Р Ф М Р Є І І

He scowls in response-- not a creature who easily believes what he is told, and rather than staying put and allowing the soft-spoken girl to try to fix him up, he struggles to his feet in the wet sand and immediately peels back his lips in a snarl, bringing what fur remains on him to a bristle.  He trusts nobody, especially not those who try to approach him in such a state.

However close she tries to get, he responds with a less-than-polite snapping, gnashing his teeth towards her. Were she not fast enough, it's likely he'd end up biting her, at least once if she was so silly as to remain closer to him.
He is not some child, some weak, mewling quim who demands to be cared for-- and he reiterates this fact, even when swaying slightly as if a stiff breeze threatens to knock the beast over. But no.  He plants himself firmly--one, two, three, four-- all four limbs on the ground, toes spread into the sand as if seeking desperately for purchase.  His response is swift, deceptively harsh and rumbling from somewhere deep within his chest, the hoarseness of his smoke-damaged voice only adding to the threat that seems to resound from him,"Kto si? Nehovor mi tvoj priateľ, dievča. Hovorte, špina." He speaks through bared teeth, gritted, clenched tightly so that his gravel-thick words are somehow hissed out from between them.  

He does not trust easily, nor will he, and so she may need to try harder...or return with reinforcements. A wounded animal fights twice as hard, and it is clear from his poise and the acrid sharpness of his gaze that he is far from dead, and far from weakness. He wonders if her speaking his native language is, perhaps, the rouse of a demon, trying to sway him from the path, and the thought causes his hackles to bristle, a shooting pain racing down his spine as burned flesh meets the salted sea air and serves only to waken him further, sharpening his previously-faded attention and cognitive clarity."Nie som tvoj priateľ, démonka." Of course not-- Perhaps she is a demon, to his pain-addled and confused mind. She speaks of a place he doesn't know, and he has trouble believing that the waves have carried him so far and so, he must be dead, must be at the gates, but he would not go gently. Not now, not ever. He reiterates his beliefs--sharply, and with force. Friends were not so easy to make.



"Great clouds rolled over the hills bringing darkness from above"