"You must be used to all this killing, being a dwarf and all," said Feyemoo that night in The Lonesome Dagger Tavern. The entire party was out that night, sans thief (he always vanished when the sun went down but never seemed to be at a loss for spare coin). They'd had a hard day- Feyemoo'd had to hide their four unconscious bodies in the slums and sneak back into New Phlan, hiding and ducking past kobolds the whole way. He'd come back with a pouch full of healing potions and brought them all back to the world of the living. Without his heroic measures, the four of them would have died of their injuries before the sun had gone down.
"Ha," grunted Figtle. "We don't spend all our time fightin' and killin'." He took a mouthful of chicken, followed it with a slug of draught. "Most of us haven't swung a blade and drawn blood. The rest of us mostly fight orcs an' those beasts that attack our homes. I'd only killed a few orcs until I got here. More like animals, some of them in the mountains."
"We'd only fought animals before we left home," said Fimu, sipping from her mug of mulled wine. "It's hard to practice being an arena fighter when no one else wants to fight." She still had a brilliant black and green bruise that covered half of her face.