Wheeling Gull Isle my fondest memory is getting stabbed with a variety of knives. (mtr.)

Old, lovely lady.

Firefly couldn't help but sneer at that; but the look faltered when the pale man spoke again — this time so bold that the guardian was taken by absolute surprise. Not so much for the language used, nor even the imagery that played through his mind (he was pinned to the sand and struggling, a flash of memory and a hesitant desire there he couldn't fully grasp) but for the tensing of his body around those words. His hindquarters shivered at a nearly imperceptible level. He would blame that on his wounds—or try to, but— Perhaps I am sorely mistaken?

He opened his mouth to reply with some witty, sharp-tongued phrase but didn't have time — ...Or too superior?

Fuck you, he tried to spit through a flash of teeth, but his voice wasn't as strong in the moment. It was more like a gasp and it carried with it the deep tone of desire unmasked— the fuck was wrong with him.