1.
Foam. The crisp, tingly, graced-by-the-GODS, utterly AWESOME feeling of foam. Foam off a newly-poured ale, an ale so FRESH even newborn babes had to loudly exclaim "DAMN, that's fresh!" before resuming their squalling. THAT'S what the vapour from his mouth reminded him of. The vapour from his mouth caused by the temperature of the air around him. The temperature of the air being caused by him being somewhere out in the wild a wee bit south and west of Thorin's Hall. Thorin's Hall itself being nearly covered below a near eternal layer of glistening snow, as per usual. Aye, it was cold as a witch's teat out here. And Dwolmur was in the thick of it, without his boots.
He wiggled his thick, nobbly toes in the snow. "That's what you get!" he roared, to noone in particular. "From sleeping out in the open these days, nary a care in the world, and a tender love for all things living in your heart!" He hammered a mailed fist to his chest, and then raised the fist into the air, shaking it vigorously. "THIEVES!! Robbing from a sleeping dwarf! DIRTY, ROTTEN THIEVES!!!"
The goblin heard none of this, of course. He was busy showing off his WONDERFUL new boots. Oh, aye, genuine dwarf made. No, Lobnaz, that does not mean made FROM dwarves. No, Bazquak, you cannot EAT them, no matter how hungry you are. He growled and flailed, frightening off his brethren. His brethren sulked. Made from dwarves or not, those boots looked TASTY. And right as rain, they hadn't had a decent meal in near a week by now. Mmmmmmaybe if they snuck around...no, Krikket was too big, and those boots made him even bigger. Plus, he WAS the chief. For now. Till we get those boots. In his sleep. Oh yes.
Dwolmur let out a bellow of frustration, nearly toppling sleeping birds out of their nests, to which they replied with infuritated chirps and squawks. No matter! NOBODY steals from a dwarf and gets away with it! No sir! Like a hound, Dwolmur went down on his hands and knees, checking the snow for prints. And there...crack and crumble, there they were. Prints in the snow. The prints were clean and fresh, and if cut in rock, he would have called them fine craftmanship. For now, he called them by the only word he had for them: "GOBLINS!"