Grog hastily wiped his goggles, removing the majority of the red dirt that was stuck on them from when he was crawling around, carefully pouring absynthe on the ground. A circle of damp soil stretched for a few meters, with a dry spot in the center where Grog was slouched. Before him stood the massive tribesman-looking dude from his team. And he brought good news with him.

 "Sure [b][color=ed1c24]fucking[/color][/b] thing man!" Grog replied, his eyes lighting up with a profound frenzy. "I just need one thing. I left my bucket and Beatstick back there." Grog pointed at a rock laying about ten meters back with his thumb. "If we can just get to those, I promise it'll be worth your while. Bucket's got my special extra-sticky apply-on-weapon napalm. I was planning on using it for my bat, but you should pour it on your big-ass sword instead. Save some for knight man too, there's enough for everyone."

 Damn, first a knight, then this guy. Grog wondered whether or not he had a dragon too. Or if he pulled out hearts while lowering people into volcanoes. Yeah, that'd be cool. Maybe he was a sickass cult leader guy with fifteen wives or whatever. Grog didn't like that last part. Marriage, he thought, was, after all, an obsolete concept created for different socioeconomic conditions, most certainly not ones matching for the twenty-first century. But the dude was ancient. Anyways, his thoughts on modern anthropological issues had to wait, for time was of the essence or whatever.

 Pulling up his pants and buckling them tightly so as to keep them over his still-warm bony pelvis, Grog turned on his belly, and secured his beloved mug on a special clip. He rolled around once more, booze-soaked soil sticking on his leathers, patted his jacket and belt pouches for a few seconds as if to hastily locate something, and a not a moment later gave the Mayan two thumbs up and a big goofy grin before raising his booze-soaked mask.

 "Let's roll and ro-"
 "Rock and-"
 "Fuck."
 "Also, it's Grog. Like the word for grog."