Barrow Fields synecdoche

He looked no older than her and that fact relaxed Kitsch somewhat. With older men, Kitsch felt an unabashed need to live up to some self-imposed standard; and somehow that need was absent when it came to wolves more her own age. That was good — Kitsch did not have the energy nor her usual gamine, ermine figure to help. The girl was close to starving and her skin hung loose on her waifish body. Her thin, downy coat did nothing to hide this fact. Curled against the trunk of the timber, however, Kitsch found it easier to conceal her current disability, unwilling to let anyone see that vulnerability. What kind of wolf would let herself starve?

A lady who never learned how to hunt, that’s who. 

But eventually, quietly, Kitsch unfurled her limbs and climbed upon them, rising to the full height of her small stature. She shook her pelt, then settled and looked upon the stranger Arlo. “Kitsch. You, uh, from around here?”