The Middangearders slowed their pace, the queer sight spreading confusion across their faces. They stopped completely when Muckle made a show of reigning up before them, surveying their clustered ranks with a nod. The goblin dismounted and then swung his would-be steed up on his shoulder as he began pacing in front of the confounded raiders.

“Tis a fine night for reaving, eh my lads?!”

The raiders did not respond, glancing at one another for an answer to the corpulent mystery that addressed them.

Undeterred, Muckle spoke again, but this time it sounded to Pocket like gibberish. Whatever the strange words meant, the raiders appeared to understand for they began smiling, looking at the fat goblin with growing mirth. Muckle said something else in the strange tongue, grandly gesturing back across the bridge, his voice rising with enthusiasm. Pocket marveled as the men cheered and Muckle said something else holding up two fingers than clucking like a chicken. The warriors began openly chuckling and looking at one another with approving expressions. Muckle kept up a steady stream of speech, actually going over and thumping one man in the crotch with the back of his hand. The raider flinched back from the goblin’s hand which drew hearty laughter from his fellows, and he joined them, louder than the rest.

Muckle began speaking directly to the man and making coaxing gestures with his hands. A gormless grin spread across the raider’s face as the others began encouraging him with shouts and pats on the back. They cheered when the man finally removed his helmet and handed it over to Muckle. The goblin said something as he held the head piece up and the men laughed in agreement. Then Muckle placed the helmet over the man’s crotch and wrapped on it with his knuckles. This drew guffaws which turned to uncontrolled peals of laughter as Muckle placed the helmet over his own codpiece and began making thrusting gestures with his hips. Finishing with obscene breathing, Muckle tossed the helmet carelessly over his shoulder, then waved the owner over. The other raiders pushed the man forward companionably, and he plodded over to where the goblin waited. At Muckle’s instruction the man knelt on the bridge as his brothers in arms cheered him on. Muckle said something to the crowd, drawing more laughter and brandished his giant club, raising it high above his head. The men began repeating the same word over and over in booming voices, thrusting there weapons into the air.

Pocket heard Rosheen suck air sharply between her teeth. “Is he--?”

“Yes,” Sir Corc said. “He is.”

“Pocket!” Rosheen was suddenly hovering directly in his face. “Do not look!”

“What?” Pocket leaned past her. “Why is he--?”

“No,” Rosheen darted back into his vision. “Sweetling, avert your eyes!”