Fear not, tall-yet-lowly one. No need to deprive your tribe of the services of its venerated boil-lancer Raka, nor subject him to the filthy-even-by-your-appalling-standards customs of Mitclan. Olgothu (Trusted of the Councils, Deputy of the Assembly, Ambassador to the Parched Realms, and Advocate for the Unclean) thinks she can assist you in understanding this bizarre gabbling.
It is, as near as this humble servant of the Sword can be troubled to understand (for while the understanding the deranged meanderings of your water-starved minds is her blessed vocation, as a higher being she is not capable of the same lunatic contortions performed by your sun-baked brains), merely an affectionate term for other loathsome mudcrawlers like it. This was made evident when the quadruped lover made the blindingly banal observation that our august people were not to be described by that vulgar gurgling noise.
No, please, no need to thank her. Her reward is knowing that she does her duty to the Sword, not the meaningless squawked gratitude of a presumptuous heathen thrall. She would foster communication amongst your packs and tribes, and beseech the Councils for mercy and understanding on your ilk's squalid, misguided ignorance even if you all were so foolish and infantile as to refuse to recognize the selfless sacrifice made by her humble person in polluting her mind with your foul languages and customs. One day, when you have come to revere the glory of the Sword of Balance, your withered mind might come to see a glimmering of the meaning of such devotion, but for now simply take her word that she simply does what she must.
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