Harumn lets loose a victorious yell, raising his axe to the sky as the last of the orcs falls. Glancing over the battlefield, he is saddened by the numerous bodies of the villagers and spies the two sleeping orcs.
Looking to some of the more fit villagers and then to his own companions, he points a stubby finger at the orcs.
"Them orcs've got answers fer us... tie 'em down somewhere an' le's get t'the bottom o' this mess." Harumn's face darkens as he gives the order, clearly showing no mercy for his enemies.
With the attackers swept away, Ajjira smiles broadly. "Disgusting business...and yet it's always satisfying at the end."
Ajjira helps give first aid to the villagers...and to an orc or two that look like they're healthy enough to talk.
Genji puts his ax and shield away with a sigh, looking back on his poor performance in the battle.
"I should talk to Harumn about becoming sparring partners, I need more practice with this axe." He mutters to himself as he surveys the carnage and walks to find the healers of the town to offer his modest medical talents. As he strides he concentrates and brings to life a small amount of his gnome magic to assist him.
(Mechanics: Genji activated his prestidigitation spell like ability to help him with the wounded. Purifying water to clean wounds or anything else the extreamly vague spell could do to help, minor local anesthsia for stitchings who knows.)
Keria studies the fallen orcs, seeking tribal markings on either the bodies or the weapons themselves. If she can determine who they are, she may recall what their ancestors had done to lead them to such a tragedy.
Looking to the fallen villagers, she whispers, "even children can band together and fight bravely." Were it not for these villagers, Yvael might have cut short her time in the world.
This would not be a night for tales of battle, she decides, but a night for tales of glorious deeds, and courage in the face of despair. Children though they might be, she could do no less.
Isaeldan breaths a sigh of relief, and looks around. There are wounded in need of clerical assistance. He drops his weapons and moves to the closest fallen defenders. He looks for signs of life and stability. Without breaking in his pace or even looking from his work, he begins speaking.
"If the villagers could produce a large amount of clean water and cloth for useage as bandages, I would be most appreciative. Also as a precaution, I would suggest lighting a fire and acquiring what metal rods and brands we can. Cauterization may be necessary in certain cases. If there are any other priests on hand, let them be mindful to say the magic of the gods for those in the direst needs. Mundane uses such as those I have requested materials for will suffice in most cases and conserve deific gifts for when they are truly needed.
"Leave the attackers until the villagers are tended to. Once done, we can search for survivors amongst the orcs and take hostages for interrogation."
Mechanics: Heal checks (untrained, +3 modifier) to find and stabilize injured defenders, only using healing spells as needed. I have three cure light wounds available with spontaneous conversion, and can use the same method to produce up to five cure minor wounds.
The slumbering orcs are bound, and taken away to pits deep within the fungal roots of the village, no love shown for the prisoners accept some for what information might be stored within their skulls--until the time it may be harvested.
Other villagers show the adventurers seeking clean water to the watersource for the village, an underground stream purified by the same roots of the giant mushrooms, cleaning and filtering the water as they absorb the contaminants as food--a mutual friendship which has allowed different tribes of humanoids to inhabit this grove for long centuries--certainly longer than this present group has claimed them. The adventurers are also told of the healing arts of the Quiet Folk, who live deep within the caverns beneath the village, who will sometimes barter alchemical healing potions and other types of wonderous elixr for the bodies of the fallen. It's a type of trade that nearly every settlement has engaged in who has settled the area. No one knows what the Quiet Folk do with the bodies, but local tradition treats them as undertakers, and caretakers of bodies travelling to the spirit world.
Those who remain above to heal the wounded and dying likewise notice an interesting duality. As the tigerskin clad shaman passes by, he holds in one hand a bone mace tipped with a spread of tiger claws. In the other hand he bears a mud clay pot full of some sort of resin. He stops a moment by each suffering soul. Those who seem to bear their wounds bravely, he dips down and smears some of the goo across the inside of their lips and they immediately seem soothed. Those who cry out or who are lost in delirium or fear he swaks across the neck with his tiger-claw scepter and kills outright. No one prevents the adventurers from aiding those who have fallen in their own way--in fact a few pleading relatives try to pull them back toward the wounded in the shaman's more immediate path--obviously desparate that their own kin not be killed rather than healed. Metal is brought forth, a fire is started, clean water brought also in unfired clay bowls. It is with the waterbearers that the adventurers who went with them return.
Meanwhile from one of the central structures, tiger clad acolytes, younger than the old shaman and dressed in simpler versions of his tiger garb, descend into the plaza in a simple wicker and rope-pulley lift, looking grim and taciturn.
Gillad does his best to help out with the tending of the wounded, even though medicine is not something he has studied. He washes a wound, applies makeshift bandages, and then moves on to the next victim to start the procedure again in a seemingly endless line of wounded.
He gasps wide-eyed at the harsh treatment the old shaman is giving some of the villagers, and wonders just what kind of village he just helped save; what way of life he and his companions defended today.
(heal roll untrained + Wis bonus: 1d20+2-> [20,2] = (22))
Harumn averts his eyes from the grim triage administered by the shaman, knowing that this must be the way of their people and that it is not his place to interfere. He turns his attention to the wounded as well, assisting with the transportation of bodies and clearing the battlefield more than dressing wounds.
Wincing in pain, he unbuckles the straps holding his crushed pauldron in place tightly against his shoulder and removes it. He rubs his shoulder a bit, examining the wound and rolling it around in the socket to make sure there is no permanent damage. After seeing that the damage is largely superficial, he shrugs and continues to lend aid.
Soon the healing is done--one way or the other. Some of the most grievious are saved by magic. Some of those who are very badly hurt are soothed either by healing art, minor magic or pain reducing cantrip: the effect swaying the tribal shaman into healing rather than killing them. And as evening falls those who are dead, either immediately due to the gravity of their wounds, not having been attended in time, or because of the grim ministrations of their own shaman--are bound up in parcels made of palm fronds and are solemnly loaded onto carts. Prayers are offered by the acolytes who paint the funerary wrappings in heiroglyphs of red pigment and they are prepared to be lowered in reed lifts down to be traded to the Quiet Folk in a somber ceremony. The acolytes guard the bodies down and handle the affairs of the trade. When all is finished it is deep into night, every villager who knew one of the fallen takes a small torch and throws it into their underwater river.
One of the large village defenders, still tearful from the ceremony, comes to Harumn and whoever is about him. His demeanor is tough, and he puts a hand on the dwarf's uninjured shoulder and bows his head.
"Thank you all. I am glad our village has friends like you. Tomorrow we feast. Tonight we learn what these orc fiends know. Let us do this on a night when we remember anger and sadness..."
Together all who are interested in questioning the two captured orcs wind their way through moist underground passages with a large contingent of angry villagers and the tiger shaman. Down in deep underground, no one bears torches but whatever of the party have them, plotting their way by memory, tradition and darkvision. Finally they get to a pair of heavy cellar doors, unbar them and flood the room. Torches are lighted at the corners of the room.
The orcs are bound, exactly as they were, and have not moved. Their chests rise and fall, so clearly they are asleep rather than dead. They have to be beaten to get them to a sluggish kind of consciousness--clearly more than than anything a mere sleep spell would result in since it has been hours, not minutes. Guards hold the orcs in place and the shaman approaches, blowing a palm full of yellowish dust into their faces. The orcs, still tense and bruised, relax, looks of euphoria passing over their faces.
The old shaman, his tusks much larger than the others of his tribe,his features retaining much more of his savage heritage, looks over at the village's visiting adventurers. His words come out a garbled hiss through his boarlike teeth.
"They will anther your questhions! Den Kesh thall take them!" His sentence is met with a satisfied grumble from the men assembled.
The dwarf solemnly stands off to one side as the villagers enact their rituals, only moving to smile and nod at the man who placed his hand on his shoulder.
He gives the man a hearty handclap on the bicep and nods. "Aye, lad. S'best t'find out what we can now 'efore more of 'em kin show up n'try t'save these 'uns." The dwarf paused, smiling up at the defender. "Ye an' yer men fought well t'day. Not more you kin ask than that. Le's make sure they wont be dyin' fer nothin'."
Later, when they are brought before the orcs, Harumn's face hardens into a scowl. Filled more with disgust than rage, he opts to simply stand by while someone else commences the interrogation. In his foul mood, he'd be lucky to finish a sentence without spewing all manner of profanity at the dazed orcish hostages.
Despite her qualms about attending the event, Keria's inquisitive nature precludes the possibility of absenting herself from the interrogation. If the men of this land treat their own as she has seen them do, it would be best that she know how they handle their enemies; as well, she ought to learn first hand what prompted the orcs to such barbarism.
Keria endeavors to find a place from which she can absorb the entirety of the proceedings, but resolves to remain silent if possible -- after all, stories are most fully remembered by those present, but uninvolved.
What a strange place, Isaeldan thinks to himself as he walks his winding way down through the mushroom tunnels to the prisoners, carrying a torch whose golden light bobs along with his steps. Vaedryn, I find myself growing uneasy here. Is it your will that I remain and learn from these unusual circumstances, or should I return to the road with haste to continue our quest for Teksor? I seek your words, for my discomfort is great, but I will not abandon your will.
Upon seeing the ritual performed by the tiger-skin clad shaman, Isaeldan looks upon the captured beasts with disgust. He glances to the shaman, keeping the orcs in the corner of his eye, and asks in a low voice, "What will become of these animals when we have extracted all the information that we can from their wretched skulls?"
Upon seeing the ritual performed by the tiger-skin clad shaman, Isaeldan looks upon the captured beasts with disgust. He glances to the shaman, keeping the orcs in the corner of his eye, and asks in a low voice, "What will become of these animals when we have extracted all the information that we can from their wretched skulls?"
The old half orc says nothing, but his expression darkens a little and with one hand he hefts the heavy tiger scepter, just enough so the elven sage can see, claws still matted with blood and other awfulness.
Genji nods and grows more somber as he sees the dark promise of violence in the orc shamans gesture.
"For the attack alone I'd expect these two to have a long night ahead of them friend." He says to Islaedan. "For what they did to the bodies..... the last moments of life for these two will probably feel as long as the remainder of yours."
Genji steps forward in front of the orcs and begins asking questions until he is interrupted or ceases gaining information.
He asks his questions in orc but repeats is questions and any responses he might get in common to his companions.
Is their any left of your warband?
What tribe are you?
When did the Ettin assume command? Are there any more of them?
Did your band have any slaves or captives with them. Where would they be now.
Why do you eat the flesh of the fallen?
As the gnome ranger begins his questions, the orcs--while still groggy, seem also very mellow and content, as though the abuse that roused them to consciousness and left them with angry welts were just some good natured misunderstanding. Drooling a bit, one lolls his head over toward Gengi as he asks his questions.
Is their any left of your warband?
The shaggy orc shakes his head "Naw. Don't think so. But I did not see the end of the battle. Knocked out--I think. All of us were there." There's a bit of a gleam of pride in his eye as he thinks back on it.
What tribe are you?
"Many tribes. I am Raw Meat Tribe. He is Painted Eye. Many tribes come. All dead I think--but good death. Death for Kali!"
When did the Ettin assume command? Are there any more of them?
"Ettin? Oh giant two-heads! Giant two-heads promised us to see Kali, feel her blood burn in us." he nods emphatically "Gave us the black blood in barrels marked with the black circle. We felt her fire burn in us. We went and attacked and ate. We were powerful. We had the power of gods in us. We hungered for flesh!"
Did your band have any slaves or captives with them. Where would they be now.
He looks as though he might laugh, but is clearly too tired and merely smiles a grotesque gargoyle grin. "No captives. No slaves. Once the blood was in us, all became flesh...for the feasting..."
Why do you eat the flesh of the fallen?
"It was the call of Kali. The fire in our blood made us hunger. We eat to please Kali at our feasting. Now the blood is gone and Maulok is tired...so tired. Sleep for years."
He seems pleased to talk, and shows no reluctance to answer questions at this point...
Kali... Isaeldan reflects a moment upon this to try and discern what path his questions should follow.
Knowledge (religion) roll: 18 + 7 = 25.
Kali... Isaeldan reflects a moment upon this to try and discern what path his questions should follow.
A prevalent but savage religon active mainly in cults. Their clerics use falchions. Their dogma is a mantra of death and chaos, with little reason to it that scholars have been unable to unlock. Her most numerous and ardent worshippers are tribes of jungle orcs, particularly in the south--this region actually--though off in the ruins of Xindhi is where her main temple is reputed to be. Kali, also known as the Dark Mother, is a major figure in the local pantheons, having birthed the sun god--a good deity associated with time and law. She murdered the father, named Krishma, but from his blood another god, the youthful baboon warrior Hiruman appeared. Sages have noticed that her actions seem to do nothing but create new gods that hate and hunt her. Then something interesting comes to mind. Her symbol is a bloody red hand, not a black circle so whatever the black circle on the barrels was--that's something else.
Realizing that there is nothing obviously amiss about the orc's worship, other than the anamoly of the barrels, Isaeldan decides to dig a little deeper and see if he can't discover some further clue. The elf clears his throat before beginning to speak in the guttural, foul tongue of the orcs, Isaeldan begins to ask his own questions, trying to "dumb down" his word enough.
"How long have you been allied with the two-headed giant? Do you have a temple, or just some filthy hole in the ground? Where was the giant from? Was there ever another person or creature with the beast? Do you have any priests that came with you on this raid?"
How long have you been allied with the two-headed giant?
Many days. I have lived longer than many. Many die. New orcs come when others die. Some go back to tribes to tell them to come, to tell them the will of Kali, to tell them of the black blood and the feast.
Do you have a temple, or just some filthy hole in the ground?
Filthy hole, stinking hole of giant two heads. Hole crawling with nasty creatures, giant worms and clear skinned crabby things. Many fear the place, it makes the skin feel wrong. Yet Kali is strong there. She calls us.
Where was the giant from?
I dunno. He lives in his vile hole. Those who know Kali's feast come for others. That is all I know.
Was there ever another person or creature with the beast?
Sometimes yes. Humans bring the barrels in wagons. They smell like fish. They leave the barrels and run, for they fear giant two heads will betray and eat them if he can.
Do you have any priests that came with you on this raid?"
Priests? No. Our priests do not understand. They say don't go. They think the blood is not of Kali. They do not know. They have not felt it. They kill some to keep us from going--but we feel it. Mostly we kill the priests and the others know Kali is in us.
Harumn listens to the translations and simply nods along, waiting for a pause in the questioning.
"Lad," he speaks to Isaelden. "Ask 'em if'n there's anymore ettins about or if that 'uns th'only one."
As the dwarf's question is passed to the orc, he shakes his head solemnly. "Giant two heads is always alone. Hates his own kind. Only lets orcs near him. Tries to kill others or run them off. That is why the humans run when they bring the barrels. They know he will slay them if he can. No friends, giant two heads, just his two heads which yammer always, babble to each other when giant two heads is alone...and giant two heads is always alone. Hates all but orcs and his two heads."
The surly dwarf nodded and shrugged slightly at the answer, looking to the others around him for any further interrogation. He knew now that, at least according to this particular orc, the majority of the threat had been put to rest.
"'at settles it, then. They're all but dead, ain't got anoth'r ettin wit 'em, an' they's a whole bunch a' crazy murder-happy orcs what worships some god thing that wants 'em t'eat the bodies of th'dead. If'n there's none more t'ask o'em, I say we put these 'uns down n'go after th'rest o'em 'efore they know what's what."
The dwarf grinned smugly as though he thought his plan to be of masterful strategic insight.
After hearing the translations, Gillad nods somberly.
"Let's get the location of that cave, so that we can go and snuff this evil out."
I seriously doubt that we even need that much information from these wretches- Genji should have no trouble following the march of these beasts back to their cursed den through the jungle. Let us glean what we may about the particular defenses and send these to their dark god!
Kutok places a hand on Gillad's shoulder, and nods sharply. He then turns to the old shaman and bows deep while maintaining fierce eye contact. His posture exposes old wounds on his neck.
This one would not go out without a fight.
Well then, if we're soon to be killing again, I'm going to get myself a good meal...Ajjira scans the village, looking for a likely pot of stew at the least.
Harumn nods in agreement to Ajjira's statement.
"Aye, I'm a wee bit famished meself. I's gots me arm'r t'fix too." He motioned to the crushed pauldron and then turned to look at one of the villagers. "Ye lads got an anvil I kin use n'perhaps a good forge to heat 'er up wit? Got some fierce dents t'ammer out 'ere."
The next night is a whirl of revelry, rich and exotic and full of the throbbing life of a village pulled back from the brink of awful death by adventurers to whom they owe their lives. None of the foods that are brought forth are recognizable in the least, but they are steaming hot and served in beautiful earthenware bowls, passed down from person to person as they sit around a massive fire. The food is a savvory mix of unfamiliar tropical spices and the hearty smoke flavor of campfire cooking. There is sweet and succulent glazed fruit and some kind of gooey homemade bread (or something like bread) and a myriad other sensations. The liquor of choice is a pulpy brew with little black seeds in it, reminiscent of kiwi seed, thick and very sweet but citrus enough to not be syrupy. Armor is politely taken and repaired, likely by magic since the town has no obvious forge. Injuries are tended with medicinal plant salves and the holy smoke from slowburning plants. All night there is dancing around the fire, all color reduced to shades of orange and black beneath a velvet sky full of diamonds.
The next morning it is difficult to arise, the sweat and smoke of the party the night before still clinging to everyone's bodies. The alchohol leaves everyone lethargic and oversensitive, swollen-feeling and reeling. The party has been taken to sleep to the most luxurious appointments at crown of the uppermost giant mushroom blooms in elegantly worked gazeebos thatched with palm fronds and huge pink flowers. Everyone is left sprawled about on the floor swathed in silky sheets on soft cushions. Everyone's equipment is there, as well as several days fresh supplies. The view from the top of the village, down onto the late morning misted jungle, is breathtaking. Several lifts carry the party down to the ground level and out once again into the wilderness.
The tracking isn't hard. A mob of that size even without an ettin with them would make their passage clear. As the slope of the hike begins to turn more rocky and steep it becomes clear their destination is near. Suddenly Gengi hears something, a party of surly folk mumbling nervously and the squeak of wagon wheels...
Genji Holds up his hand for silence as soon as he hears the commotion.
"Quiet" he wispers intently, "there's someone up ahead, they have a wagon".
"I'm going in for a closer look, Ajira, Kutok follow me. Everyone else stay low and quiet we'll be back shortly"
Genji creeps off into the jungle toward the noise keeping an open ear to pinpoint its location.
(double move 20ft movement total) move silently 13 and 13
hide 23 and 29
Harumn nods and stays back at Genji's request. Armed and ready, he waits for any sign of movement in the surrounding area, his helmed head looking left and right while positioning himself to protect Gillad and Isaeldan should anything ambush them from the forest.
Isaeldan listens intently. Vaedryn he prays silently, may my eyes and ears inform me of what dangers may lay ahead. He keeps his bow out, with an arrow knocked.
Keria has remained unusually silent through the morning's activities thus far, speaking only when it seems rude not to do so. What are we to think of them? She ponders, stopping at the sight of Genji's raised hand, and draws her own bow as she moves to stand alongside Isaeldan, turning her senses outward with renewed vigor.
Kutok, silent as usual, creeps up behind Genji. The ground beneath him, however, is not so quiet, as twigs snap and crumble; and so he stays behind the gnome, listening intently and keeping a sharp eye out for danger.
Ajjira moves along with Genji and Kutok, loping with left shoulder leading, as her mentor had instructed her. Suddenly, she doesn't mind all the travel stains on her cloak.
Hide 10
Move Silently 18
Listen 24
Spot 13
Gillad crouches down, trying to keep track of where Genji is going.
He manages to keep from stepping on anything terribly noisy, but catches himself raising his head perhaps a bit too far to keep an eye on Genji's progress. Hopefuly nobody saw!
Ajjira, Kutok and Gengi make their way closer to the wagon, creeping as quietly as possible--the heavy folliage and steep incline harrying their attempts at stealth. At nearly every step the adventurers must tiptoe over a mucky spot to avoid splashing or hold the fronds of jungle plants to keep them from rocking and swishing with their passage. Every misstep sets teeth on edge, but there's no sign that the three adventurers have been noticed.
Suddenly they see the road--a muddy path of wagon ruts through the uphill terrain. Ahead of them, easy to stay out of sight of, is a large overstacked wagon full of barrels. Four men travel alongside it as escort, swaggering and sweaty. Two wear breastplates, one wears scale, another wears a chain shirt. They swat bugs and grumble unpleasantly to each other. As a hot breeze picks up it carries with it a waft of unwashedness and drunkeness as well as something truly fetid but much further off. In addition to the guard there are five men riding with the wagon itself. Three look like stout laborers, one of them--a dwarf, picks his ear absently. The other two are more important and sinister looking, in robes and cowls. Their faces look like they might be painted or perhaps tattooed, their clothes are dark and look extremely well made, and while the others seem to be cracking under the sweltering heat the two men look as though they are totally unmoved, cool and emotionless. The wagon is stacked with big barrels, like the huge alebarrels you'd see in a tavern, roped together and stacked two high and maybe four across with three on top.
Isaeldan listens intently. Vaedryn he prays silently, may my eyes and ears inform me of what dangers may lay ahead. He keeps his bow out, with an arrow knocked.
In answer to the prayer for watchfullness, Isaeldan feels his eyes refocus over the area he'd just been watching, shifting from deep penetration of the foliage to suddenly snap in close to something right near him, not even ten feet away! Hardly a little over a foot tall, the creature's head looked to be a mossed over frog skull, it's body a collection of brambles and rocks patched over with mold--its shape and posture like a tiny hunchbacked goblin. On it's back are two barky wingcovers like a beetle and a pair of large reed dragonfly wings. It lurks there partly concealed behind some rocks, staring at Harumn and looking as if it might be readying itself to move.
Ajjira turns toward Kutok and Genji. She presses her nose upward with one finger and crosses her eyes, trying to silently imitate an orc, and then shrugs unconcernedly toward the wagon.
Isaeldan stares, but nothing comes to mind. There are stories of wilderness spirits that look like little men made of forest-stuff. It could be a little elemental or mephit of some sort--but of what? Most are pure something: fire or water or smoke or ash. This one isn't--it's just a hodgepodge of detrius: bones and moss and pebbles and dry vines. One thing is obvious, it's no natural living creature.
"Friends, look closely here," Isaeldan says softly but audibly. "There, in the undergrowth- we seem to be under observation, but the thing has not acted yet."
This is... strange, Isaeldan thinks to himself, quite befuddled.
"I... am at a loss; does anyone have a suggestion as to a course of action we should follow?"
The little creature jumps as though stuck from behind with a pin as the cleric indicates it. It spins and flutters it's wings about to flutter into the folliage and disappear. Harrumn, wheeling around is able to act before the creature takes off. Keria has slightly less time, and is slightly further away, but has a moment to do something as well.
Unsure at a glance of what the creature is, but knowing her own lack of physical prowess, Keria stays her hand in an effort to memorize the thing's features and plumb the depths of her experience to identify the thing.
Keria watches intently as the little creature begins a panicked flight. Her dabbling studies of religion and the arcane lead to some interesting conclusions. It's said that in much the same way that arcanists occasionally fashion artificial servants out of ash, clay and their own blood--that druids have been known to create nearly identical creatures from the rotting things of the wild. These creatures, known as boguns to academics, are willful and somewhat disobedient but nonetheless are of one flesh with their masters such that killing a bogun has been known to kill it's druid as well. Also they will never willingly stray outside a certain radius of their druid, though how far that is remains uncertain--though it clearly means the druid is somewhere nearby.
Genji looks over to Ajira and Kutok and points back to the place where they left the others. He slinks back through the thick brush trying to get back to share what they've seen.
Move silently (25) Hide (28)
Move silently (25) Hide (28)
Surprised by the flutter of movement, Harumn whips around and sees the creature turning to flee. Unsure of what it is or who it serves, Harumn drops his axe and attempts to snatch the creature but it is too quick for him and easily evades capture.
The slimy wet bogun leaps up like a frog through Harumns hands before he can close them around the little creature. It lands on the top of his helmet and scampers on all fours down his back, leaving a foul smelling trail of goo in its wake. It scrabbles down his back and leaps off his posterior, big wings catching air and starting to buzz. It circles once, then begins to zigzag like a housefly. Suddenly just as Genji returns to the group, the undergrowth springs up with thorny vines which run up the legs and lower bodies of all those who remained behind, gripping tight and threatening to cut and lascerate any who try to escape their coils.
"Leave my friend alone you...city hooligans!" shouts a distinctly girly voice from the cover of the trees "Or my next spell will do more than give you a hug!"
Muttering Dwarven curses under his breath, Harumn does not fight the entangling vines. Anyone who meant them harm wouldn't have bothered with a warning.
"Aye, lass... no 'arm meant. We's jest lookin' for somethin' what might be causin' trouble..." Harumn looked at the vines wrapped around himself and his companions, "an' not th'kind o'trouble ye be causin' us 'ere. Somethin' wors'en 'at. I dinnae know what yer li'l critter was n'I figured I'd see if'n I could catch 'im. I dinnae mean t'urt th'bugger. Look! I even dropped me axe!" Harumn's tone brightened at the last statement as though it should be considered the highest gesture of respect possible from a dwarf.