[ Howl sighs. He's just about done with this conversation — he hates arguing with people, strangers or not — but the acerbic attitude towards Yima compels him to come up with some kind of retort. ]

Is that what you call this — dealing with your condition? Staring down a shelf of leathers and yelling at the first person you see whom you might be able to assign some blame?

[ Shaking his head, he waves a hand in the air dismissively and continues before she can answer. ]

Tell me. What is it you're looking for to cover that wound, and what is lacking in what's on sale here? Describe it to me.