Hey!" she blurted out, standing up and brushing the field dust off her trousers. "Do you need… help?"
Four pairs of dwarven eyes turned towards her. Their gazes were a mixture of astonishment, irritation, and deep disbelief. The sight of a frightened half-elf and a huge orc in tattered velvet was not what they expected in the middle of the forest.
Bofur was the first to shake off the shock. His bureaucratic instinct took over.
"Who are you? Do you possess a valid permit for passage through this forest sector, issued by the Dwarven Road Administration Bureau? Form D-7, confirmed by the forester?" he growled, instinctively reaching for his scroll of parchment.
One of the dwarves wallowing in the mud spat again.
"Oh, shut up for a moment, Bofur!" he snarled, rising with a splash. "We have a wagon stuck axle-deep in mud, a broken lever, and you're asking about forms?" He turned to Tamira and Grumgh, looking them over with a practical, though distrustful, curiosity. "Help? And what would be the price of this help? Because if you think you'll get the whole cargo and then your green friend will eat us, you'd better turn back right now."
Grumgh stepped forward, his massive frame casting a shadow over the dwarves. His wire-frame glasses tilted precariously. The dwarven guard, upon seeing the approaching orc, bravely decided to hide behind his spear, systematically, yet consistently, backing away.
"Our proposal is based on mutual benefit," he began, his voice so formal that Bofur involuntarily straightened up as if at an audience. "We will provide the physical force necessary for the extraction of your vehicle. In exchange for granting us transport to the nearest human settlement and food rations covering our daily caloric requirements during the journey."
The dwarves looked at each other. The second one who had been lying in the mud scratched his hefty belly.
"Food? Transport? Not bad. What if you can't do it?" he asked, his voice deep and lazy.
"The probability of failure, with the engagement of my strength and your technical skills, I estimate at only 11.4%," declared Grumgh. "Assuming, of course, we use the proper leverage and technique."
"You hear that, Bofur?" the dwarf addressed the official. "Eleven point four percent. That's better than your chances of finding appendix B within the next week." He then let out a hoarse laugh.
The two dwarves had managed to get up from the mud, and the dwarf with the spear stopped retreating and looked at the orc. His eyes, previously hidden in shadow, gleamed like two small, dark carbuncles.
"Wait," he rumbled in a voice that sounded like rocks rolling in a barrel. "Before we start messing with levers and percentages here, maybe we ought to introduce ourselves? Rules of good manners, chapter four, point two: 'Every transaction ought to be preceded by an exchange of honorific polite formulas.'"
"That's right," Bofur growled, though clearly reluctantly. "Procedure is procedure." He looked at Grumgh and Tamira, reaching for another scroll of parchment at his belt. "Name, surname, race, purpose of travel, permit number for physical labor within the Imperial Forestry territory, if you possess one."
"Oh, stop it already," grumbled the dwarf who had first gotten up from the mud, brushing muck off his jerkin. "Can't you see we're standing waist-deep in muck, and you want to fill out questionnaires?" He turned to Grumgh. "I'm Thomil. This paragraph lover," he indicated Bofur with a nod of his head, "is Bofur. This one," he gestured towards the second mud-covered dwarf, "is Malki. And our guard," he pointed to the dwarf with the spear, "is still too young for a proper name, so we call him Watch, short for watchman."
"I am Grumgh. This is Tamira."
Grumgh nodded, and his wire "glasses" swayed dangerously. Thomil, Malki, and even Watch stared at him with a mixture of curiosity and disbelief. An orc who not only spoke but also used percentages was not something one sees every day.
"Alright then, Grumgh," Thomil finally said, walking over to the trapped wagon. "You say you can do it? Then show us. Because if we stay here, it won't be the forest beasts that kill us, but Bofur's nagging."
"An appropriate tool will be required," announced Grumgh, walking over to the broken lever. He examined it with a professional air, though his knowledge of levers came more from books on architecture than from practice. "The cross-section is insufficient for such a load. We need something with better parameters."
"You're looking for a stick that won't break," muttered Malki, wiping sweat from his brow. "In this forest? Good luck."
"We are not powerless," stated Grumgh. His gaze fell upon a mighty, stocky oak tree growing at the edge of the clearing. "Tamira. Help me."
The half-elf, surprised, jumped up as if on command. "Me? What can I...?"
"We need to break off that lower, thick branch," explained the orc, pointing to a limb as thick as a dwarf's thigh. "It will be perfect."
"You think I'm a lumberjack?" asked Tamira, looking at the branch in disbelief.
"Your strength is insufficient to help in the classical sense," recited Grumgh. "However, your presence will increase the total workforce by 25%. Come."
The dwarves watched in silence as the orc and the half-elf approached the tree. He climbed up the tree to the branch. His muscles tensed under the torn velvet.
"Tamira. You must climb onto the branch and then jump on it when I bend it with my body weight."
Tamira, having no better idea, obediently climbed onto the branch. Her skinny arms looked like twigs next to his. Grumgh let out a low growl, and then he jerked. There was a dry, loud crack that made the dwarves flinch involuntarily. The branch, a good several feet long and incredibly massive, gave way with a dull thud and fell, along with Grumgh and Tamira.
"Well, well..." muttered Malki, clearly impressed.
"Amazing," added Thomil.