Oh, blast it all. We're lost, aren't we? Weed Thirty-Seven asked of no one in particular. It had known that trusting Goons #5-#7 to handle the map had been a bad idea, but the Tumbleweed had always found it incredibly difficult to hold anything with bramble instead of fingers.
Subsequently, half of the map had caught fire when Goon #6 had caught fire for no apparent reason, as seemed to be commonplace for whatever species he was, and since Goon #18 had seen fit to put said fire out by shoving the map in his mouth, about one-half of the surviving half was now almost illegible. And, as any experienced treasure-hunter will tell you, one should never go looking for anything when one has only the far right one-fourth of a map.
The Goons seemed to be taking the nigh-on destruction of the map and the heavy burns on two of their compatriots rather well, since their spirits seemed high, high enough in Goon #11's case that he occasionally belted out half-forgotten snatches of songs based on what he had just heard.
"Oh, we're lost! Yes, we're lost! And we can't feel our fingers! Cause weeee forgot out jackeeets and we're lost!"
We're in a blooming jungle, you simpleton. Weed Thirty-Seven muttered. You can't get cold-induced numbness in a blooming jungle. You're using that song in an entirely different context than it was originally written for.
Of course, the Tumbleweed had long since given up trying to quiet down the Goons, and was now contenting itself with stating the varied and numerous things that irritated it about their company.
Suddenly, a loud cry for help from a far to the left briefly drowned out #11's song. If Weed Thirty-Seven had ears, it would have perked them, and if it ha eyes, they might have narrowed. However, since it had no face, it cut right to the chase and went to go see what was going on.
On a carving below the bluff that the group was standing on, a pirate mongoose that Weed Thirty-Seven recognized as the one who had assaulted Mr. He's duplicate at the starting hut was surrounded by marsupial-like humanoids with large wicked-looking facial tusks. For some reason, the creatures appeared to have shaped their weapons entirely out of some sort of vitreous igneous rock, despite the fact that the island had shown no sign of volcanic activity and the creatures didn't seem the type to go off the island to get it. Weed Thirty-Seven made a mental note to investigate the peculiarity later before turning in the direction of Goons #4 and #5.
We need a map. it stated. This one may have a map. However, it may not match up with our map. What do you say? Do we save him, or let the beast-men have at him and take the map when he's down? Either way, we get his map, but the first option means we'd need to deal with him the rest of the trip, and the second option means the beast-men are probably going to end up murdering him or sacrificing him or otherwise being fatally unpleasant.
"So..." replied Goon #5, showing the quickness of thought that his people were known for. "We voting?"
Not really. answered Weed Thirty-Seven. I was just going over the options to myself. I honestly wouldn't trust any one of you to come to a well-thought-out conclusion.
"I resent that remark!" yelled Goon #7, raising his hand in the air. As Weed Thirty-Seven shifted in irritation, he rocked back on his heels and grinned "And I don't even know what 'remark' means. That's how much I resent it."
And that is precisely why. Weed Thirty-Seven said, shuffling his stems in irritation.
With a low whoomph, Goon #6 once again burst into flames, and immediately began shouting and batting at his shirt. Seizing the opportunity, Weed Thirty-Seven nudged the Goon over the edge of the bluff, narrowly avoiding the areas on his body that were producing the oddly-colored flames.
The vaguely porcine beast-men down below, who had been advancing closer after the mongoose's shout for help, looked over with a start as the flaming Goon rolled toward them, boggling at the brightly glowing body right up until the moment it exploded. The bright flash of light created by the blast caused many of the beast-men to clutch at their eyes, and several of them stumbled into the undergrowth to escape the human bombs that their demon foe had sent down upon them. The few that remained stared up in the direction that the Goon-bomb had rolled from, and focused quickly on Weed Thirty-Seven. If the Tumbleweed had possessed a face, it would've been smirking.
That was an accident. it announced. I saw an opportunity, and I took it. Weed Thirty-Seven's stems bristled, and one creature uncertainly pointed its quite heavy rock spear at the Tumbleweed. Would you like to see what I can do on purpose?