As are you, you poor kidnapped peasant or whoever you think you are. The little brown man has been smoking this whole time as he tells snippets of a story from another land and another time, and he spends more time singing the songs the stories inspire than telling the stories themselves, and he trails off before he even tells you what he and his little brown Abakan friends and the white Captain did in Irondale, wherever that is, whatever that was, but you don't care at all.
Man, you're baked, and so is he, but suddenly his eyes narrow and he looks very serious indeed, his little brown face growing dark and shadowed in the low light of the pit fire, and his little brown eyes burn intensely into your own.
"Ever slinged rock, new white friend?" he asks, putting his cigar back to his mouth and rolling it around as he slowly sips and savors his smoke like you've heard some experts on wine are said to do. "Ever putted rock inna sling, throwed it, swinged it? Hmm."
"This poor peoples' weapon, rock. Not many rock inna swamp... having go river an' coastline for finding rock. Sometimes good rock, heavy rock, right size rock, good shape rock, this worth more than diamond an' ruby an' em'rald."
"Jewels looking nice, but not much good in fight. With good rock, taking jewels easy. But sometimes first, having take rock."
The little brown man who you are pretty certain is called Karl-Jagutu nods sagely and swirls some smoke around in his mouth and slowly exhales, and as he begins his next story, you can almost see the images in the wafting haze...
