To say Cereth was homely would be to call a stone homely; his face was the way the wind and the elements shaped it and no more. To say he was emotionless would be to call glassy sea still; whatever currents ebbed and flowed beneath did not disturb the surface. To an observer unaccustomed to the powerful hunter, it might have been a bit surprising when the stony face suddenly looked to the left after a prolonged period of immobility, unaccompanied by the sound of dusty, grinding stone.

"Don’t touch that," Cereth ordered in a husky baritone, his grey eyes on the small person business picking through the belongings of a dead giant lying on the ground.

The little fellow looked back at the hunter with an impish grin. "It isn’t magic," he replied in a surprisingly deep, booming voice, "and besides, I touch what I want, when I want. Your name isn’t Sir Cereth, Lord of the Loot you know." The diminutive man’s grin didn’t fade as he remonstrated the hunter, in spite of the human’s great advantage in size. He was a hobbit, and hobbits are known for their lack of fear. Some believe they are known for their lack of sense, but that is another matter.

"I don’t care about who gets it," Cereth sighed, "that spider is called a ‘death dart’. They aren’t common, but they live around mountains such as these and they are very poisonous."

"It isn’t a spider," the hobbit turned toward the hunter and put his fists on his hips, "It’s a clasp that is crafted to look like a spider that was used to hold this big lug’s cloak on." He reached back and jostled the corpse behind him, inadvertently putting his small hand on a gory part and then trying to shake a slimy piece that stuck to his hand off while pretending he wasn’t paying attention to it. His slight grimace gave him away. The hobbit was fastidious about keeping anything foul off his hands.

"Twice I have found brooches or pins smeared with poison in these mountains," the big man replied, crossing his massive arms and glaring at the hobbit, "once on an orc and once on an ogre."

"Phaw!" the hobbit spit as he hurled the clasp to the ground. Within seconds he had the cap off his water skin and was alternately taking a mouthful, gargling vigorously, and then spitting it out on the ground. After several cycles, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and stared down at the clasp, now lying in the dirt. His face seemed a bit green. "I licked it," he admitted hoarsely. 

Another human, Braderick the merchant, was taking his ease nearby, smoking his long-stemmed pipe and flicking various bits of post-combat crud from his armor and clothing. "Ha!" he laughed uproariously, "why in Esteria did you do that?"

"mmplsss," the hobbit mumbled as he stalked off.

"WHAT WAS THAT NEB?" Braderick called after him, "I didn’t hear you!"

The hobbit stopped and turned abruptly. "I SAID IMPULSE," he yelled, "I do things sometimes because I think of them. Is that  a problem?"

Everyone in the camp stared at the small fellow for a moment, then suddenly developed an interest in something else as the hobbit glared at each in turn, his smooth face crimson. 

"Ah, no… that’s perfectly okay with me," the merchant said tightly, obviously straining with the effort not to laugh.

Moments later, the hobbit had forgotten his embarrassment and was gleefully looting the dead giants once again. Cereth squatted behind the first; reached down and picked up something from the dirt. He used the end of his sleeve to wipe it off, then studied it for a moment. He looked around nonchalantly for minute to make sure nobody was looking, then quickly licked the spider-shaped brooch; he closed his hand around it and stood, his hands behind his back. He strolled off, eyes darting to the various people in the group to make sure they hadn’t seen him.