“Back, Grushtov!” The gnoll let a shrill whistle escape from between two of his clawed fingers. Grushtov reluctantly backed down and let Pucksy stagger to his feet, but not before emitting an intimidating snarl from his feral face. Meanwhile, the gnoll proceeded to take a length of rope and truss up Pucksy rather methodically. A little too methodically for an ordinary gnoll. 
“Be grateful that I let you live, innkeeper.” The gnoll violently tugged on the ropes, making Pucksy moan in pain. “Stay quiet and I might consider doling out a swift death. Maybe a quick one to the neck, perhaps.”

“So, this is your game, eh?” Pucksy regained a little bit of his courage and stared the gnoll in the face. “What’s your name, gnoll?”

“I go by Jel, son of Drel, chieftain of the Hellish Claws... who your Mayor Festwith so generously razed to the ground.”
“Mayor Festwith was right in his judgement! Gnolls are stupid, ignorant, insane creatures!” Pucksy managed to scream in Jel’s face, letting out the pent-up anger that he had restrained in himself for the last few minutes.
“[i]Quiet[/i], human piece of rat shit.” The gnoll gave Pucksy a slap in the face, claws out. Pucksy’s face was turned into a mass of horrendous bloody gashes. “You see, mister innkeeper, Grushtov is naturally insane. Alcohol calms him down.” He gestured to Grushtov, the hunched, snarling creature he was. “He usually gets his alcohol at this time of night, and since no alcohol...” His grin betrayed several dagger-like fangs made for meat and nothing else. “...no sanity, mister innkeeper.” 
Again he let out the horrific laugh. “You’re lucky, fat man. Grushtov prefers lean meat. Go! Grushtov!” 

With a hearty clap on Grushtov’s hide, the creature bounded over Pucksy, through the door, over Hart Arron, and into the Jolly Hippogriff’s main room.

The last thing that Pucksy heard before blacking out were two voices.
“By the One Hundred Writs of Pelor! Those are pretty bad gashes.”

“Indeed, comrade. Help me rush him to the high priest...”