Blackfoot Forest What Did You Mean When You Said It's Destructive

Ivan stepped forward—
 
And Daighre, somehow, magically, impossibly, bristled even more, equal parts indignation and defense.
 
His hackles raised along his shoulders, neck, and back and his body remained wooden and tense. One of his front legs—the bad leg—was half raised to his chest in preparation to move. The top right corner of his upper lip was peeled backward and up, a pointed, twisted sneer, and a growl rumbled faint in the back of his throat, low and warning.
 
He didn’t relax until the bastard stepped back.
 
‘What's your name?’
 
He licked his lips. Settled, marginally.
 
And then, finally—
 
“Daighre.” All careful, subtle accent and stressed syllables. Not that anyone ever actually fucking heard. And then, dourly, “O’Connolly.”
 
He ignored the hot, throbbing ache in his leg, the limb still half raised and awkwardly dangling in front of his chest, in favour of warily eyeing the so called medic.