Ankyra Sound I am the mask you wear

"The fuck did you call me?" Wylla asked, crowding her ears forward over her brows and taking a far more menacing step in Lycaon's direction. What a rude bastard. Who commented on a lady's smell like that? Sure, Wylla probably smelled like some concoction of salt water, bird shit and reeking mangy mutt from her encounter with those barbed swains further up the coast, but skunk was putting it so harshly she almost felt a tear form in her ducts.

Wait, nevermind, that was just another tumbleweed.

"Ah, so what you mean to say is you're a total virgin loser," she surmised, baring a single tooth at Lycaon in a mocking smirk. Like, wow, who was still a virgin these days? Wylla for one, but how was he to know? Far as Lycaon knew, her fields had been plowed by every farmhand this side of the world, but he'd just openly admitted to how sad and lonely and pathetic he was. Small wonder. She nearly ducked her head to see if he had a purse instead of a pack, but stopped at the mention of Ingram. One jet ear flicked up instantly.

"How do you know Ingram?" she asked, voice ragged with suspicion, as her eyes narrowed on the "foreigner".