Deepwood Weald Nose on the grindstone

You smell of pack wolf.

What an odd insult. Wren fights back the urge to let a growl slip from her throat, and instead, the rumble comes out in a dry, humorless laugh. She made a mental note to bathe as soon as she had a moment alone. Had she known she would be interrogated by a complete stranger for having a little fun, she would have walked her ass in the other direction. She contemplated it now, and yet she didn't; continuing to shuffle around with an awkward, fumbling gait, unsure of what to do with her body.

No, sorry to disappoint, Eye twitch. had a run in with somebody from here, s'all. Not that it's any of your fuckin' business.

One dusty ear swivels forward, the other pinning to the back of her head. We're in, uh-- actually, I've got no clue. Look, I'm not from here, so if you're lookin' for directions, I'm not your guy.