Bearclaw Valley Where’s the fire? What’s the hurry about?

That's a shame, Grackle clicked her tongue, gaze darting from the pair to the lowering wall that made up the valley's barrier, briefly considering her chances of making it up the side. Seems then I’ll have to find myself another way through.

Your scent isn't so weak that you didn't see me coming from a mile away? Her tone was flat, dripping with a kind of deadpan curiosity that almost—almost—masked the sarcasm. I don’t get what scent has to do with sight, but hey, what do I know? She finished the sentence with a shrug, the unspoken dumbass hung heavy in the air, clear as day despite the absence of the word itself.

She gave a short nod as she listened. If rain’s a constant issue, you’d do better with scratch-based markers, she mused, eyeing the closest tree at the path’s entrance. She took a step back, head tilted as she inspected the oak, her claws flexing instinctively at the thought. A few good claw marks here, along this line, she continued, gesturing to the trunks, make ‘em deep enough, and they’ll hold up against a downpour. Big, bold—something even a half-blind fool couldn’t miss.

Just, and here she made a series of sharp popping noises with her mouth, each one punctuated by a pointed jab of her paw toward a different tree, and you're golden. A slight, crooked smile curled at the corner of her mouth, amused by her own joke.