Pelgir Sorehands took his time bowing for the cheering crowd, nearly touching his thick boots with each lean.<br/>So did the cleric beam out from Laden Mule, his chest swollen with pride, head held up high (*snicker* well, not really).<br/><br/><div class="quoteheader"><div class="topslice_quote">Quote</div></div><blockquote class="bbc_standard_quote"> "But thee greenskins ain' no match for my wee li'le da'ers"</blockquote><div class="quotefooter"><div class="botslice_quote"></div></div><br/>A bucket growing a thicket of a thick beard stood in the middle of the door, and simply stared at the agitator. A rush of warmth gushing deep within the bowels of his gut. The warmth crackled in his chest, and the dwarf had to swallow to quelch the fire in his throat. This drunk whelp tried to roast a dragon with a tinderbox.<br/><br/>"Makin' fun o' me, welp? Ta wee aye talk be funny ta-ya? I git it, I git it: ya be wasted fro' drinkin' tha'two cups'o carrot-juice, ya even have chest-hair bushed out yet, pro'a'lly meed ya ass feel bi"er than an ais-giant's ballshack. I let it slip, just'is once.", the thicket of hair glared upwards. Rain clattered against his horned helmet. Two beads of eyes stared upwards and searched for the earshape. It was round. He kept his eyes peeled on the thief and raised one finger from the grip holding his shaft. "Now ya keep yer mouth stra"ed while ya'till haf kneecaps and both of yer buttplugs in'act: Aye 'am Pelgir Sorehands. A cle-rik, Paladin.<br/>Wi' bi searc'ing fo a mound, a to-mb ora mine, no'far fro rood. Goblin's don'wander far under bare-sky. We oughta hur-ry, tha leg'o'mine ain't no sprinters. Wii have a gal to find."<br/><br/>