Damn you, Isaac. It will be no hunter that tells you. Your own stubborn pride will see it done.

[Hector’s own pride is smarting, having extended a hand in aid only to have it smacked away. He shouldn’t be so irrationally angry, but he is.

He wrinkled his nose at the revolting stench of burning flesh. If Isaac would rather burn himself than let Hector tend him, so be it.]

I doubt any rock here is as hard as your head....

[He mutters to himself as he turns away from the other forgemaster and finds himself a rock, a branch, and a length of vine. With a few moments of crafting, he comes away with a makeshift mace.]

I’m ready if you are. Try not to fall behind.