The heavy sound of a wooden pint crashing against a solid table vibrated through the tavern. It was a like crack of thunder after ominous news, or in this case, a statement made after a plea of aid. A figure arose from amidst those who were paralyzed by fear, or nonchalant against someone else's problems. The statement claimed echoed as a sigh of relief from the latter, and as a "shock" for the former.<br/>Except that the figure didn't rise quite high. The tip of a fuzzy-haired head jarred slightly taller than the chair. The hairy cousin of a beer-barrel wiped his mouth with a long drag of his sleeve, and then inhaled like a bolstering balloon.<br/><br/>"Per'haps!", it claimed with a thick, almost rudely stereotypical accent. "I always tend ta take a wagon-assault a wee bit too pers'nally: but snatchin' and catchin' small human tallywaggles: but tha' being goblin's be only a mere bonus for their sins! So fear not, I mind yee! I'd beg 'em to consider<em>this</em>as my for-a-mostly last warnin' of crossin' ta last line!", a heavy warhammer rose significantly higher than the dwarf's fuzzy hair. Coarse hands squeezed at the handle and he waggled his weapon for all to see what he meant. "So lemme at 'em! Point ta bloody wee at 'em 'n ya wagon, and by Moradin's heavy hand aye'll teach 'em to stay in the filthy slag-pits thay belong in!"