Kal stamped. Hard. In fact, extremely hard, he'd been having what could only be politley described as a rather trying day. Unfortunately he'd picked the wrong rat to take his frustrations out on.
As his foot descended at rat-bone breaking speed and force, the little piebald rat with the remarkable (even bearing in mind it's unfortunate prediliction for mangling the language) ability to speak, twisted aside, caught the adventurer round the ankle and tripped him full length on the floor.
Pickle stifled a giggle up his voluminous sleeve, whilst Falcon's slab-like forehead crumpled with the effort of thought. Kal meanwhile let rip with the most vile oath in his collection. The rat went for his throat, and paused with his teeth at Kal's jugular.
"Trufce?" The rat asked.
"By the malicious, malingering maccaroon moons of Brakaskagon!" Kal swore again. "Alright, alright, you mangy rat. You win. What do you want?"
"Takfe me wif you, my name's Gerald."