Wasteland

The mushroom was rather funky tasting and not in a pleasant way. Her mind screamed at her to spit it out, but her intellectual curiosity told her to get more. So while the other crept closer, a feline grace to the paws that treaded carefully in her direction, Pythia lowered her muzzle back down to the cluster. Giving it another brief sniff, she plucks another mushroom, hating how her tongue feels itchy and quickly places it in her borrowed sack from Wake. He too had been unusually interested in fungi from the swamp.

When the boy speaks, Pythia turns clouded gaze in his direction, though she doesn’t look quite at him, not until he speaks more and her ears can pick up his location. His statement has her head canting, brows furrowing slightly. “Are you intending to insult me?” Pythia inquires, ears slicking back against her pale crown as her tail gives a few swishes.

“Miss Pythia Abraxas,” her ethereal tone turns sharp, lips wrinkling slightly, apprehensive toward this stranger. She couldn’t read his face so she had to go on his words alone. There was charm indeed to his inquires, but she’s still unsure. “Do you come from a place where females are scared to get a little dirty, mister..?” Pythia supposed she could continue the conversation. Learning about other packs (he sure did smell off, didn’t he?) was a good thing to do. Learn where she should and shouldn’t go was rule number one.

"speech"