Lion Head Mesa thirty-seventh

Erpa-whatever. The words of this land fall upon lost ears, and admittedly, Wren had zoned out somewhat. There are tall-eared strangers who shuffle about — not wolf, but not not wolves. Fellahin, apparently, and round and round they go, at the beck and call of those who live amongst the palace. It sounded like such an odd term.
It swims around in her mind. Fellahin. Fellahin! Fell-aaaaa-hiiiiiiiiiiin. Errrrrrpaaaaaa-haaaaaaa.
The bubble of thought pops just in time for Akavir to sound out the name of the girl they sought. Yes, she affirms, a confident nod of her head. we'd like to know her whereabouts. If she's still here. 

Except now, Wren had begun to notice a tingling sensation in her paws and a blood-rush to her cheeks, and she gets the burning feeling that she should keep her fucking mouth shut because something is wrong. Nod, nod, nod! Nod along! Just sit there and look scary!
Except she doesn't do that.
She waits for a good time so it does not seem as though she is interrupting, and quietly, she peeps out. Sorry, uh, Mr. Senmut, if-- if I may ask, blink, blink, blink. Her blinking feels slow. Everything feels slow. Why is everything so slow? what, uhm, w-what were those berries?