Whatever the hell we want!

Damn you, and all the terrible things you do. Is there was an award for self-deprecation, Jendayi would have long won. She had played herself far too small, too meek, to frightened, and now did she pay the price for mimicking a scurrying mouse rather than a strong warrior. Her path was blocked by the young man, and quickly, the lowered maiden rose to her full height once more—and yet, still short and stocky and without much chest, Jendayi stood below him. Well below him. “I was not aware this was an open conversation,” she replies, and though her tone is even her words are strained, as if almost unable to get them out fully. She did not think it wise to challenge two men far stronger and far larger than her, but she knew as well that men often preyed upon the weak.

Jendayi attempted to hold her awkward middle ground, but it was nearly impossible when words and charms were not her prowess.

She glances briefly toward the paler man, catching his blueish gaze before returning to the virulent green of the other. Her tail curled across the ground, her haunches lowered so that her ankles were nearly grounded. Her head was held upwards, but her ears were pressed somewhat back and her lips were trembling (out of nerves, and out of the cold chill). She had not caught much of their conversations before, but there was something more peculiar than that—one smelled strongly of weeds and thistles, and the other smelled strongly of Amon. What was his scent doing so far north? Jendayi almost wishes to mention him, to see if it would strike some recognition and get her a free pass, but she bites her tongue instead—Jendayi had always fought her own battles. Call it stubborn pride.