Suddenly, Vorgrok shoves one thick-fingered hand between Pip and the door as the latter twists and prods with his sewing needles inside the stubborn lock, firmly discourging further effort in that vein. "Wait- summat's off. See?" Jabbing a finger pointedly at the discoloration and the drifting motes, the dwarf glares with narrowed eyes at the strange phenomenon. "Could be... dangerous. Oughtta get more hands."

After a moment spent cracking the knuckles on both meaty fists, the stocky dwarf vents his frustration in a dismissive grunt before turning his attention to poor Myron. With a sad expression, he reaches down in an attempt to arrange the fallen ringmaster in a more dignified, sitting position, leaned up against a wagon wheel. "Don' worry. We'll get 'em." he says, in a soft tone despite the gravelly quality in the gruff dwarf's voice.

With a quick jerk of his toward the main tent by way of explanation to Pip, Vorgrok lumbers back toward the show.