Flickering torches fail to fully illuminate this large auditorium within the mostly‑ruined playhouse. Hints of the former beauty and majesty of the building are marred by the smell of mildew and ever‑present water puddles. The northern end of the space is occupied by a raised stage, with a large chair that must have once been used as a throne in a theatrical production long ago. Goblins move throughout the room, some gathered in small clusters roasting food over open fires, others sleeping in what remains of the auditorium’s chairs. On the crumbling balcony, a goblin choir rehearses, each member singing a different song, or perhaps the same song with different words, lyrics, and tempo. Goblin children chase each other about, their leashes dangling from their necks as they screech and shout. Occasionally a leash catches on a bit of furniture or rubble, bringing the wearer crashing to the ground while their companions laugh uproariously.
From atop the throne a voice rings out, cutting across the chaos, clear and annunciated, although obviously still a goblin’s. “Oho, what’s this! Another group looking to throw their hats into the ring, as it were? Probably the Pathfinders I was expecting.” There is an angry yell from a group of humans wearing armor and bearing sheathed weapons dimly visible near the stage. The goblin turns and addresses the interruption from the grousing warriors. “Now, now. I never said anything about exclusive rights, did I? Hah!“So, Pathfinders. I’m sure you’ve heard about our trouble with a creature in the basement. What is it your organization is willing to do for my kingdom, and why should I let you go instead of these fine folks?”[/b] he asks, gesturing to the warriors.
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"Because these people are obviously idiots!" yells Maxis lustily in return, gesturing brashly at the other group. "You want to let those clowns loose in your basement to stumble around causing havoc, or do you want trained professionals like us? Seems like a simple choice." He then looks at his companions and winks confidently, barely suppressing a smirk.
Maxis is dark-haired human with perpetual day-old stubble and a recent bruise over his right eye. A longsword and short sword hang from his belt, and a shield hangs from his back. He wears knee-high black military boots that are scuffed and worn. His shirt is stained and smells vaguely of Lastwall tequila.
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There is a loud mechanical whirr followed by a metallic squeeeeak as a goblin emerges from behind a collapsed set piece—a tangle of ropes, pulleys, and what might be a cannon strapped to a lunchbox.
A goblin in scorched leather, oversized goggles, and way too many belts struts forward with theatrical purpose, arms spread wide.
“Your Majestic Kingliness of the Glorious Stage, Bork Von Clankstein reports for duty!”
He bows deeply, nearly tipping over backward from the weight of his bulging backpack.
“We Pathfinders offer what no pack of sword-thumping glory-hogs can: precision, innovation, and very well contained explosions. What can I do for your kingdom, O' sovereign of seats? I can build, dismantle, miscalculate, remantle, and deploy! And if needed—” he spins dramatically “I have brought a knight.”
He points both hands at the hulking silhouette in the wings.
With a low clanking growl and hiss of steam, Sir GoodShanks steps forward.
The towering construct is covered in salvaged armor, curtain capes, and a glowing monocular eye. He raises a salute with mechanical precision:
"SIR GOODSHANKS… PRESENT AND OPERATIONAL."
He pauses, then adds:
"UNIT BORK… CLEARED FOR DIPLOMATIC DEPLOYMENT."
A bit of rust flakes off his shoulder. He does not acknowledge it.
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"Applause! Applause! Your kingdom for applause."
A tall, lithe, pearly athamaru with bright orange splotches tumbles into the sconcelight of the auditorium, splashes down in a puddle and finishes with an expansive curtsey-bow. It holds a grin like a frozen fish; puddlejuice runs down its kaleidoscopic scales. After a three-count it rises to its feet.
"Good day! I am Koi. My fellow prose-bros and I shall script you a magnificent hero's journey from our descent into your basement. Its retelling by your inimical troupe shall win your kingdom thundering applaudits. And those whiny extras, well." Koi points its spear at the humans. "They can be the ob-scenery."
There are certainly ancient structures below what is now called the Puddles. In the past, such places have been troubled by corporeal undead such as ghouls, ghasts, skeletons, and zombies. Older residents of the area tell stories of screams that would occasionally seem to emanate from somewhere deep beneath the streets.
The Crookedtoes goblins are led by Zusgut, who is obsessed with performance and acting. His tribe has taken over an old playhouse in the Puddles district that no one else wants because the Puddles are slowly sinking.
Zusgut is frustrated with the lack of enthusiasm from his tribe toward theater and would love extra help from anyone who is interested.
There are dark rumors surrounding this area of Absalom. Some claim it is a dumping ground for bodies of the murdered, or perhaps even a place where victims are taken before being killed. It was certainly known in the past as an area frequented by criminals.
"Ha! Brash! As a Pathfinder should be! I love it!" Zusgut replies to Maxis' simplification of the issue.
"Ah, a fellow goblin who knows how to make an entrance. And his noble knight friend. Welcome to you both!" he says to Bork and Sir Goodshanks.
"But I fear you have been outdone by your friend! Delightful," he exclaims and actually claps at Koi's entrance before remembering his kingly dignity.
You realize Zusgut has already made up his mind about who he is going to send.
It's the Pathfinders.
After you have made your introductions, King Zusgut allows you to present your case.
Each of you may speak and make a Diplomacy check to earn Favor with the good king.
There are several ways to earn Favor with Good King Zusgut:
Artistry: Anyone who recites a poem, tells an entertaining story, or draws a quick portrait of the king and succeeds at a DC 13 Performance check earns Favor.
Bribery: You can choose to offer the king or his tribe money; any amount of at least 20 silver pieces Favor. Bribery can be used only once.
Flattery: Zusgut loves to hear about how important he’s become, and his goblins also appreciate their newfound acceptance in Absalom. Anyone who talks about how great the king or his tribe is has an easier time earning Favor.
Time: More than money, what the king really desires is artistic talent and dedication to the theater. Anyone who offers to spend at least 4 days of Downtime working with Zusgut to give notes on his work, introduce him to artists in the city, or help his tribe repair the playhouse earns Favor.
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Arrrrr! says a being that, at first glance looks like a half orc, but upon close inspection you notice that her skin is a more aqua colour and her ears are a bit more pointed as well as having more webbing between the fingers. I'm a pirate bold, and a story shall be told. Sailing the mighty seas ... and we'll be home for ..... teas?
She wears coral armour and carries a shield as well as a longsword, short sword, greatsword, and trident. A Wayfinder hands from her belt.
Zenari Bennary at your service Your Highness as she bows to the goblin king.
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"...And if needed—” he spins dramatically “I have brought a knight.”
"Oh, well, I'm not actually a..." begins Maxis with a modest wave of the hand.
"SIR GOODSHANKS… PRESENT AND OPERATIONAL."
Maxis stops mid-sentence as the mechanical man steps forth, his mouth hanging open and his eyes staring. He quickly looks down at the goblin, then back at the construct, then whistles and runs a hand through his unkempt hair.
"Cayden's codpiece, you built that thing? And you're not throwing your voice with some illusion spell are you, that thing is actually talking? Wow! That's amazing! How does it work? Does it do whatever you tell it? Can it serve drinks?"
"Good day! I am Koi. My fellow prose-bros and I shall script you a magnificent hero's journey from our descent into your basement. Its retelling by your inimical troupe shall win your kingdom thundering applaudits. And those whiny extras, well." Koi points its spear at the humans. "They can be the ob-scenery."
Maxis stiffens a little when the fish guy starts talking. He had kinda hoped that it would stay in back while he projected a tough, intimidating bravado on behalf of the party. Giant robots were ok. Fish guys? Hmmmm.
The purple prose doesn't help the case. The pun really doesn't help. In Maxis' mind anyway. But the little guy was trying, and if he understood it right, it seemed to be at least backing up his point. To show support, he pats Koi on the head encouragingly. "You tell 'em."
Arrrrr! I'm a pirate bold, and a story shall be told. Sailing the mighty seas ... and we'll be home for ..... teas?
Maxis doesn't know what to make of this one. First, why advertise that you're a pirate? Second, who actually says Arrr? But she was kinda cute. In an orcy sort of way. He leans back a little to get a better look at her butt.
...and pays almost no attention to what the goblin king guy is saying.
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Bork tips his hat dramatically and places one hand over his apron while the other flares out like a cape.
“Your Royal Zussiness! We are humbled... no, honored... nay, ecstatically overwhelmed by the warm welcome to your sinking stage of secrets and shadows!”
He spins, gesturing at the ground. “The Puddles are a marvelous locale! Cursed architecture! Moaning floors! The ever-present stench of artistic potential! Did you know that...”
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The goblin redirects his attention to Maxis, leaning toward the gruff mercenary with wide eyed approval.
“Yes! Yes! He talks, he walks, he fetches my laundry… but only when I wear pants!”
He lowers his voice: “Don’t teach him how to mix drinks, though. The last time he got tipsy on cleaning solvent and tried to joust a windmill.”
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Bork offers a short bow, then straightens with a glint of admiration in his eye. “A fellow fan of flourish… excellent. I like your style. Bit of drama, bit of spear.”
He nods once, firm. “We’ll make something unforgettable down there. Probably involving ghosts.”
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Bork blinks twice, not quite sure if she was rhyming on purpose. Still, he grins, head tilted. “Pirate bold, huh? Armor like a reef and more swords than a weapon shop clearance sale.”
He circles her once—quickly, curiously—then stops with a satisfied nod. “You smell like seafoam and unfinished plans. I like it.”
The construct steps forward, stiffly and with great ceremony. His vision sensors glint, and his voice hums with clockwork energies.
“Acknowledged. Social calibration… engaged. Greetings, non-hostiles.”
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“Yes! Yes! He talks, he walks, he fetches my laundry… but only when I wear pants!”
Maxis seems delighted by this pants-centric technology. It's possible he's lost all interest in this goblin mission. "Yeah, pants are the worst." he says, as if that meant anything, though he seems confident about the assertion.
“Don’t teach him how to mix drinks, though. The last time he got tipsy on cleaning solvent and tried to joust a windmill.”
Maxis nods knowingly. "Yeah, I've done that." he admits. "It's a mug's game though. Windmills cheat."
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The athamaru beamed at Zennari. It had met very few undine; never one with tusks! Piracy in contrast seemed quite common among Pathfinders. Koi was briefly a pirate too, just a couple of adventures ago. "Arr. And swell met!"
The athamaru was more surprised when Maxis patted it on the head. Koi's head-tail received attention from seafarers sometimes since most athamaru tails were attached at the coccyx. Maxis must be a pirate too! "Aye! And arr, Maxis!" Maxis also appeared to notice Zennari didn't have a tail. Or was that Maxis' dislike of pants?
Goblin predilections were much easier to read than human ones. Bork's chatter really helped. "Thanks Bork. I'm new to Absolom. Crimes and ghosts and ghouls indeed! Terrors of the lowest seas. And basements. We shall flourish there together!"
Now the royal goblin clearly loved the attention his arts brought him. Zennari was right to genuflect. "Your highness, I don't have much time or money to offer, I wish I did," said Koi with a look of utter adoration. "But I've heard great things about your shows! Athamaru from all over speak of you in bubbly tones. 'You must see the Goblin King of Absalom', they say. 'He will surely win an Oscarp'. And your theatre is absolutely 'trés bonito'." Koi imitated one imaginary fish person after another. "'Ooh, it is the ants pants.'" Koi looked at Maxis. "And also the 'ants without pants.'"
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"Arr. And swell met!"... "Aye! And arr, Maxis!"
Maxis' brow knits in mild confusion.
'Arrrr' again. Who says Arrr? What does it even mean? Am I missing something?
He looks over at the effect his group is having on the other band of adventurers. He scratches at his stubble and tries to decide which one those mooks he'll punch first when the brawl inevitably starts, and what heavy blunt object might be well suited to picking up and clobbering with.
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A dwarf runs into the arena, clad in full armor, meteor hammer on his belt. Huffin and puffin he is able to say "Drokki, Drokki Goldenoak" he looks at the groups of people and stands with pathfinders
Hmm, he thinks to himself.
"Oh thy mighty king, your tribe is the greatest goblin tribe that I have ever seen ... acting. You are by far the greatest."
"Oh, I see that the Pathfinders made an effort to send appropriate agents!" Zusgut says as a second aquatic ancestried agent appears.
He watches the exchange of conversation with rapt enthusiasm, clearly enthralled and entertained by the vibrant chaos of Pathfinder agents getting to know each other and trying to earn his favor.
"Better late than never, eh, shortshanks?" Zusgut says as a dwarf comes rushing in.
The goblin leader sits thinking for a while, then springs to his feet and points a finger high in the sky. “I know!” he says. “We should have a contest to see who goes! You can read lines from my play.” The surrounding goblins cheer. He squints at the mercenaries. “Since you got here first, you can go first! Show starts in two minutes!” At this news, another cheer goes up from the Crookedtoes goblins and they begin to crowd toward the stage.
You are given the script [/ooc]which appears on slide 3[/ooc] and given a couple minutes to really savor and investigate the material in preparation of bringing it to life before the other guests start their performance.
Fortunately, the mercenaries are rather terrible in their performance: not funny‑terrible, just plain terrible. They read in a wooden way and mostly just stand on the stage looking uncomfortable, as if reciting lines a teacher has required them to memorize. The goblins are unimpressed and begin throwing bits of rotten fruit and pieces of wood (some of it on fire) at the performers as they boo loudly.
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Maxis heaves a private sigh at being drafted into amateur theatricals. Apparently goblin kings are just as feckless as Taldan aristos on their country weekends. But a job was a job.
He huddles with the other Pathfinders.
”Ok, obviously we should have Bort play the goblin king, since he’s actually a—you know, goblin. And I’ll play the human. I mean, verisimilitude, right? Can the robot play the dog?”
”The rest of the parts—I don’t know. Koi, you seem theatrical, you can cast and direct. Help us find our motivations or whatever.”
He takes a break to holler at the other group. ”PHEW, I THINK WE FOUND THE UNDEAD! THEY’RE ON STAGE EMBARRASSING THEMSELVES!”
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Bork cups his hands and bellows, equal parts disbelief and despair:
“I have seen a broomstick knight deliver a more stirring soliloquy. Sir Goodshanks has more personality than that!” He gestures towards the construct. “And he’s made of hinges!”
Sir Goodshanks turns slightly, his voice flat and metallic:
“Acknowledged. Personality traits optimized to basic theatrical threshold.”
Then the goblin begins to voraciously read the provided script. "Yes! HAHAHAH. Longshanks need help! They BEESECH! Silly Longshanks!" before breaking down into a fit of giggling that suddenly stops cold. His eyes shoot directly up to the goblin King.
"There is ALWAYS time for Catapults, King Zusgut. ALWAYS!"
Magnus is a typical gnome in appearance (if there is a such a thing) clutching an orange and purple staff of wood from some First World tree. He has been there the whole time and opened his mouth to speak several times only for the others to jump in with their witty and entertaining repartee. Instead he just watches and listens taking the measure of the goblins, the mercenaries, and the Pathfinder companions.
"Mercenaries don't belong on stage. Get them back into the arena or somesuch!" cries Magnus, taken with the spirit of the thing, but not very good at derogatory remarks apparently.
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The athamaru throws some wet fish shade, right on cue. "Come on guys, you can't all be Mitzi!"
Maxis' suggestion for Koi to direct the motley Pathfinders looked increasingly fun. "Right then! Zenari - Siathorn it is. Bork, you're King Zusgut. Maxis is Ul Thun and Goodshanks makes a better Mitzi than any of this lot. We still need a Grenek and a Crimsi. Mr. Gnome? Drokki?"
"That leaves me with Pizazz. Who said only whales can sing?"
"I concur with your deductive reasoning leaving Drokki and I the final two roles. I can only express my ambivalence towards discriminating between the pair, and will defer final reckoning to my dwarven companion."
Magnus doesn't really care, and will allow Drokki to choose first.
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Maxis watches the desultory performance a bit longer, then heaves out a sigh of exasperation.
"Oh, sod this." he says, hefting his pack over one shoulder and making his way to the stage.
As the 'actors' continue reading their lines, Maxis sits on the stage, right in the middle, just a few feet from the action, his back to the performance. He ostentatiously pulls out his bedroll and blanket, arranges it on the stage, stopping once in a while to yawn dramatically, then elaborately settles himself down to sleep, with much shuffling of his blanket. Once he finally settles into a comfortable position, he lets rip with an enormous fart, a soliloquy sure to please this particular audience.
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"I concur with your deductive reasoning leaving Drokki and I the final two roles. I can only express my ambivalence towards discriminating between the pair, and will defer final reckoning to my dwarven companion."
Magnus doesn't really care, and will allow Drokki to choose first.
"So many long-complex words that bothers me. What have happened with simple sentences, I don't care, I don't want" mumbles under his breath dwarf as he reads the script
"Crimsi! I should be Crimsi, I was blowing up tunnels as a kid, it sounded like a fun job, until it got dangerous. Now dwarfs are outsourcing the work to goblins" he looks at the mercenaries reading the lines and shakes his head with disaproval, but says nothing.
Soon after to the theatre rushes a large dragon, flames are bursting from it's nose and it roars spreading panic and fear.
"I acquiesce to your preference," says Magnus with a slight bow, somewhat alarmed at the presence of the fiery dragon.
"Abyssmal! Malevolent!" shouts the gnome at the goblin performance that now includes a sleeping man on the stage.
The mercenaries' performance grows ever more abysmal as the heckling accelerates and the chaos, including the sudden appearance of a dragon and the goblins' response, increases. Their lines get jumbled and you're not even sure they deliver all of them before one of them says the final line then they look around with equal parts sheepishness and irritated defiance.
"Yes...very...interpretive..." King Zusgut says and waves them off the stage.
"You should really see a herbalist," one of the mercenaries says to Maxis, waving their hand in front of their nose. "Something's just not right."
"Now, let's see how the Pathfinders bring my creation to life."
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Bork hesitates as the others gesture toward him. He fidgets with a loose buckle on his apron, then slowly straightens.
“Well... I suppose if the tale demands it, I can wear the crown.”
He casts a glance at Sir Goodshanks, the whirr-click of gears echoing softly beside him.
“But let the record show... it is Sir Good-Longshanks Armor Pants who should rightfully rule. He is the only one among us not born to the gentry... forged for greatness, assembled with honor, and recognized as nobility.”
The goblin places a hand over his heart, solemn and sincere.
“But the show must go on... and I will speak the lines.”
Sir Goodshanks gives the faintest nod, though his metallic voice betrays a note of quiet regret.
“Understood. Delegation of authority accepted. Sir Goodshanks will play Not-Dog Wolf.”
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Bork moves to the center of the stage, searching for scraps of finery worthy of a throne. Once assembled, he climbs up (and stands on) the seat of the throne, pounding a call to order with his wrench against the makeshift armrest.
His voice shifts — lower now, regal, commanding, and just slightly too loud.
“The heroes return, as the tale foretold! But who walks beside them in silence? Speak, brave knight!”
Sir Goodshanks’ gears whirl. He begins to speak, but halts mid-motion- a look of defeatedness crossing his mechanical fce.“I am no longer brave knight...”
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"You should really see a herbalist," one of the mercenaries says to Maxis, waving their hand in front of their nose. "Something's just not right."
Grinning now, Maxis pops to his feet and bows at the retreating mercenaries. "I'll bear that in mind!" he says cheerfully.
Now that it's the Pathfinders turn, Maxis gets ready to wow the crowd. He goes to the back of the stage and finds a bit of curtain that he drapes over himself like a tabard after cutting a hole for his head. He finds another bit of cloth and wraps it around his head in a makeshift turban. He then rubs his finger along the burned out stub of an old torch, and uses the blackened soot to give himself dramatic eyebrows and a handlebar mustache.
Sure, a normal actor would just deliver his lines once the play starts, but Maxis is intent on going above and beyond to entertain. Grabbing some of the firmer bits of rotten fruit thrown onto the stage, he begins to juggle them as he delivers his line.
"Oh mighty chief of the goblins, whose wit and skill is unsurpassed, I am called Ulthun, Watcher-Lord of Lastwall. ALAS THAT LAND HAS BEEN OVERRUN BY UNDEAD AND IS NO MORE!"
He delivers the words in a comic vibrating baritone, and bursts into overwrought manly tears as he describes the fate of his land, making a little extra flourish with his juggled fruit.
Magnus does his best interpretation of a slinking goblin, hissing his line in little more than a whisper with comically exaggerated features.
"Is true!" he hops forward a bit more like a lurch. "Undead EVERYWHERE!" he spreads his arms wide as he utters this last, showing the breadth of undead.
The construct waits with mechanical stillness, gears whirring and valves releasing soft puffs of steam — eyes fixed on the temporary goblin king.
At Bork’s not-so-subtle hand gesture, Sir Good-Longshanks Armor Pants lowers himself to all fours with a precise, almost ceremonious clank.
“Woof. Woof.”
“Social embarrassment, amplitude set to eleven.”
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This team needed absolutely no direction. They were killing it. Until the director misses its cue.
The athamaru stands astride, hands placed dramatically and haughtily on its hips. With a wave of its head to clear a non-existent forelock, it summons its most self-important tone. "I found people who appreciated my singing!" Longshanks? Undead? People, for sure. Koi marveled at the playwright's talent.
With a sudden expression of utter glee (translated through the maw of a fish) Koi bounces on the spot and waves its fists. "Oo! Oo! Look here!" Glee? Constipation? "LET ME SHOW YOU." Koi strikes an operatic pose, arm outstretched, and clears its throat like a yeti restoring a hairball from its upper colon. Progress is predictably slow, so Koi uses the time to practice its chords. "HRRAKSHDooo... HOIKKKReii... KHA-KHA-KHARRMee..."
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*****
Maxis drops to his knees before Bort the goblin king, still juggling, as a good courtier does.
"Please my lord, we beseech you and ask the help of your mighty tribe." As he says this with ringing pathos in his deepened voice, he throws a broad look to the audience, acknowledging their mightiness. "We are but mere humans and lack the cleverness and skill needed to escape the clutches of the undead. WILL YOU AID US?"
For a final flourish he tosses all his fruit much higher into the rafters, then takes a moment to fully abase himself, forehead to the stage, before jumping back to his feet to catch the balls as they eventually come back down, after which he bows to the audience and flings the fruits back into the audience with abandon.
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Bork’s stern kingly posture falters the moment Maxis hits the word “beseech.”
He snorts. Then snickers. Then finally doubles over with a high-pitched goblin giggle, barely keeping his balance on the makeshift throne.
“He said… he said beseech!” he wheezes, clapping once like a child who just heard a very fancy sneeze.
After a moment, he catches himself and straightens, trying very hard to look regal again.
“Ahem... Yes. Of course, of course.”
He raises one hand dramatically, rallying the invisible legions.
“Crookedtoes, my people, harken to me! Now is the time foretold… the time when the longshanks would come before us in desperate need!”
Trying not to laugh out loud at the antics of the Pathfinders, Magnus delivers his next line in faux-goblin voice as much as possible.
"We help too! We know how to fight undead longshanks!"
oh my! Will use a Hero Point to reroll
Sir Goodshanks remains on all fours, servos humming as he processes the cue.
There’s a pause. Then, with mechanical precision and just the faintest trace of resignation:
“Bark.”
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The athamaru gazes on in gaping adoration, nodding profusely as “Zusgut”, “Grenek”, and “Siathorn” speak. It lets out an audible ”Awww,” at "Mitzi" and pats the construct on the head.
”And I,” decrees Koi, waving an empty finger pistol at its own head - “I will compose a war song,” - brandishing its dancer’s spear menacingly in its other hand - ”a song to lift,” - Koi punches the spear up in the air - “ALL of our HEARTS.” The athamaru closes its eyes and drops to one knee as it speaks, bringing its fist to its chest. The blunt striking end of the dancer’s spear held in that fist swings about dangerously at groin height.
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Bork rises slowly atop the makeshift throne, his voice hushed at first, as if weighed by the seriousness of what must be said.
“I think we need to hurry…” He glances to the wings of the stage, then off toward an unseen distance. “No time for catapults or songs…”
He pauses. Grimaces.
“…Probably no time for catapults.” Another pause. A deeper, more conflicted sigh. “Maybe… a very small one. On wheels. For morale!”
Then he rallies, standing tall and thrusting his wrench skyward like a scepter.
“Prepare for the journey south and into our destiny! Now—WE be heroes!”
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Bork rises slowly atop the makeshift throne, his voice hushed at first, as if weighed by the seriousness of what must be said.
“I think we need to hurry…” He glances to the wings of the stage, then off toward an unseen distance. “No time for catapults or songs…”
He pauses. Grimaces.
“…Probably no time for catapults.” Another pause. A deeper, more conflicted sigh. “Maybe… a very small one. On wheels. For morale!”
Then he rallies, standing tall and thrusting his wrench skyward like a scepter.
“Prepare for the journey south and into our destiny! Now—WE be heroes!”
Maxis had been playing all this as low common street farce. But as Bork waxes dramatic, as silly as all this was, it occurs to the fighter that it held at its core the seed of a truly tragic and poignant tale. He nods to Bork slowly, impressed.
Then he strikes an appropriate tableau pose for the ending of the scene.