably /are/ in the urinal. Have you seen Renee? I need to... talk... to her." He drops into a pew near the dais, when he realizes Renee isn't immediately present.
"Renee? Uh uh, haven't seen her..." Bernie regards him a moment, curiously. "So what's wrong, then?" she inquires, half sitting up.
Lancelot sighs. "I got her a place to stay, right, so she's not living on the street. Not much, a cot in the garage--but it has a shower, a place to put some personal stuff. Free, and better than a cardboard box. So, while I'm not home, she goes up to my apartment, and frenzies. The kitchen is a total loss. I'm going to find a hotel."
Bernie winces, sitting up the rest of the way. "I'm sorry; that sucks. D'ya know what set her off, or anythin'? I mean, I gather she wasn't s'posta go up there anyway?" Despite the phrasing, it's a question. "...but, y'know, I'm wonderin' what happened. Though she mighta just burnt her toast, dependin' on the moon..."
Lancelot rubs the back of his neck. "Don't know. There isn't a lot of intact evidence. Someone bled a little in there, and I'm hoping it was her. I want to talk to her to do damage control, you know? And yes, I appreciate that she's Garou, and all, but that doesn't mean she has free run of my place, you know? I'm going to have to stay in a Residence Inn or something until I can get some contractors Pop knows in there. Someone who won't freak at claw scratches." He's rambling a bit, probably tired.
Bernie gestures vaguely. "Oh, I totally wasn't saying she should. I just wanted to know 'f she was =allowed= t' be there at th' time or not. Y'know?" She pulls her legs up indian style and looks thoughtful. "I'm sure a buncha us'd help if we can; I know I would. I can hammer nails and stuff a'ight, but I'm not like a =contractor=, or anything. Also, you don't hafta go to a hotel if you don't wanna, I know we got places you could stay at least temporarily." She pushes a curl back behind her ear, considering. "Prolly you could even stay with me an' Matt if you don't mind a couch. I'd hafta check with him, but."
Lancelot waves, her off. "It's all right. I can get a lot of work done. Just inconvenient, is all." He nods, mostly to himself. "And I didn't expressly forbid her to come upstairs, I just didn't offer you know? 'Here, this is your space. It's a bonus, and it's free.'"
Bernie clicks her tongue once, disapprovingly. "She needs a talk on manners, too, then," she decides. "Anyway, you sure? There are other places, too, with actual beds an' stuff, I know we could find somethin'."
Lancelot nods. "it'll be all right Miss Ro... Bernie. I don't want to impose. And I can swing it for a few days." He smiles a little, obviously feeling better for talking about it. " It's good, in a way. It gives me an excuse to remodel the whole apartment."
"Would'n' be an imposition... not like you havin' to leave your place for a while =isn't=, either. But whatever works for you; just, let me know 'f you change your mind, yeah?" Bernie replies, and then grins a little. "So then how d'you plan to redesign th' place?"
Lancelot shrugs a little. "Not sure. I didn't know I wanted to until I had to, you know? Maybe a little more open plan, kinda loft-like."
Bernie nods. "Those're nice. Know any good architects? Preferably who owe you favours, since I think they cost a lot?" she inquires, partly joking.
Lancelot smiles, standing again. "My Pop probably does. I'll pass it down the Barking chain." He brushes himself off, and sketches a bit of a bow. "Well, I'm going to keep looking. you have a great night, all right? I'll let you know where I wind up staying."