"Thank you for your help," Kildor said to Jo and Brian, Genuine graditude shining in his eyes. "When ultor was clubing me with his moose Antlers my leg was hurt, I can barely stand on it." Kildor's head hurt, his host's ranting and raving only intensified the pain, the agony, that they were both feeling. It was not good.
Suddenly, Kildor's mind flickered to the Andalite, and he turned to look in Tarrade's direction. "You arrogant grass eater, why don't you leave me be? I have saved you and your friends more times than I can count today. What have you done? What have you accomplished? Without your magnificant Andalite body you can do nothing. You are incompetent. Mere baggage to those who actually contribute to the fight." For a moment the hatred kildor felt seemed to revive him, to make him feel normal, but then it collapsed.
"Shouldn't we get out of this barn?" Kildor asked, "We will all burn to death if we do not.