Sun Mote Copse I could lie and say it isn't personal

I'm not, Wren's lip curls up in some form of a quirk, a flash of teeth shown in what must have been an attempt at a smile, though it looked awkward and unnatural as if she didn't actually know what to do with her mouth. I'onno, why does anyone venture out? Her movements slow to a halt as she edges closer for a cursory sniff. The stranger smelled earthy, yet there were remnants of an odd sweetness; indicative of something Wren herself could not quite put a name to. 
Her gaze travels, passing over the wiry fur of the stranger's shoulders and down to her legs, the curve of her ribcage as it met her underbelly. Pretty, Wren had decided she was, though she tries to hide her observation with a flick of her head and a dart of her eyes toward the ground. Not everyone was tolerant of such thoughts, and she was not particularly eager to test the waters with such a subject.
Her eyes meet hers once more, a crease having formed between her eyebrows. I'm gonna assume the folks of your homeland give their kids names?