“Yeah, see, totally reasonable,” Sharpclaw said, idly picking his teeth with a talon as he eyed the intersection the florist’s shop bordered. Shortbeak looked around as the pony florist continued to blubber and beg. The street had a good number of griffons about it, but most were distinctly not looking their way, the other shopkeepers keeping their head down and trying not to be heard so as to not draw the gang’s ire. Only one griffon seemed to be eyeing the altercation, a middle-aged fellow speaking with the iron monger, but otherwise everygriffon kept their distance.