"Wha' d' ya mean tha's it?!"
Rosto shrieked. He actually full on shrieked. Surely it was meant to be some fear-instilling, booming and singed-around-the-edges roar. But it came out as a shriek.
Quite womanly, Crookshank wouldn't hesitate to add. Of all the times, over all the years, through all the plans that didn't work, the lynx at least knew to expect certainly delays and setbacks in the comings and goings of anything the pair was instructed to do.
"Well we cer'ainly dun need a lout like yer'self." He tuttered, spinning away from the dark brown male with a frown so deeply set it was undeniably the open gate to unattractive facial wrinkles. "Do yuh, do yuh believe this jumble-headed, jargon-twisted, ninner-skittin-dallie-floppin-lout of a brute? Do yuh?!"
It was an obviously rhetorical question. Crookshank batted it down and didn't even see it as something that would merit a response. Of course, he was well aware that Rosto didn't even know what a rhetorical question was, so he stared past his companions blatantly searching face.
"Me?!" Hanley gaped. "I've only done exactly as you told me!"
Reasoning with Rosto would get him no where. He turned his plight desperately to Crookshank. "Can't you see? There's nothing I could do! How can you honestly expected me, one wolf!, to get around all of that? Honestly now!"
Perhaps Hanley was justified in his dismay. Perhaps Rosto was too. But Crookshank knew these were only wasted effects, and he would ultimately have to knock the two together to produce the results they all needed.
