Wandering in a sea of gold brings more than wealth
Tug decided that riding on the back of a walking stone wasn’t the worst way he had ever traveled. The pace was leisurely, but it would take a while for him to regrow his body and it was better than lying in a ditch, like his brother Mug had to do. Worms slowed the process down and there was very little in the way of a view. Lots of delicious dirt though.
The stone would walk, albeit very unhurriedly, through meadows and across streams. And there were plenty of things to eat — tall plants or flowers, flying bugs, a very foolish squirrel — and as result, tiny arms had sprouted. He wiggled them but they were too weak to properly wield a weapon or kill someone, although he did manage to throw an acorn into his mouth. That was a very good day.
He also enjoyed watching the tiny head and long neck of the walking stone slowly poke out and eat a bit of greenery. All the other walking stones Tug had met were disagreeable; they seemed to resent that most everyone else built things out of stone. “That bridge was my cousin!” one might shout. Or “Stop building that fort out of my Gran!”
This one seemed content to amble about and let Tug regenerate. He enjoyed the peace, and felt that once he had re-grown his body and had killed the man who had beheaded him, a quiet life might be very pleasant.