As the coin hits his snout and then falls to the floor, his eyes flutter and look down. Gold. A grumble rises from his throat and he lets out a long, shaky breath. The heat has returned to his body, signaled by the wave that comes from his jaws. Genrit's eyes manage to focus just enough to see the half dragon before him. His mouth cracks open so that his long white tongue can slither out and retrieve the coin, bringing it back into his mouth. He doesn't respond to her just yet, taking some time to continue his pained breathing. Having settled down considerably compared to when he was first freed, he shifts in place, moving onto his stomach again but still too weak to lift himself. Some smoke comes from his nostrils as he replies.

[color=6ecff6]"Do not call me 'whitey', half breed."[/color] There's a threatening edge in his tone, but it's overshadowed by how frail and ragged his weakened voice sounds. He even attempts to proudly lift his head off the ground, but it shakes feebly and droops to the ground again with a muffled thud. His eyes at least manage to maintain their gaze on her, attempting to keep at least some shred of dignity in this moment. He grumbles once more before wheezing. He's currently a textbook depiction of a wounded animal and he resents it immensely.