This Dread Lord is huge!! That means they have huge guts!!!
"THE DREAD LORD!" yells the kobold, bascinet sliding down over its eyes. "He's HUGE!"
"That little lizard fuck swore he was gonna recruit us manpower," Johan fumes quietly. "Army of kobolds, he said. Look at 'em, he's got 'em halfway convinced to flee the country!"
"Wait," Gregor says placidly, arms folded, watching the helmeted kobold orate with such enthusiasm that it constantly threatened to fall off the barrel they'd helped it onto.
Johan seethed, but shut his mouth. He'd never have brought the wagon into the Kobalqvart, if it were up to him — a part of town with streets too narrow, crowds too short, expressions unreadable. Eyes watching, always watching.
"YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS?" their diminutive recruiting sergeant yells, and some scaly wit in the crowd says something that Johan can't catch from here, but makes the crowd mutter. "IT MEANS!" the kobold on the barrel yells, undeterred, "HE'S GOT! HUGE! GUTS!"
"What the fuck is this," Johan says.
"Wait," Gregor cautions again.
The crowd seem teetering on the edge of equal confusion.
"AND WHAT DO HUGE GUTS MEAN?"
There's a pause, more puzzled than dramatic.
"A HAGGIS IN EVERY POT!"
"Three-fifths of these scaly buggers will scarper overnight," Johan says, as the cart creaks out of the Kobalqvart, heavy with raucous recruits, eager to take the shilling.
"Two-fifths won't," Gregor says beatifically. "He really speaks to them, you know?"
