Emberwood Well I think that there's a problem here

It worked well enough to stop him.

The tripod grimaced, eyes squinting tight. The ornery stranger had called him a poor medic, saying that he’d turned his back on someone who needed help. Crowfeather was conflicted. On one hand, the man was aware that he was being particularly difficult. On the other, it sounded like he had a harsh way of admitting that he didn’t want to figure out his quill problem on his own.

Crowfeather looked back over his shoulder at the man. He was certain he would belittle him, still.

Are you going to be like this the whole time?

A setting in his jaw offered him some strength.

I’ll help you but you can’t b-bite me. You can say whatever else you want.

Was that an acceptable deal?