”Hey…you smoke? Now stop look’n ‘round like yer nuts and make yerself useful, git me a cigar from my pack hang’n on the tree stump right o'ver there.” There’s another short pause, ”And how ‘bout a shot o’whiskey… to help out. Cayden Cailean's curse it’s been two long days sob’r, not a drop, I swear ... or may Iomedae strike me down right here in my crate. Me throat's parch'd and I'm see 'un demons, it's been so long without a proper drink.” There's a big a purplish blue eye peeking through a rotten hole in the wooden crate. Blink ... blink. "Come on now, don't dally 'round twittl'n yer thumbs, I need a smoke and drink."
”Eeww that was nasty." As the eye blinks inside the crate. "Speared 'em in the back." The crate coughs and starts to speak out loud again. "Hey... you...hey.” There’s a pause. ”O'ver here to yer left… no, no yer oth’r left. Yeah, there you go. I'm talk'n to you.” The gruff voice beckons from the battered wooden crate. "NO jabb'n the crate wit yer stick eith'r." He then kicks the crate a few times to make a racket.