Securing the two handed sword, the mw longsword, and his own weapons, Wulfcyne turns a mirthless grin upon the ragged and bloody orange skinned barbarian, spitting, 'I see ye be a' big a fool a' me then, me fugly friend.'
Nodding to Makharat, the burly warrior hefts the large steel and wood warforged, his chains tinkling as they shift.
Pressing the obvious weight of the fallen metal bodyguard, Wulfcyne grunts, 'Nuria, 'Tara, grab tha packs an' we be goin? Forktongue, ye got tha elf?'