Trailing few paces behind the paladin, Pelgir Sorehands sloughed through the downpour. Adequately-long-enough-legs,<em>thank you!</em>, ploughed a heavy trail in to the mud. A thick head covered in a thick helmet rattled under the heavy bombardment of rain drops, and long was the high morale brought by a warm hearth and good ale. Thankfully there was something positive on the site too.<br/>"Looks like tha gob'er had had some wee fancey lig-work, ya keen?", Pelgir rested his adequately-long-enough-shape on his well-sized warhammer. His beard nudged in a soundless laughter, a smirk for a dwarf. The heavy head of the weapon sunk in the slouch, and Sorehands pointed an armored stub of a thick finger on the body. "Tha geezer ough'ta put a lig on it. Oi - ye all might think that 'tis was ta stomp ta would stop all'tha horsin' aroun'. Tis' be one of the rare cases where a kick in tha face actually made an improvement, ye keen?"<br/>The dwarf gave himself a few good, well deserved strokes on the thicket of a beard while savoring the bright sight radiant against the dull an miserable sight of a civilization amiss: a heavy loss for the town, a heavy loss for a father, and an unfortunate gain for the green-skinned filth.<br/><br/>Pelgir glanced at the distant moors, misted beyond the pouring rain. The Paladin did a good job showing the kid what a proper backbone looked like. "Tha paladin's roight, ya know lad. Don't worry, tis' group has some proper change to pae fo'tha goblin's, alright. It's paper tha things sought - it's bloody iron what they'll find!", he shook his warhammer in the rain as a sing of a grim omen for the moors, but mostly to shake off all the mud from his weapon.