Dawnlark Plains don't call [m]e grimgram

Grimalkin stepped on the gas, but in the next moment he was forced to slam on the brakes.  She sped up, lithe little huntress that she was, and then whipped around until they were practically nose-to-nose.  Daring, he darted a lick toward that delicious-looking mouth, and if she deigned to take off part of his tongue for his audacity it'd still be worth trying.

"Your name's like that, huh?" he mused.  "Sweetheart, I'm no good at guessing games."  He shook his head ruefully.  His grin was mischievous and oddly boyish despite his advanced age.  "I'll try guessing, but if I get it wrong, I'm picking my own."  He paused to think, appraising her with a hard look of concentration.

"I can't figure if you mean you're named after a weather system or your name sounds like Stormy," he complained.  "Let's see.  Cloudburst?"