Kitora
Kitora pointed an angry finger at him, her other hand was firmly on her hip. "Look pal," she drew out the word pal, as if she was talking to someone slow. "You can do this evasive nonsense where nothing is accomplished and we both storm away angry, or you can put on your big boy panties and tell me why you're dead set on killing werecats."
Isaiah
Isaiah dumped the rest of his coffee, now cold, on his aunt's flowerbed. He rang the doorbell and folded the empty cup in on itself. A woman around her fifties answered the door, she had her brown hair pulled into a tight bun. Wisps of grey streaked it. "Isaiah, what a wonderful surprise." She gushed and led the boy in.