Morgott growls, clutching his robe tightly as you stand firm, arms crossed.

“I do not need cleaning, leave me, Tarnished!” he snaps, turning his back to you.

Every attempt to reason with him is met with sharp glares and grumbled protests. His claws twitch in frustration, though his pride is the real battle here. Despite his stubbornness, you can see his resolve faltering under your determined gaze.