A sudden eruption of splinters, thrashing and grunts resounded from the wine cellar down below, frightening many of the guests who were more than intoxicated at that time. “It’s a burglar!”
“A dragon!”
“A burglar!”

“Ye got it all wrong. It’s ol’ Jack Ronalds ‘imself!”

“Thought ‘e was dead a few hundred years ago. MY answer is right, it is: it’s a bloody hobgoblin!”

“Ah say again: it’s a bloody dragon!”

As the patrons yet again found an excuse to start another bar brawl, Pucksy left his wife’s embrace and hurried down into the cellar. What he saw was a surprise. The Red Lock was restraining a tall, lean hooded figure. “Bloody ‘ell, mate. Stay still so I can break your runty little neck!”

The hooded figure stopped struggling and let out a truly hideous, mocking laugh. A lift of his hood revealed a green hyena-like face, with crazed sickly yellow eyes, dagger-like fangs, and pure malice dripping from his very features.
 “A gnoll, are you?” Pucksy shoved his chubby face into the hyena-man’s view. The gnoll let out a revolting burp, which caused Pucksy to stagger back. “I’d like a BLOODY good answer on why you’ve been nickin’ my ale.”

The gnoll ceased his laughing and twisted his horrendous features into a scowl. He began to speak in surprisingly good Common. “I nick ale for Grushtov.”
“Who’s Grushtov?”

The gnoll’s subsequent whistle seemed to tear the blanket of night’s grace apart. A swift patter of paw and growl approached. Very much suddenly, a huge, snarling figure about eight meters wide erupted through the rickety cellar wall, kicking up a thick cloud of wood splinters. When the dust cleared, moonlight did the rest. A huge hyena floored a quivering, sobbing Pucksy to the floor. The gnoll removed his claws from the Red Lock’s bloodied neck and looked into Pucksy’s teary eyes with a fanged grin. “That,” the gnoll concluded, “is Grushtov.”