"Hey, fancy pants! Gotcha cloak dirty!"
    ...
    Odd.
    Yes, odd. That's the word Jhin would use for this situation-- it's odd, being scaled by a furry creature in a ridiculous hat and a ridiculous accent with ridiculously pointed claws and ridiculous--
    Breathe. Breathe. He is Jhin, the Golden Demon-- he has seen worse. He has felt worse.
    "I see," he says, though it comes out less a says and more a growls. Jhin's forte hardly lies in such a thing as "inner peace," as it were. "I see."
    "Remind me again," he begins slowly, taking a hand to the hilt of one of his scimitars. "Why you would ever want to ruin one of my cloaks?" He hisses, unsheathing his blade and striking it across as well as he could behind him.
    Why, oh why, did it have to be irritating forest creatures?
