[b]Name:[/b] Michael McCaskill (or, among his tribe "Nakhti Looks-Twice")
[b]Breed:[/b] Homid
[b]Auspice:[/b] Ahroun
[b]Rank:[/b] 1
[b]Gifts:[/b] [indent]- The Falling Touch (Ahroun, 1)
- Smell of Man (Homid, 1)
- Speed of Thought (Striders, 1)[/indent]
[b]Psychological Profile:[/b][indent]Michael McCaskill is a hardluck, hard case kid. He was raised badly and had to fend for himself much of his life, and that prepared him to be a self-sufficient, streetwise loner. He's wary and careful around cops and other authority figures and lives a lot like a Bone Gnawer in many ways -- off the grid. He picked up a smattering of outlaw biker philosophy from his (now-incarcerated) father. He's worked odd jobs for the quick pay before, just to make the ends meet, and probably will have to again.

In a fight, he doesn't believe in fair; fair was beaten out of him from an early age in the system, and in foster care. He doesn't practice any particular formal martial arts system, but he knows how to give a punch and, more importantly, take one. He has trust issues, even among Garou, and finds it very easy to keep his mouth shut. At first glance, he seems misplaced in his auspice, though Striders of all stripes are known for their circumspection.

He does not deal well with authority figures or 'the system' though that is a common enough situation with a lot of young garou; they're a headstrong people, and their subconscious antipathy for things of the weaver and wyrm often color their experiences. As a survivor of foster care and child welfare, he's duly wary of police, bureaucrats and people that claim to know one's best interest better than the person themselves. Garou elders, of course, tend to despair of this sort of anger even as they try to preserve its roots and redirect its energy.[/indent]
[b]Background:[/b] [indent]Michael's mother was a noted Strider theurge; she, however, was something of a free spirit and found herself running with a Fianna kinfolk by the name of James McCaskill, a member of the violent outlaw biker gang of kinfolk known as the Unshriven. Her mother died, and he was being raised by his father when he was arrested on RICO charges along with much of his gang . When that happened, Michael was eight or so years old and without anyone else to claim him, he was forced into the foster care system along with his half-sister Charlie.

He was a strange boy, and assigned a group home. It was a bad fit from the start; a gladiator school of sorts where the kids were constantly fighting for what little they had. Years of this upbringing made him both withdrawn and wary, having been raised in an environment that was a parody of the wilds; the strong did as they would, the weak bore what they must.

The first months of the institution were bruising affairs that involved a lot of fighting, stealing and protecting one's own things. During this time, he and Charlie only had each other. She was the only friend he really had on the inside, and when they both found their way into nearby foster homes and maintained contact despite separation. When she decided to flee an abusive foster father that was molesting her, Michael decided to run away from his own with her. He had his reasons; at nights, he started to see apparitions around the house, particularly at night, and couldn't seem to get a good night's sleep; the apparitions kept gesturing, trying to communicate something to him. When his sister ran, he realized that the spirits -- no, ghosts -- were telling him to run for it.

During their time as runaways, they scrounged on the streets and hitch-hiked around, trying to stay a step ahead of the system and the authorities and off the grid. Charlie, for her part, started to see a fellow that she thought was a romantic interest, but he got her hooked on pills and started pimping her off. Michael, working menial jobs under the table for almost next to no pay and living on his own, but rough, realized what was going on, tried to pull Charlie out of the situation.

While he couldn't find Charlie, he did find the pimp, Henry, and the ensuing argument was nasty-- Michael managed to acquire a gun and pulled it, which turned the situation from the pimp laughing contemptuously to an actual problem. Watkins and three of his men started to work over Michael, all three of them bigger and meaner than he was at age 15. The men were probably as surprised as Michael was when the young werewolf went through his first change. Michael didn't remember anything of it, just waking up with the blood of Henry Watkins and two henchmen, dudes with guns, all over him, the body parts strewn all over. The lone survivor ran like hell away from it all, screaming.

There was a manhunt for the person that killed one Henry Watkins, a well known dealer and pimp, and Charlie and Michael both got pulled in by the authorities. The survivor from Watkins' crew had a good attorney that was trying to get the blame pinned entirely on the kid, who had motive. It was all about using every trick in the book (and police contacts) to frame the kid up, including motive and who his father was. (Not actually believing that, yes, Michael McCaskill did actually shred three hardened gang-bangers to ribbons.) About this time, other Garou, a Sept of Children of Gaia, caught up with the cub and managed to get Michael a slick Glass Walker kinfolk attorney that shredded the one thug's account of a howling monster tearing two other men apart; the man didn't just have a record, he was on a battery of anti-psychotics and was in a secure psychiatric institution, leaving the prosecution and the thug's attorney empty-handed -- there was no way some kid did that. Charlie, because she was not actually charged, also walked, in part to the slick attorney that showed up to do pro bono work for her.

Michael was taken off to learn the ways of the Garou while Charlie was left with a kinfolk-run group that dealt with recovery and counseling for troubled youth, kept out of the loop. For the best, he was told by the elders. And it was all for naught. The Children were more tolerant than most Garou, but the elders knew how to handle an Ahroun pup. While not abusive, they were stern. At the same time, they knew this was not one of their own, because the breeding of the boy was evident - his father's eyes, but his mother's coloration. He was a Strider, plain enough for any to see.

A passing Strider was finally gotten ahold of and the boy's rite of passage was overseen in the form of a typical Strider's rite; the delivery of a message to a sept via the 'scenic route', dealing with some ghost's troubles and, finally, the hunting of a wyrm beast. During the hunt of the wyrm beast, he found himself in the umbra, beside a sandy patch of river and reeds, in conversation with a crocodile who told him things, and counseled him to fight with cunning rather than with rage when he hunted his foes, tutoring him in the way a crocodile hunts. They parted ways as friends, the Crocodile implying that they would speak again.

The boy survived the Rite of Passage and became a man, but in the eyes of human law, he had a year left to go. His tribe quickly found him guardians, his mother's sister and her husband, near a sept in Ohio, a stable home of Strider Kinfolk, who taught him a little of the heritage and the trail signs they left each other to communicate as well as giving into his hands the only legacy he had of his mother, her D'siah.

Things at the local sept seemed a little sedate for him and his feet started itching. When the next Strider came through, Michael hooked up for a while, figuring to move in the direction Charlie was headed, after running away, last he heard -- back to Boston. He had a little business to settle up in Boston anyway. His father is still sitting in prison along with most of the Unshriven and probably will be there until he dies, so he has no one in Boston except Charlie and she's god knows where. Luckily, the name McCaskill has some juice in South Boston still, and it's as good a place to start as any. Also, there are Fianna in the area -- and he has a missive for them from the caern in Cleveland. He might be related to some of the local kinfolk, it's hard to tell. That, of course, would be awkward, as he was put into his mother's tribe. On the other hand, the rule for inter-tribal Garou-kinfolk mating is that the offspring is the tribe of the Garou parent. So it's clearcut that Michael would never be Fianna.[/indent]
[b]Appearance:[/b][indent] Looks that would let him pass as native anywhere from Andalusia to Marrakesh to Cairo to Tel Aviv to Palermo to Miami from his mother, blue eyes from his father, Michael is an 18 year old with pretty boy potential though he is rather guarded in his demeanor, more likely to watch than talk. He has a lean endurance runner's build, long, flat athlete's muscle, rather than body-building bulk. Fully clothed, he doesn't particularly stand out, which is an advantage in many ways. He can't afford better clothes than some off-brand jeans, some off-brand running shoes and a hoodie and doesn't bother with more. He prefers durable, cheap and easily acquired, not to mention things that make a fellow blend in. His clothing is washed, but well-worn in. In the summertime, he strips the hoodie and wears a t-shirt. In Crinos, he has the look of the Striders stamped all over him, longer and leaner in Crinos, with much softer fur, though a bit of the mixing shows in the ruddy gleam of his fur; it's not entirely black. Similarly, his hair is wiry stuff in homid, but with a brush of the ginger. [/indent]
[b]Equipment:[/b][indent]About fifty bucks to get by with, his clothing, a good backpack with assorted minor stuff and a fang dagger, a fetish-knife carved from some sort of tooth that is impossibly large to match up to anything still in existence, and engraved with ancient Strider runes. The grip is rawhide and the weapon is bound with a crocodile spirit. He travels light and is used to sleeping on the streets or out under the stars. Not having a bank account never bothered him. After the Henry Watkins thing, he stopped fucking with guns; he has a fang dagger, his teeth and his claws.[/indent]