Karma stood at a height of five feet two inches, when she was straight up, which was never. Her hair, normally worn in a low bun was down this evening, hanging down to her waist. Her lithe form was covered by a tank top that was cut off at the midriff, and a pair of black cammo pants with the top seam ripped out, where her tail lashed agitatedly back and forth. Her feet were housed in her boots, Doc Martins with the steel toes showing in the nooks and cracks of the scuffs. Her hands were encased in black leather gloves, with the fingers cut out.  her face was whited out, using the white pancake of the stage to mute the odd colored spots in her skin. Over all of her clothes, there was a loose black trench coat, the kind that swishes over her boots, with a large hood that was lined with fur. What little skin showed was tawny in color, with more of the same spotting pattern across it. She paced back and forth, her topaz eyes glittering in the low light, as she waited at the Brewery. She had the invite on her person, though was leery about joining up with another pack so soon after the demise of her first one. Still, the Bishop had asked for her personally, and she had not enough clout to defy a direct order. She paced like a junkie in need of a fix, awaiting the rest of her would be pack.