Stormspout

"It's not what you say so much as how you say it and what you don't say." Grumbleshanks vividly recalled what his mother told him long ago after a spat with a mate of his. The wisdom of those words finally struck him. Instead of inflaming the cleric's prideful anger once more, Grumbleshanks bit his tongue and remained silent. But he could help grinning at the human's farce. If only those healed had seen his virtuous being. Grumbleshanks two sentences had ignited a marathon of a tirade and probably broke more than a few holy vows. Those peevish clerics, fancying themselves the prophets and voices of their divine dieties. More like the tools of vain, vengeful, and, unfortunately, powerful dieties. They're no better than the corrupt officials and evils they denounce. Sure they cure one wound, but they innoculate the population with their own sinister and slowly festering infection. Pah! Recalling his own roots and the words of his master, "The ocean is your conscience, your blood, your grog." Grumbleshanks relaxed. He grinned and returned to the conversation.

"Anything for a thirsty sailor? Need to keep the wheels up top slick and smooth." Turning to the cleric he said, "Don't fool yourself about the cat. Stomping on a wonderful meal isn't decency even to the ratfolk. However, apology accepted. And remember, magic can't heal all wounds." To Hring he said, "Judging by your silence, Hring, I assume that aside from the noted manholes and entrances to the sewers, no others were punched in by the Wave? So, my earlier ignored points are irrelevant and justifiably ignored."

Grumbleshanks continued, "I think the rats will still flee a fire even if it only fills the central trench. We could use that to corale them into a trap of sorts. Exploding barrals, poisonous gas, whatever. I don't fancy a trip into the sewers just yet; however, I would like to talk to the captain of the guard and, if possible, the group of merchants of which you spoke. I can probably save you a bit of coin." he added.