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

I'm not a baby, she retorts, a somewhat offended twist to her lip. She could not possibly look that young, did she? Sure, her limbs still held youthful lankiness to them, awkward and still adjusting to newfound adulthood. But with it came curves; muscle and padding that had not been there this time last year. Etephyr could not possibly be much older than her, anyhow. She herself still had some semblance of a 'youthul glow', however withered by personal events and time she may be. What are yah, a fuckin' grandma? Get outta here. You've still got some good years left in yah, by the looks of it. The dry humor makes a return, a dimple creasing her cheek as her voice picks back up. 
Wren mirrors her sit with her own, neatly placing her rump on the ground, awkwardly flicking away a twig on the ground with the tip of her tail. 
She took note of her body language, oddly attentive to it as she twitches and shakes off an imaginary fly. Rigid, awkward movements; reserved. She could not judge. Wren was reserved in her own right. Niceness was not something that came easy to her, yet something about Etephyr told her to try. She got the feeling that they were not too dissimilar.
Sounds nice, she nods, exaggeratedly moving her eyebrows to show she was listening. wish I could say that. A shudder creeps up her spine and lingers in her bones. She'd just left her home, and frankly, the last thing she wanted was to think about it again. M'from Montana. If you know what that is.