[He's still snarling at them like some beast. There's a dangerous moment when it looks like he has far far too many too sharp teeth, like some sort of monster is trying to break through. It never happens for him though. It never has.

That snarl becomes a sound of surprise as a jet of something that smells frankly like raw blood with topnotes of lime soda comes past him and into the vines he's been tearing at with his hands. The annoyance gets shoved back a little so that he can look down at the person.]

Good shot. Whatever is in that bottle is brilliant. Can you get the rest of this out from in front of my door with it? Then maybe we can find the roots of this all and give the whole thing a bath? [Because his private sanctuary comes first.]