You woke up to find out that you were being carried as a prisioner by a Wood Elf trading caravan. Being around Elves is in no way a pleasant situation for a Dwarf, but being around Elves and not having the possibility or stabbing them to death is even more unpleasant. Especially because you know for a fact that Elves don't tend to sell their prisioners, but to eat them.
You don't remember how did you got there and you are not very sure if asking the treehugger that's poking your arse with his(?) spear would be a good idea, but you are too confused to worry about that.
"Oi, mate. Not the groitest of days, eh?"
You look at the prisioner walking in front of you, a Goblin. He seems friendlier than most Goblins you've met, mostly by the fact that he's talking to you instead of trying to stab and eat you.
"Not in da mood fer talkin', eh? I just want to do sumthin' to wait till we get to our destiation. Oim Smuntsu da Gobbo. What's yer name, Dorf?"
Our name is Çokaeslome Lifelaonino, and we realize the futility of trying to escape.
Rolled 1 (1d1)