Sequoia Coast how many centuries deep is your wound?

at this point caw could probably yank himself free, if he cared to ruin his face even further. as it is he's not so keen on such an idea. in either case, he is saved from having to make a decision as the woman lets him go to snap something in her strange tongue at the newcomer; avis is still scolding him but her tones are thick with enough worry that caw is sure he will only recieve a peck on the head as reply.

"discedite," caw warns her, and he takes the brief opening to start squirming his way free. it is difficult without his paws beneath him, and he manages only an inch or two of movement before the woman swings her head back to stare at him, splattering him with droplets of his own blood, in a movement sudden enough to make him pause.

the pain has already dulled to an insistent throb caw is sure he will carry with him for days. he laps at it again, instinctually, only now noticing the faint discomfort of the doubtlessly-broken feathers threaded into his scruff as they press awkwardly against his skin. he ignores the other wolf drawing close to her; right now he already has plenty to contend with.

she barks another phrase at him in that odd language. caw has heard many things before coming to this place but whatever they use is still completely alien to him; he cannot even begin to figure out what she means. "bad," he responds, and starts trying to wriggle free again, his front paws coming up to press into her chest to try and use her as leverage to drag himself forward. "hod klin!"