Any dwarf worth his character always had upon his person a flagons worth of mead within a flask of some sort, more if he was planning on journeying further than a days walk to the next tavern. Tumbor allowed himself a generous mouthful, before then biting down hard on his own teeth, one hand clenched around the remaining shaft of the arrow that protruded from his leg.
With one clean motion he ripped it clean out, thankful that it had been only a crude hunting arrow and not the barbaric triple hooked type used by some. The second in his shoulder came out the same.
Taking another healthy swig of mead, Tumbor looked within the fire for a branch that had become red hot from the heat of the flame. Bracing himself, he stuck it into each of his wounds causing him to unexpectantly laugh at the pain, and smell of burning flesh. Taking another mouthful, he was all but ready to move one.
It had proven to be sound logic by the dwarf. A half mile away from the camp, Tumbor turned to look back after hearing a number of screams from ethereal creatures coming from behind him. Uncertain as to whether they’d be content with already dead quarry, Tumbor hastened his pace.