Coneflower finally manages to dig a sort of trench out from under Bel, wherupon she shakes herself off furiously and then springs at him, whacking fiercely at his face. You're starting to be impressed at her inventive curses. Currently she's comparing the scent of his piss to that of a clear, fresh spring brook. "No, it's got the regular fragrance," you call over to her. "It's pretty good." She starts to compare your piss to unflattering liquids. You put your ears back and try very hard to be above the situation.