Amal was a man of immense tastes, one might say. 

A normal thief loved gold for what it could give them. Amal loved gold for its own sake. He loved the way it glittered, the way it clinked together, the power it held over men. Yes, he was interested in how it could grant him women and comforts, but he also wished for it for his own pleasure. And so when the blue woman, for he did not know her name, promised him wealth beyond his dreams and a ravenous look, it was like leaving out a fresh steak for a wild dog. However, he was a wild dog with cunning. He wasn't about to trust her completely, but he did give a wink in response. 

As for Sulfrey, he did not know where that was. Amal was from far away, he had to guess. These lands were verdant and bountiful. It was lucky, despite their stupidity, that he awoke with northerners. At least someone knew the lay of the land in [i]some[/i] fashion.

He was unused to Orcs and Dwarves, but they were acting less unhinged than the men in their group. Amal was somewhat unhinged himself, but not at the expense of his survival. He also knew the non-humans were not in the process of trying to kill him. That tended to sour burgeoning relationships, he found. His musings were cut off by the arrival of the easterlings from the valley below. The Gray-Dwarf's pronouncement was well said in the face of the cloaked riders. They had come out of nowhere, as if summoned by a djinn. Their cloaks whipped in the air, the wind cutting like a zephyr. Swords gleaming in the afternoon sun, Amal cursed at the sight. 

Well, at least there was a wall of flames and a transmuted Ogre on his side. 

Usually he was the impetuous one, but his companions were taking a lot of liberties with their lives. He cackled, unable to help himself at the sight of the chaos before the riders had even arrived. Minutes after waking up, and pandemonium ruled the day.

He was not averse to violence. In fact, he quite enjoyed it. However, he was a bit confused on what was occurring at the moment, and tired besides. Still, perhaps he could improve his mood by slitting a few throats, and so he unsheathed his scimitar and pulled his dagger out, hefting both in a deft stance. For a brief moment, he wondered if the riders were there for him, and decided not to taunt in case they announced their reasoning and his newfound 'companions' abandoned him to save their own skins. 

Amal rolled to guard the witch-turned-Ogre's left flank, steel weapons bristling and readying to hack at a horse or to block a sweeping sword that tried to take his head. He grinned like a jackal, his bloodlust rising. Perhaps this [i]was[/i] just what he needed to sober up from this strange situation.