As she pushed her way deeper towards the caern, breaking into the more open ground by the lake proper, she caught sight of one of the Pawtuckaway garou and almost snorted.

Aidan Samhain-Born, Warder of the caern. More like nanny, as far as she was concerned--what had he warded against of late? She couldn't remember the last time he showed his stuff to anyone but some upstart whelp who'd ticked off a spirit a little too much. They weren't exactly big on challenges at Pawtuckaway, or at least not combat ones, and who else actually [i]wanted[/i] the job of warder? She was sure he must have done [i]something[/i] to earn it, made some sort of mark on the world or fucked someone up awfully hard, but she'd never seen it happen and doubted it would. Call it boastful, but even in her new shoes she was willing to bet she could have taken him.

And he knew it--or at least knew she thought it--which made that 'pissed in my coffee' look so much better.

Not just him, though, he made a friend. A new friend, by the look of him, and not a bad look at that. Darker skin than most, darker hair than most, same shabby clothes as ninety percent of traveling garou... Definitely a fighter, by the way he carried himself, probably ahroun, wrong presence to be galliard. Michelle had a hard time figuring out people's auspice or feeling their rage--her own was so overwhelming, so fucking sharp on the tongue that even some of the less resilient garou could barely talk to her most of the time, which was fine by her. If they couldn't stand the heat, they could piss off. A few years younger than her, she couldn't tell if he really [i]was[/i] that much more interesting than poor old Aidan or if she was just interested in some more exotic meats.

"Look at you, Sammy. Making friends." She called by way of introduction as she approached, the skulls clattering against her back. Ostentatious, she knew, but last time she showed up empty handed with stories about spiral-killing they'd looked at her like she had three heads and moved on to listen to one of their little theurges talk about an ancestor spirit he chased through the lake. Her voice was flat and almost atonal, apathetic and viciously bored, and if she smiled with her lips her eyes were the same dead black as ever. "Can I play too?"

Rolling her shoulders slightly, she made her way to the pair of them and stopped just outside arm's reach. She wore the short black dress like gang colors, the front of it dipping low to show off an inked chest with no tits and the hem of it falling to barely mid-thigh over more tattoos. Nothing garou, nothing tribal, just good old ink in a dozen different patterns, most of them (oddly enough) the outlines of flowers. They might have softened the look if they hadn't been placed over the same kind of lean muscle that hid under Michael's hoodie or been marred with clawed scars.

"Hi. I'm Michelle. I like long walks on the beach and candle-light dinners. Everyone here hates me."

She shifted, holding the row of skulls out in front of her to the warder.

"Brought you a present. Bet at least one of them would make a killer bong."