Dawnlark Plains Stop, what the hell are you talking about?

Upon receiving confirmation from the platinum yearling, the tension visibly sloughed from her shoulders. It was replaced by caution. They were not from the Dragoncrest crew, but that didn't mean they weren't a threat to her. Placing her paw down more squarely over her precious cedar scrap, Wylla tried her best to don a cloak of impassivity. She had worn her emotions plainly on her breast for too long, now, and she could sense these pragmatic wolves were made of stronger stuff than that.

With the cliffs themselves, she corrected, which probably made her sound crazy. Who took issue with some jagged rocks overlooking the sea? We have history, she added, a verbal wave of the hand. It wasn't important as long as they were not Rusalkans.

Her true issues with the cliff wolves—having misjudged Mahler's desires regarding the cliff, and having latched onto the idea of keeping it vacant forevermore, and having been failed in that belief—crowded behind her teeth and threatened to spill out, but these were strangers, and that was now her past. Mahler was— no. Too painful. Hop to a different train, one that Kigipigak himself had mentioned already. Wylla had been too preoccupied with Rusalka's appearance to have noticed that there were others in the area.

She lifted her acidic gaze to the mountains, and made a weird sound in her throat. Her eyes bounced between the two, never lifting to theirs, but landing on their noses instead. You mean... You live with those gay fairies? Friendly enough, as she recalled, but... Eugh. She'd thought these two were strong and capable, they made her think so much of— nope. Absolutely not.