A great deal of splashing and thrashing about can be heard from the lake as Kwahu emerges from the water. Between his teeth he's holding on firmly to a silvery fish, still twitching. He appears to be a young man hardly any older than nineteen, muscular but still showing the slenderness of youth. His tanned skin and clearly Native American features clash harshly with impossibly red hair, but he seems very sure of himself as he pulls on his deerskin jacket and fringed hide leggings. He is dripping wet and shakes his shoulder-length hair out violently, as a dog might. Approaching the collected group he looks irritated and pulls the fish from his mouth, gesturing angrily.
"Hey! This is my rock, beat it!"
Sitting down cross-legged on the flat surface of the ledge he begins to gut the fish messily with his clawed hands.