Lion Head Mesa thirty-seventh

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What in the absolute holy fresh hell was this place?
A hilltop view, perfectly preserved furs of various animals, an intricate system of tunnels. Murals, altars, gemstones, jewelry, finery; even the food they had eaten was well-prepared and better than anything she had eaten in months.
Wren had enough self-awareness to know that she was a wolf. A wild animal. A wild animal with mud in between her toes who caught fish right from the creek and ate them whole. A wild animal who swatted at fireflies with the tip of an ashy tail, who howled songs in the dead of night and who shared tongues with her comrades. A wild woman, no less; a woman who spoke like a man and fucked like one, hunted like one and fought like one.
And this, she thought, was the most physically disgruntled she had ever been in her life.

The terracotta floors of the mesa's skyview are abysmally hot beneath her feet as she pads begrudgingly behind the little red man. He was smaller than her, visibly, and that made her oh so self-conscious. She shrinks down as much as she can when she sits, and before her and Akavir are what look to be... berries?
It would rude to deny them, especially with the way the red man glares gemstone daggers into her soul. And so, wordlessly, the berries are swallowed whole in one snap of wolven jaws. They are sweet and yet bitter and they burn. She smiles toothily anyway, tongue running over a lower lip to catch a mahogany pearl of juice.
She's not sure whether or not she's supposed to say anything. She decides that she isn't.