Inside a large shelter, Grok and Urak are standing behind a split log supported on two piles of stone.
Grok is polishing a soapstone beaker with a rabbit pelt, while Urak is putting the finishing touches to a very small arrow. Two others rest on a small disk with a red bullseye painted on it.
Mike comes in. Without a word Grok dips the beaker in the foaming vat behind him and lays it on the log. Mike puts a bead on the log, scoops up the beaker and scuttles to the hearth where he stares into the flames and cackles quietly to himself.
A small bedraggled creature stumbles through the entrance and falls over an old woman.
He extracts himself with difficulty, and staggers to the log, bloodshot eyes fixed on the vat of beer.
"No way Fooks, you've had enough." Grok says sternly, "Go now before you get logged." Nodding at Urak, who was slapping a large log in his palm.
"Have a heart lads." Whined Fooks.
"You offered them last time, Vlad wasn't happy..."
Fooks florid jowls paled and shakily he turned away.
They watched as he zigzagged his way out. "Some people eh?"Says Urak, contemptuously.
"Anyway, I'm starving, fancy some pork scratchings?"
"Ugh-I'd rather have deep fried toenail clippings!" Spat Grok.
"Well you're in luck, here's some I made earlier." Urak puts a basket on the log.
"I reckon we can get away with one bead a dozen?"
"Genius" Says Grok, admiringly.
"Ain't civilisation great?"