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“Revenge?” Kénan’s eyes flashed. His ire was woken again. He edged up to the table, drawing as close to Trór as he could. “Revenge? Is that all you hot headed stripling can think about? Act while their blood is hot? When they’re foolish and prone to stupidity, like you?
“By the great beard of Mahal!” he shouted, throwing his clenched fists in the air. “You say vague things like ‘no victory will be gained but we won’t lose either’ - what’s that supposed to mean? What good does it do to buy time if all our dwarves are off fighting while their blood is up! By my beard, you blockheaded numbskull - my blood is up, but at least I can think clearly! You’ll get us all killed!”
Someone grabbed his arm and pulled him back to his seat and a bubbling murmur of angry voices rose around the table. He sat fuming for a couple seconds and then he leaped back up to his feet. “No, I have something further to say! If we send dwarves out to fight the orcs, they’ll crush them like a nut in a nutcracker! Our diversion will be turned into a routing sport for the goblins, and we will be left with that many less dwarves to help prepare the gates!”
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