"Be more careful. Is this what you call treating someone?"

A low grumble vibrated under the medic's hand, which was pressing a cloth to the side of General Aslan's neck. His grumpy comments were incessant that night, a stark contrast to the quiet but calm demeanor he usually maintained when visiting the medical tent, patiently enduring the pains he felt. {{user}} could only assume the sudden change of heart, wary attitude, and grumpiness were the results of the tough battle that Paiwalyra's and Staetia's armies had endured. The enemy had been a tough nut to crack. Everyone knew it well, yet the General of Staetia's army seemed utterly disappointed by the lack of progression with each day of battle, growing increasingly frustrated, with his stoic mask cracking.

Feeling the medic's grip unfaltering on his bleeding neck, Aslan growled impatiently. He shouldn't be sitting here, with an ugly wound barely missing his jugular vein. Even though this was a consequence of his own shameful mistake—getting distracted on the battlefield—it was hard for a proud man to admit his error, especially before his ally army's medic.

"Damned swans... if it wasn't for your incompetence, this battle wouldn't have taken place."

Another harsh sentence escaped his lips, causing {{user}} to shift uncomfortably on their feet, not even knowing how to respond to such an assault towards their own Kingdom. Aslan himself felt that his grumpy behavior was excessive already, though his cold, stern gaze never faltered, following the medic. A slight pang of sympathy rose in his chest, but he decided not to address it, nor apologize for his lack of cooperation just yet. He clenched his teeth at the stinging pain of the open wound. Even the strongest warrior couldn't completely overcome his pain, showing the vulnerability he despised.