As the four of them were on the way, Tunning-Cymbals was whacking some high grass with a stick. “Who are we supposed to be again?” he shouted towards Ruhtra.
“Erm...” ermed Ruhtra, because he had not thought that far forward.
“What!” exclaimed Smetherwick the 3rd, “we are just walking into an enemy goblin camp without a proper back story?”
“You're goblins aren't you? Wibbled Ruhtra in his general direction.
“What does that mean, we're from a different tribe?”
“Clone factory don't you mean,” inserted Jamestown Vinegrette.
Smetherwick looked witheringly at Vinegrette, “That's not the point,” he looked back at Ruhtra, “goblins from different tribes don't get on unless they have strong leadership. We don't know any of the call signs or special phrases.”
“What special phrases?” queried their temporary leader.
“Every tribe uses special phrases in conversation with other goblins to feel part of the group and to find out if there are spies among them.”
Ruhtra wondered, “So what are your special phrases then?”
“Can you hear me mother!”
“Very Sandy Powell,” withered Ruhtra.
“Sandy Powell,” queried Tunning-Cymbals.
“Don't say that it's just a coincidence that you are using one of his catch phrases?”
“It's just a coincidence.”
“I said don't say it !”