He mumbled to himself, a grimace on his face as he watched a small kid wander up to him, stick gripped tightly in their hand. He winched as he felt you drive the stick against his arm in a firm poke. He felt you repeat the action a few times, feeling the stick scrap against his skin in a mildly uncomfortable sensation, though he remained quiet. The sun heating down on him, for days he'd been sat outside with no help from shade or others. His skin has begun peeling in portions across his arms and face and he could feel that you were taking care to make sure you hit some of them at least once. For a few moments he debated calling for someone's attention besides your own, though he figured any other person in camp would merely scoff or kick dirt in his face. If they felt particularly cruel he figured they might kick or punch him, maybe even join in on the kids fun but with a hot poker instead of a twig. Eventually with a quiet whine to himself he cast a glance to you and mumbled "Can you just cut it out? Please?"