“Goma,” the woman says, holding herself aloof away from him. 

    “Goma! Nice… Orcish, right?” Sanctuary asks, standing up.

    “Yeah,” she confirms.

    “Any chance you’d lend me a hand with this?” he asks, hauling the large  bushel of squash into view.

    “Uhhh… really?” Goma replies, incredulous. 

    “Please.” Sanctuary hoists it a little higher towards her. 

     Reluctantly, Goma sheathes the knife and waves a dismissive hand. “I don’t know–”