Time/Date: It is currently 09:46 Pacific Time on Sun Jun 26 2005.

Weather: Currently in Saint Claire, it is a cloudy day. The temperature is 58 degrees Fahrenheit (14 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the south at 6 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.89 and steady, and the relative humidity is 80 percent. The dewpoint is 52 degrees Fahrenheit (11 degrees Celsius.)

Moon Phase: Currently the moon is in the waning Gibbous Moon phase (70% full).

Place: Farmhouse: Porch


A lathe-turned wooden railing runs the length of the porch save where the steps are, well-worn with use. To the right of the stairs, a wide swing is suspended from the overhang which shelters this area; to the left, a small table is the centerpiece for several chairs pulled around it, all of which face out to the front yard and the fields and trees beyond. The entire area holds an atmosphere of peace and comfort during these summer days, lending itself well to evening reading, small talk, or just watching the stars. Low shrubs snuggle up to the porch held back by the railing, their flowers filling the air with the sweet scent of greenery.
An aging screen door newly refurbished stands between the heavy inner door of the house and the outside air. Four steps lead down to the lane, a number of pots with small flower seedling carefully arranged alongside them.


At a little over five foot tall and with a slim build, KL is hardly awe-inspiring on first sight. She appears to be around seventeen years old and still carries a teenager's air of disenchantment and irritation.
Her mid-length mousy-brown hair is brushed back out of her eyes and behind her ears. It's showing the signs of recent careful, if unskilled, attention - the ends have been neatly trimmed and it's been well brushed. She would be quite attractive - in particular she has a very cute, upturned, nose - were it not for the sullen and aggressive set of her mouth and the hostility of her gaze. Her hazelnut eyes look out with disappointment and poorly hidden anger, as if the world were a holiday villa that didn't match the travel agent's description. Her skin is oddly pale, and on her right shoulder-blade a two-inch-square tattoo of a winged horse is visible. Physically, she's well proportioned, and her bare arms show a tight musculature that speaks of regular exercise.
She's got a habit of slouching and of leaning up against any available support. When she forgets to slouch, however, she moves with a surprising degree of grace and compact poise.
She is wearing a faded and beaten up pair of blue jeans that are just a little too large for her, and have holes in the knees, a pair of worn combat boots and a faded red tank top with "And your little doggy too!" emblazoned across the front. The tank top has a badly-repaired tear across the chest, causing the word "little" to be have its second "t" deformed. Similarly, the jeans have a set of unrepaired holes on her left thigh, pale skin showing behind the rents.


A hair's breadth from thirty, Dwight's already too old for this shit. He cuts a tall but slouchy figure, broad-shouldered, all muscle beneath the wifebeater, with slim hips in his raggedy jeans. He has got a graceless, staggery sort of sideways walk, like a door that's been slammed so much it just drifts on the hinges. Livid scars are dragged into his arms, and in some places, the black hairs got scorched right off, skin wrinkled from old burns.
Hard times are stamped upon his face. His nose got broke before his first change, and he's been hit in the head so many times that his jaw's slightly off, gives him this smirk. A lateral scar across the bridge of his nose. Some others get reduced by the shadow of stubble over his face. He's got curly dark hair, seems solid black from a glance or when sweat's thick in it, and it's a little long, a little shaggy. Electric blue eyes, hell-yes intense.
If he weren't so goddamn nasty, his voice would be his best feature: screamed-raw rough and scorched by years of hard liquor, with a hint of deep south.

Mid-morning, dark and cool for a summer's day-- it might rain later on, a big surprise for the Pacific northwest. The farmhouse is quiet, and there's a lingering, good homey smell of breakfast in the air, bacon and eggs. Dwight's finished his meal, plate licked clean just about, but there's a big pitcher of orange juice camped out on the table. He's drinking a glass himself, standing on the porch and just looking, while his lil handheld sports radio crackles out a badly staticked country song. Yep-- rain soon.

Slouching up the lane, hands pushed into her pockets, comes KL. Her brown hair is pulled back into a plait, and she's staring up at the sky with a look of distaste and hostility on her face, as if she could intimidate the clouds into not dropping their load. She crunches up from the lane towards the porch, noticing the stranger about half-way there, and raises an eyebrow in surprise.

While the two Garou are 'facing off', the wind brings in the rather distinctive smell of skunk. The scent is the harbinger of the real thing it seems, as a skunk steps out into the open. The animal is somewhat worse for wear, with a drooping tail, a vacant look, and an open mouth. The small striped animal ambles to a spot between the farmhouse and Kathryn, where it promptly lays down. Panting and looking between the two Garou with that vacant stare, completely void of any fear.

Dwight is just drinking in his morning, just like his juice. He has a tired, worn-out sorta look, with droopy eyes beneath unkempt hair. He's looking the girl over, in a single slow bat of eye. The skunk is more a point of interest, and he is wary, reviving a little. "Hooey. Watch out, darlin'," he calls, by and by. "I seen 'em do that when they got rabies."

"Any skunk that bites me deserves whatever diseases it gets." KL replies, stomping up the steps and onto the porch proper. She looks Dwight up and down, and her nose twitches in distaste. "Who are you?" she demands, ignoring Pepe-le-pew for the moment.

After a moment, the skunk gets up and continues on its way. Disappearing back into the woods.

He puts half a smile into the rim of his glass. "Dwight Kernahan," he says. "Stands-in-the-rain. Shadow Lord ahroun, first rank." His eyes are on the animal, seeing it drag itself off; he nods faintly. "Mornin'."

The Fury nods a greeting. "KL Cole, Escapes-from-Money. Cliath Ahroun of the Black Furies, packed under Wolverine as part of HAVOC." She puts her hands on her hips, her face set hard. "So, you new in town?" she asks, hostility slathered over her tone.

"Escapes-from-Money," Dwight repeats, sounding it out. He's turning his back on her to go get some more juice. "You gotta 'splain that one to me." His radio crackles again, a burst of static.

The skin at the corners of KL's eyes tightens further, and she breathes out a slow, angry, hiss of air. There's a pause, as she stares flatly at the Shadow Lord. "My tribal alpha back home, back in Denver. She wanted to give me a little reminder of my Dad. He's very rich. Moutains of money. And I thought it was recognition of my having left all that behind, but now..." She pauses for a moment, eyes distant. "Now I think it might also be to remind me how easy it is to get caught by money, and it fucks up your life."

He's looking her over again, a single slow glance, all lazy blue eye. Like she should look rich, or something, in light of that. He just smirks, says, "You need a better name, darlin."

"Don't call me darlin'" KL spits, her cheeks flushing. "And yes, I do. So I'm trying to earn one. Do it properly. Not scheme and cheat my way into it." The insult is clear in her voice, and she takes a step towards him, closing the distance between them, her chin jutting forward.

"Mmmhm. There's some juice here if'n you want it." He pats the table, and takes his lil sports radio, fitting it into the back of his jeans. His half-lidded eyes make a study of her, as he drains that glass-- wondering what she's about, half, and half warning. Don't.

This obviously puzzles the Fury, the middle of her brow furrowing into a mini-frown. Still, the anger doesn't fade from her eyes. "Weasel." she says simply, folding her arms across her chest. A bit schoolground, maybe, but it gets the message across.

Half a smirk, and a vague head shake. "You're gonna have to do better than that, darlin." Dwight's done with his drink, and casually tosses her the glass-- catch-- as he turns away. "Nice day." He's taking his hat from the rail.

KL reacts swiftly, unfolding her arms and plucking the glass from the air. She glances at it, then her arm flashes out and she throws the glass straight back at him, as hard as she can. Randy Johnson, she isn't, but it's a fairly credible pitch, and is accompanied by a snarl of rage.

It hits him in the back, where his shoulders meet. It breaks, and breaks further when it goes open on a stair. There's a slight grunt from him-- a pause, utterly still. His music plays, hazes out with a crackle of static. He's stiff with rage, been a good sport so far. The moment passes, and he's pulling his green trucker hat on, and going down, going on his way. He limps when he walks on even ground, favoring his left. "Least you don't throw like a girl," Dwight tells her.

This gets a wordless howl of fury from the Ahroun, who grabs on to a vertical pole as if it's the only thing keeping her from being blown away by a tornado. She takes a couple of deep breaths, and then yells at his back. "Come back here and face up, coward."

The Shadow Lord just shrugs and walks off, leaving the Fury fuming.

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