Perhaps this should be more awkward, but Lefty's coat smells like a pack. They feel confident. Their confidence may not be entirely earned as of yet, but it is there, intense and deep. Their posture is ... the same as always; slightly inwards, somewhat low-headed and observant, but they cast a glance to March, who snuffles demandingly at Thorax. This time, Lefty simply chuckles, their tail flicking first one way then the other, before they shrug their shoulders and inhale.
"I'm doing well, yes." They take a step forward. Awkward. Here, the confidence falters for a moment-- they do not know if this is too much, they do not know how to handle this situation, they were never taught --
So Lefty simply drifts, then stops. "I'm in a pack called the Armada. It's a good place; I'll be forging my own weapon, soon." Their chest puffs with pride. That is evident. Lefty has something of their own, even if it is carved out in the rank of slave. "I've got friends," they begin, realizing how rather pathetic that sounds, faltering, clearing their throat. "I mean-- well. Actually, yes. I mean what I said. There's an open market there, in Armada, in the Col. If you wanted to look about." Their ears flick. A pause. A breath. Then:
"How... have you been?"
"Speech"
