"Nonsense, it was a wonderful display," he exclaimed, adding for the mage's sole benefit, "Almost enough for you to retain the use of your legs."
Pickle's blush drained away slowly, and he swallowed. Kal showed his teeth again, and nodded amiably at a slightly puzzled Falcon.
"Since this is his work, I think our dear pal Pickle here ought to be the one to go first," he suggested. Pickle, already as white as a sheet, went the colour of sour milk, and cast an appealing glance at Falcon. But the ranger seemed to approve; even the rat was nodding. His gaze swung to Kal, who fingered his axe and grinned at his Companion. It was the type of grin that usually comes accompanied by big teeth and orange stripes.
Pickle swallowed again, pulled his hat more firmly onto his head, clutched his spellbook tightly to his chest, tilted his chin at a brave angle, and then dropped abruptly to his hands and knees and scuttled inside at high speed, to get it over with.
Absolutely nothing at all happens. He doesn't even get a scraped shin.
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