Weapon-wise, Dook was a simple man: He carried a very large bone, obviously taken from a very large monster, which the huge savage had probably killed with relative ease. "DOOK, DOOK, DOOK, DOOK!" The massive Feral paused to bask in the adoration of his peers, roaring and pummeling the earth with his ivory club. Ganelon hefted his axe. "You mind if I take this one?" Be my guest, Clay almost told him, except he'd been thinking since yesterday about what the warrior had said regarding the Quarry, and the resentment he'd fostered for everyone but Clay. What kind of monster must I be, Ganelon had asked himself, that even Clay Cooper gave up on me? What kind of monster... "It wasn't you." The warrior cocked an eyebrow at him. "Huh?" "When they came for you. When they turned you to stone. We should have been there, but we were selfish. I was selfish. I thought you deserved it," he admitted, and saw Ganelon's face spasm in what might have been hurt and must have been anger. Clay spoke quickly, afraid the warrior would cut him off. "But I was wrong. I was scared. Any one of us could have done what you did." Ganelon sighed. "Slowhand..." "Never again," Clay said. "Where you stand, I stand." He wanted to say more, to say how sorry he was for every solitary second his friend had spent down there in the dark, but Dook, as it turned out, wasn't one for sentimental moments, and he chose this one to raise his club and charge.

— Kings of the Wyld by Nicholas Eames (The Band, #1) (Page 307)