Luneshale Pass leave the gun, take the cannoli

He leaned closer. She could feel his warm breath in her nostrils. His scent was many things, layered over a base note of musk. There was something floral, but bitter – grassy, maybe. Salt. Heat. Disa wrinkled her nose when she realized that she had unpacked a woman's intimate smell, veined through his like surprise mold in a perfectly good bale of hay.

She shrank back – just a little, and felt that she had grown very tense. He was clearly interrogating her; testing, prodding, waiting for her to roll over like the good dog any sensible newcomer would have played in the present situation. But Disa was feeling stupid.

"South," was therefore all she said, punctuating with belligerent upward tilt of her chin.