Blackfeather Woods the song you sing is wretched and cold

She observed him for just a moment; his mess of a frame, his ears (or whatever was left if them) and then back to his face. Her white brows shifted, arranging new constellations upon her forehead, as he spoke. Now she truly wondered if she was talking to a dude or a gal. Hopefully they were no wolves you knew. She said, one brow lowering while the other stayed up.

At least he (or she?) had manners, unlike many she had met. She knew she was a little young to be the Speaker of her very own Master, but they had fought together for their place - and she'd not keep herself from ripping the tongue out of anyone's mouth that dared question their positions. I fear no preparing could fix... that. She frowned rather concernedly. What could you offer us?