"Hi, I'm Mike, and I'm a messenger boy." He affected the same tone in a sense, even as he looked her over; he'd been raised in a group home and was accordingly wary of introductions and first impressions. He was good at the staredown, blank-faced. She didn't seem the sort to blink, but it wasn't like the official Garou version of the stare-down, which was a ritual trial between garou with something to prove. It was a presentation of self in a sense; a lupus in a pack environment would understand the notion immediately -- you controlled the first impression. His was cool nerves and a penetrating stare, of deliberation and expectations. Some ahroun had the rage roiling off them, but the Striders went for a more controlled mode -- they unleashed it, but they controlled it, they wielded it like a knife in the dark. Where others came screaming "KICK YOUR ASS" the likes of Nakhti, a fair representation of a full moon of his tribe, waited patiently for the fight and then ended it decisively. In a sense, he was coiled up, but conserving it for when he'd need it. That impression was well-communicated, for those who would see; he stood at ease, but faced the woman squarely, thumbs hooked through belt-loops, shoulders up, but not bunched.

The blue eyes were a contrast against the olive/tan features, even if the hair was flecked with shades of ginger; he kept it in a conservatively short cut which suited the rest of the presentation; he didn't wear faux-Egyptian jewelry or dress it up, he had pure breeding to rely upon. His clothing was shabby, but it was also of a straightforward, no-nonsense nature. Luckily, he didn't have to talk much, and that helped foster good relations with other tribes -- it was usually the talking between Garou, which often meant 'boasting' and 'bitching' that seemed to get the average werewolf in trouble. He had tradition to lean on here; the Striders were notoriously close-mouthed, and that was a bit of an advantage in the talky-talky world of Garou relations, where conversations could go to claws pretty fast. Nakhti took his share of discipline from the elders, it was the way of things. It'd been useful lessons in etiquette, Strider-style. A closed mouth catches no flies.

Aidan, meanwhile, was fuming a bit; it was clear that there was bad blood between the woman and the Warder, and perhaps more between other members of the sept, but the skulls were intriguing and Nakhti couldn't resist a question.

"Nice skulls?" Flat inflection, even in the face of her shift, but he was clearly interested, moreso than the caern's warder in a sense, who seemed a bit caught up in the challenge than the threat, but Nakhti was from a tribe that looked to the threat first, last and always, and he seemed to grasp the nuance there. At least one of those skulls was metis, and since the woman wasn't being attacked here and no, he had to assume that she was welcome at the sept and those skulls were enemies.

Meanwhile, the Warder replied to the woman's display of the skulls, "I see. It seems you shall have something to speak of at the next moot, so you might explain where these came from." If he ignored the bong comment, it seemed to strike home a bit; the joke had an edge, and was dipped in acid. It was almost as if the sight of dead enemies was some sort of refutation, or at least, unwelcome evidence that someone was wrong. But what and why?

Nakhti wasn't sure why that raised hackles or why those words would have an edge, but he felt his guard go up -- this place clearly had currents. Some sort of ugly argument between the sept's garou and this outsider. But he was an outsider himself, and perhaps there was common cause to be made between outsiders.

[i]Look twice, Nakhti[/i] -- he could hear his mentor's voice in his head. 

Idyllic little caern, the warder in sandals, a joke about bongs. Small town New England, separate from the troubles of the city. And these were the End Times; sadly, the realization dawned. Aidan Samhain-Born wanted to maintain his quiet slice of caern in the years when he'd grown weary, his limbs weaker and his shoulders heavier with the burdens he'd carried. But this was a time of unrelenting war, that's what the Strider elders he met told him. 

"So, where's the rest of your pack? Back in the city?" Possibly a delicate subject, but the young Ahroun wanted to know the score. He was tired of dancing around the elephant in the room.