Lumpy, Half-Orc Warrior

Several days of near-normalcy had improved Lumpy's mood greatly. He was clean, he'd had a chance to bathe, and even to shave the growing crop of hair from his bumpy scalp. He'd eaten AND slept, luxuries his week or so in the underdark hadn't afforded him much of in the past. And he had a new flail - sure, it was a little odd, and he didn't even know if it would work in the real world (after all, it hadn't hurt the stone trolls) or if light would make it evaporate or whatever, but it was a flail.

The burly orc was actually grinning as he tracked down the road in his distinctive half-limp. In the days of their stay in Sphur Pentak, not even after rest and healing had he ceased limping like that, perhaps sign of an old injury that hadn't healed quite right. It was evidently the source of his apparent awkwardness, and the reason he looked so lopsided most of the time, but he never spoke of it, and didn't seem to let it bother him. As he led the way through the forest, glancing alertly about, he couldn't help but keep a hand resting upon his flail, considering,

What'll I call you, I wonder? Well, I named Thresher because that's what it was for, threshing grain. And Grinder because of what I did to that gnoll's face that first time. Guess I'll come up with something after I see you working.

He glances back at the others,

"Hey, they offered the food and beds, ain't my fault fer taking them. They booted us when it was time. ya gotta get used ta that. Not that I really like it that much here anyway. I ain't never seen a shadow my entire life, and now they're trying ta tell me we're walking around somewhere made'a them. It just don't feel right."