Barrow Fields just one moment of peace, that would suit me so fine

She slumped her shoulders and sighed, dropping neatly to her haunches. The exchange volunteered, though fair, was contingent on Lusca’s trow of awareness of their surroundings and in that area she was no tree of knowledge — perhaps a sprout, or a crunchy leaf. ”I’m not of much use.” She warned, falling silent for a moment to forage the roots of her memory. Barring this female, Tachyon was the only other conscious thing the girl had encountered recently, but her gut was tantalized, yearning for that rabbit and its fatty pith, so she came clean with what little she knew and hoped it would suffice in scoring her a helping. ”There is a male around here somewhere. He’s aggravating, and tiresome, and… questionable in general,” she went on with a smile, ”but the early stages of questionable– like, he’s curable and might one day be normal.” 

A pause there, Lusca ruminated over what else had been thrown at the wall of her amygdala and stuck ––like gum stuck to the bottom of a coffee table, or al dente noodles chucked against the cabinet. It was, without a doubt, a rare occasion for her to be so aware of her surroundings, but trauma had a way of tenaciously clasping to one's psyche. ”The shoreline is a half-day’s trip that-a-way.” The wolf nudged in a north-east orientation, dread grafted faintly to her voice. ”If you want trouble for yourself I can’t recommend it enough.”