It was a fair-sized Dojo where mortals of all ilks came to try their skill at hand to hand combat. Cait had always considered herself more of the run-like-hell type of fighter; live to flee another day and so forth, that she pondered what drew her to fight in competition.

One favorable aspect was the ruthlessness. There was a primevil lure to it that couldn't be ignored. The other most intriguing part of hand to hand in the Outback was contact. Whether she wanted to admit it or not, Cait was a pack mentality animal. Her personality demanded self-imposed isolation, but her heritage instinctually drew her to groups where she felt she had something in common with the majority.

Beating up on others in that group was a definate plus.

It was there she first saw the Old Man. He was neither old, nor strictly a man - not human, that is. Eldarion, son of Aragorn. She could smell the sent of fey folk in him and another, copper-tinged spiciness that was sharp in her nostrils but not unpleasant. His scent reminded her of battle and blood and timelessness. It was a blend she immediately favored to the typical human scent. And when the Old Man was bathed in sweat from dueling, the scent only grew more intriguing.

That first sighting crackled through Cait's senses like static electricity on a winter wolf's hide. His emerald eyes broadcast that his soul would brook no tresspassers. That was only a challenge to the Garou as she watched him, dueled him, wanted him. His eyes also seemed to say he wasn't -quite- sane.

Cait wanted to know why.