Ankyra Sound And I'm not wearing trainers

despite the sharp nature of his small leader's tongue, mahler remained intrigued by her — as he had told the old warrior, it was the brusque girl who had solidified his attachment to grimnismal. that she had rightfully shamed the musiker at the borders was not something mahler had forgotten. 
when wylla's piercing yellow gaze settled on his hindquarters, the man regarded her with a blank expression writ into his charcoal features, one that soon slipped beneath an omnipresent veil of chagrin. mahler understood well the fragrance that wreathed through the coastland and knew he himself was not the cause of it. and yet all the same he was discomfitted by how quickly he found humility in the seaflower's presence.
the brine had soaked the variegated hues of wylla's pelt, outlining the narrow swell of her hips and the sprightly nature of her limbs, but mahler told himself he did not care about such details. "i think not, frau," he declared with a wry twist of his lips, eyes glinting with amusement.  "but i will bathe, if you find me wanting." it was of course a joke, but delivered in such a stoic manner that its humour might only be readily apparent to mahler. he was not good at jokes.