Deepwood Weald Nose on the grindstone

Wren's face twitches, morphing into a show of mild disgust, or possibly disdain. Admittedly, upon hearing the broken speech and accented tongue, she felt a pang of what must've been guilt. Another wolf that was clearly foreign, still trying to find her footing among these lands. With a short breath and a clasp of her mouth shut, she decides she would attempt to fix this rocky introduction.

Wren, she responds, whistling through her teeth as pink tongue pokes out and runs across black lips. Wren 'Not-A-Pack-Wolf' Aquilanera. As much as she wanted to laugh at her own dry humor, all that came of it was a crease in the corner of her mouth that indicated a smirk. It wasn't far-fetched to assume that she'd smelled Wren's recent rendezvous on her pelt. She shudders at the implication. She found it amusing that his smell remained so strong she was mistaken for his comrade. Perhaps he would get a kick out of that, should she mention it to him. Should she see him again.

She takes a brief moment to examine the girl - Legend, allegedly, which was a stupid name, but she would refrain from saying such - with an obvious roll of chestnut eyes that ran up and down the lanky, near-emaciated frame in front of her. She looked not unlike a yearling, though the shape of her face and the size of her feet told her otherwise. A truly tiny little thing, almost pitifully so. Why'd you ask? You need someone to take down a deer for yah? You're lookin' a little famished there, chickadee.