Carl coughed. He stuck his finger in his ear and waggled it about but detected no blockages.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “could you repeat that?”
The dwarf fixed Carl with what seemed to be a glare, though the lenses over his eyes obscured the true expression.
“Luunchpael Bukzemwynch,” the dwarf grated out.
Carl woke to find his faced pressed against a roughly-hewn wooden table. When he lifted his head he was dismayed to find that his cheek had been resting in something sticky. He rubbed at it with his sleeve in distaste while trying to work out where he was. He had long since given up on coming to with all his recent memories intact. His brief slumbers were so deep and unforgiving that they often temporarily wiped out whole hours of his life. He had discovered that the best way to deal with waking was not to dig through dream-shattered, misorganized memories, but to rely on his sharp senses to orient himself and his quick reflexes to get him out of any trouble he might be in.