From within the brush, Balgrim grimaced and gazed thoughtfully at the current conflict occurring in front of him. Bloody manling concerns for bloody manlings. He grinded his teeth along a slim, torn off branch he had gotten himself a mile back. It was no rock, or Grungi forbid a good drink, but it calmed his nerves as he thought to himself. He nearly chocked when he saw the arrows flying out of the brush, and had to keep himself from charging forward. 

Instead, he did as was suggested to him. He moved to the right, his axe and shield at the ready. Though he was bulky and broad, long years traveling the Old World and traversing tunnels where the slightest wrong step could mean death, he knew how to step lightly and quietly. There was barely a brush of leaves that marked the veteran's passing as he made his way round. Of course, he was no friend to wizards or witchery. But by Grimnir's axe, gold was gold! And he had made an oath to be a stalwart teammate. Dwarfs did not take such things lightly. 

Grumbling to himself quietly, he took the long way around a stout oak and then began to move slower, axe held in the air as high as he dared as the Dawi crept forward. The Longbeard was glad he had tucked his beard into his belt, or it would be brushing the ground. Merely paces away, he heard breathing and the scruff of movement. At the acknowledgement, he accidentally stepped on a twig. Damn! "Alright, hold it there or I'll gut you!" he cried, leaping out of the brush and hefting his weapon menacingly, his shield up just in case they attempted anything funny.