Wild Berry Meadow pestilence-stricken multitudes

Frosty explained himself—
 
And Daighre settled.
 
Somewhat.
 
His ears remained pressed grumpily back against his head, and he licked his lips and gums, loudly and noisily.
 
“Whatever, Frosty.”
 
And with a pointed huff and brief look away, he grumbled—
 
“I don’t need your fucking approval.” It’s a sentence spoken, miraculously, without aggression, instead quietly, awkwardly, and stiltedly mumbled, his voice somewhere in between under his breath and out loud.
 
His ears remained pressed back against his head and his stance wooden.