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31 Erastil, 4719 AR
Breachill’s local government has a long and proud history of hiring adventurers to tackle any challenges its residents face that fall outside the scope of the town guard’s duties. The merchant whose expected shipment of goods hasn’t yet arrived, the shepherd whose herd of goats mysteriously died in the night, the farmer whose entire season’s harvest was ruined or stolen—investigating and resolving any of these matters are considered good jobs for adventurers, and so Breachill’s town council uses its resources to hire heroes as needed. These monthly meetings, known as the Call for Heroes, are distinct from the council’s normal regular governance meetings, a tactic that separates such matters from regular municipal business and shows the townspeople that the council indeed allots sufficient time to the issues that are often most important to them personally.
Spending public money on hiring adventurers to help the townspeople serves several purposes, as far as Breachill’s leadership is concerned. First, it provides the townspeople with an official and fully funded way to seek help when they’ve exhausted all other options. Second, it allows the salaried town guard to focus on run-of-the-mill crimes and mundane threats to the townspeople’s safety. And third, it provides experience to local adventurers—and allows the council to vet out-of-town heroes—whose presence and talents the council considers boons to the populace, harking back to the hero Lamond Breachton, Breachill’s original patron who saved the town’s founders.
Owing to its proximity to Breachill Town Hall, the Wizard’s Grace tavern is the favored establishment of many adventurers who wish to seek work from the council in the town’s monthly Call for Heroes. Here, adventurers and municipal workers regularly mingle, exchanging stories and generally enjoying the atmosphere created by the diverse clientele. In the days leading up to each council meeting, the tavern is particularly busy, as adventurers schmooze with town officials and even the occasional council member who might show up for a drink and a meal. Before each meeting, the inn’s tavern has a long-standing tradition of holding toasts and serving meals of boar stew with lentils—a practice owner Trinil Uskwold highly encourages, as her grandfather, himself a prominent local adventurer, loved eating that meal before embarking on his own many daring journeys. Because of the politics of socializing here, the crowd tends to be both well-mannered and chatty, though occasionally a brash adventurer or two gets rowdy.
The time has come for the monthly Call. Will you be chosen as Breachill's newest heroes?
Two decades, or thereabouts (a year or two either way is irrelevant, in elven terms). And still the old instincts are there: when you go into a building, count the exits. Sit so you can see everyone, or at least so nobody can get behind you easily. And know your quickest route out, plus a backup.
The elf muses silently to himself, sipping the beer as much in order to fit in as anything else. In truth, getting back into his old set of leather armour was the easiest part. Picking up the mindset is the troubling issue.
There was Wyvaran, of course (Allandír winces inwardly at the name). Wyvaran (wince) was brash, reckless, even - a callow youth who would wet himself at some of the things Pelanor had done. Allandír shifts, slightly uncomfortably on his seat. In truth, he was somewhat unsettled at the lengths Pelanor had gone to, the extent to which he had given himself over to Calistria's commandment to let no slight go unpunished. Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, life for life. For every friend of mine they kill, I'll take down two of theirs. Had he, in truth, been much better than the goblinoids he had shot down? By the end, he'd been just another killer, looking for an excuse.
No, reverting to Pelanor wouldn't do at all, at all. Take his experiences, by all means, and learn from them - but do better.
The mug of ale has mysteriously emptied itself, he realises. He's not necessarily the most sociable type, but it would be good manners to offer someone else a drink, strike up a conversation.
Standing, he walks toward the bar, in search of another mug of beer and maybe another likeminded soul or two.
"Hello there," a chipper voice says to the elf. Turning towards the source, he sees a gnome sitting on the bar. Her legs hang off the edge and her feet swing in the air.
She's wearing well-worn robes of an faded ochre color with sandals on her feet. Her blond hair is long and loose with two small streaks of bright blue threaded through. There's a smile in her dark green eyes as she holds up a mug as in a toast.
"So are you here for the Call for Heroes?" she asks. "That's what I'm here for. It sounds exciting." She takes a long drink of her mug and then sets it back on the bar. The woman looks Allandír up and down as if appraising his capabilities. "You're a warrior of some type, right?" She holds out a small hand. "I'm Pril. Pril Piddwiemog. Maybe we'll get to work together."
A man of medium Isgerian height repeatedly brings a measured spoonful of then stew and then lentils to a mouth that's not defined by the soft peachy color of his lips, but by the absolute unit of a dark walnut brown mustache that lingers on its very own perch above it. With care, the stoic looking academic subtracts nutrients from the richly filled bowl until, after waiting a solid twenty seconds for his body to process what's been going down his throat after every three bites, he knows he's had enough. Overeating, or so his grandma who had survived the Goblinblood Wars and famine told him, is the first step towards complacency and laziness.
However, unlike the man's grandma and her habits born out of trauma, Ervan's eating habits and what the body needs to sustain itself has become something of a study. After pushing away the bowl - this was nice, I ought to compliment the cook - Ervan takes what looks like a pocket diary from the leather satchel that's occupying the seat next to him, and starts penning down the details of his meal. The size of the meal - sufficient, the estimated nutritional value - high, just the right amount of fat, the time of day - evening, roughly an hour past the usual time for dinner, and miscellaneous notes - delicious, reminds me of home.
He takes out a pocket mustache comb and carefully grooms his Isgerian pride. Inadvertently, he pouts at the empty tankard and considers ordering another. But that wouldn't be very professional, now would it? Instead, he waits. The conversations of the people around him and their anxiety for tonight's special event keep Ervan occupied as his thoughts drift from this to that and back to here and then to there again.
Allandír nods in greeting and accepts the gnome's hand with his own, the calluses on his fingers revealing his trade as an archer every bit as much as the longbow slung across his back. "Well met, friend Pril." His eyes, green as a forest in Summer (and his only redeeming feature, looks-wise), have a certain amusement as he considers her question. "You might indeed consider me a 'warrior of some type' - I assume it was the armor and weapons that gave me away?" His voice is soft, but nevertheless easily discernable over the general noise of the tavern.
He gives Pril a brief, friendly smile, revealing a mouthful of uneven teeth like broken marble tombstones. "It might be more, ah, accurate to say that I have been a warrior, and that now I am merely... hmm." He falls silent for a moment, pondering. "Let us say that of the three enthralling - and adoring - mistresses that I serve, the one currently in the ascendant loves wonder and adventure and the thrill of seeing what lies over the horizon. She is taking over from the one who loves peace and beauty and community." He deliberately does not mention the third of his "mistresses."
Another brief smile. "So perhaps we should think of me as, ah, an adventurer rather than as a warrior. So do allow me to introduce myself on that basis: Allandír Dinúvriel, adventurer. And I am very glad to make your acquaintance, Pril Piddwiemog."
His forest-green eyes appraise the gnome in turn, just as she appraised him; although there are fewer clues. "You are, perhaps, a priest or pilgrim of some type?"
Gull Peeper bolts straight up, heart racing, slamming their head into the underside of a table.
What? What is going on? Oh gods they are so hungover, f%!+ing s~#~, what happened?
They lay back down and roll out from under the table, standing up, turning around and coming face to face with a huge bowl of stew, left unoccupied.
"Mine now," they mumble, fixing their hat/wig combo and walking off with the bowl.
They sit down at a table just as a larger group gets up from it, finishing the leftover beers and meals and greedily eating the goblin's own stolen stew.
"Pig," they spit a chunk of gristle across the room, nodding to themself as they chew. "I get it now. Hero time."
They must have arrived earlier, they supposed, and pregamed a little. Or a lot.
The tweedy goblin leans back in their chair, bare feet on the table. Good ol' Gull Peeper, the No Hand Trapeze Artist, had decided to be an adventurer, eh? They didn't remember making that decision, but sure. It was a new direction, why not walk it?
"It might be more, ah, accurate to say that I have been a warrior, and that now I am merely... hmm." He falls silent for a moment, pondering. "Let us say that of the three enthralling - and adoring - mistresses that I serve, the one currently in the ascendant loves wonder and adventure and the thrill of seeing what lies over the horizon. She is taking over from the one who loves peace and beauty and community." He deliberately does not mention the third of his "mistresses."
Another brief smile. "So perhaps we should think of me as, ah, an adventurer rather than as a warrior. So do allow me to introduce myself on that basis: Allandír Dinúvriel, adventurer. And I am very glad to make your acquaintance, Pril Piddwiemog."
His forest-green eyes appraise the gnome in turn, just as she appraised him; although there are fewer clues. "You are, perhaps, a priest or pilgrim of some type?"
"Wow, three mistresses?" Pril responds, her eyes widening and the green in them brightening. "I had an uncle one time with just two and they had him running around like a cat with a bell tied to its tail." She shakes her head in wonder. "You must have no free time at all. I mean, how do you even decide where to spend yule?"
She giggles and gestures with her mug for a refill. Her knowing smile seems to say that she did in fact understand his reference.
"As for what am I?" she continues. She spends the time waiting for a fresh drink thinking about the question. "I would say that I'm just a student," she says finally.
She takes a sip of her newly refilled cup and her eyes widen again at something she sees in the room. "Now that's an impressive mustache," she says pointing towards a man tending said facial adornment.
Allandír's eyes sparkle with amusement at Pril's comment. It has been a long time since he had such a conversation with someone. "Your uncle sounds like a man with, ah, prodigious stamina. Fortunately, only one of my mistresses is in the ascendant at any one time. I don't ask how they apportion it out."
He turns and looks at where the gnome is pointing. It is, indeed, an impressive mustache, although... he runs a finger along the multiple breaks in his crooked nose. "I am not, ah, convinced that I am well-placed to comment on appearances. There is, I believe, a saying about pots and kettles."
Odd. Why are the gnome and the broken man staring at me? Much impressed by my sense and need for hygiene, they must be. Yes, surely that's it.
Ervan puts away the comb and then rummages through his satchel. There it is! Armed with the tiniest of pocketbooks, the mustache approaches the gnome as a thumb flips through the pages of whatever book he's holding. "Arratsalde on, andereño. Zerk eramaten zaitu Isger?"
He then clears his throat - a sign of anxiety? - and offers the gnome the smallest of curtsies with a nod of the head that barely causes his chin to change position and an inclination of the shoulders that might've well been caused by the movement of the planet they're on. "My apologies. My Gnomish is a tad rusty. The name is Ervan de Vobon, arcanamathician by trade. I hope my hygienical practices did not disturb the both of you? I assume that you, like me, are waiting for tonight's Call for Heroes to start."
He turns and looks at where the gnome is pointing. It is, indeed, an impressive mustache, although... he runs a finger along the multiple breaks in his crooked nose. "I am not, ah, convinced that I am well-placed to comment on appearances. There is, I believe, a saying about pots and kettles."
Pril shrugs. "Distinctive always trumps pretty," she says with a quirk of her lips.
"Arratsalde on, andereño. Zerk eramaten zaitu Isger?"
"Nire oinak!" she responds, with a wry grin, raising her sandal-clad feet and wiggling her toes.
" I hope my hygienical practices did not disturb the both of you? I assume that you, like me, are waiting for tonight's Call for Heroes to start."
"Not at all," the gnome answers with a smile. "'Good hygiene is a debt we owe to those around us.' Master W- ..." she begins, but then trails off as a hint of sadness crosses her face. "... someone I knew used to say." She takes a breath and her smile returns. "Yep, here for the Call for Heroes. It'll be interesting to see who steps up to the podium." She sticks out her hand towards Ervan. "Prill Piddwiemog; Student"
The mustache offers the gnome a nod accompanied by a big smile. "I won't pretend to know exactly what you said, but my guess is 'your feet'! Ha, clever." The root of oinak, after all, shares vague similarities with an ancient way of saying 'footies' in dwarven. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Prill. Well, enjoy your drinks and who knows, maybe we will see more of one another."
He greets both the gnome and her rather serious looking companion with a fancy hand gesture before retreating back to his table.
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Just as Ervan retreats he is provided with a convenient distraction when the door to Wizard's Grace opens to admit an unusual figure. Dressed in fine red robes which immediately mark him as either a wizard or a clergyman, stands a tall man with salt and pepper hair - mostly black but sprinkled with white. His clear eyes are clearly experienced as he glances through the tavern and one hand rises to sketch some sort of benediction into the room generally.
In a swirl of robes he crosses the room towards the bar and quietly orders a drink. Those at the bar can hear that he asks for wine and pays with a freshly minted silver coin. He seems largely impervious to the looks that are shot his way as he stands for a minute or two, exchanging polite nods with anyone civil enough to offer a pleasantry.
Eventually the man moves over to Ervan's table and gesture to the remaining chair. "May I sit my son? I believe we have met in passing, some years ago in Almas? I am Cardinal-Banker Lucius d'Borja." He offers his hand but makes no move to sit until Ervan gives permission.
Being called 'son' by someone who is not a part of the twinfecta he calls 'parents' causes Ervan to scratch himself behind the ear as he fights to keep his dismay from contorting an otherwise welcoming smile. "But of course! Do take a seat, good Cardinal-Banker." He then reaches forward to exchange a handshake with the Abadarite.
It is a split second later that Ervan stumbles upon clarity and goes "Ah!" as he finally remembers Lucius. "Indeed, we've met before! Back in Almas, yes, during my architectural trip around the country. It was ... ah, right! At the cathedral of Abadar, where I stumbled upon a searing architectural truth. But, fret not, I won't bore you with that. Forgive me my tardiness, but I would've never thought I'd run into you here, in Isger."
As the newcomer approaches the bar, Pril elbows her new elven companion. "Someone knows how to make an entrance," she whispers with a grin.
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Lucius sits with a nod of thanks. "Please allow me to refill your glass my son." It is apparent from his careful motion as he twists back to the bar that time has slowed the good cardinal since the two men last met.
"I have passed through Isger many times in my life." The cardinal says as Ervan's drink arrives. "Much of my work for the church has been in the diplomatic service of Abadar, creating and settling trade disputes and the like. Much of my recent work has been in Druma and I am returning to the Grand Temple in Almas." He smiles gently, "Luckily my business is not pressing, so when I heard of this gathering of Heroes I felt that I should attend, to offer the blessings of the Lawgiver on this enterprise."
The Cardinal takes another sip of wine. "My apologies. Old age tends to make one verbose. I am glad to hear that you found what you were looking for in Almas. Are you seeking new answers here?"
The wizard's toes bounce up and down inside his leather boots as the kind priest's alcohol gesture ruins his calculated calorie intake for the day. "Why thank you. How kind."
Not much else can be said because the priest is feeling rather talkative. Ervan listens, patiently and with genuine interest. It is when a question is posed that it is time again for Ervan to talk. "I suppose you could say that, yes. I've been wanting to put my talents to good use and what better way to pay back my debt to the world and society than to help the place I originate from - Isger." It might not be the whole truth, but there's enough truthiness fiber in there for Ervan to make saying it palatable. "It seems this land isn't exactly a hotspot for wizards so I figured it was worth a shot to try my luck here. After all, no amount of calculations can quite adequately represent the human factor in one's likeliness to succeed at this or that when it comes to endeavors like these."
But according to Ervan's calculations, the odds of him landing an adventuring gig here are pretty good. Pretty good, indeed.
As the newcomer approaches the bar, Pril elbows her new elven companion. "Someone knows how to make an entrance," she whispers with a grin.
Allandír raises one eyebrow and whispers back. "Indeed," although in truth his speaking voice is soft enough that the newcomer most assuredly would not have heard him.
He studies the man with interest: the human deities have largely been lost on him, but they seem to appeal to the sorts of things that humans seem to like: wealth, status, glory, carousing, that sort of thing.
Musing about which is the cause and which the effect is something best left to the philosophers.
He turns back to his gnome drinking companion. "Another? We seem to have time while we wait."
Pril looks down at her almost empty mug. "I probably shouldn't. Too many and it goes right to my head." She looks back up at Allandír. "No need to abstain on my account though. Feel free to have another." She drains the last in hers and sets the empty mug back down on the counter and contents herself with swinging her feet and watching the big folk.
Across the table from the bare-footed goblin, a tall, dark haired half-elf takes a seat. Thick armor and the elven-made blade on her hip mark her as a warrior, but she carries them a little awkwardly, as if she isn’t quite used to their weight just yet; she seems miles more at-ease with the writing tools she begins to set up on the table.
There’s a small clatter of dishes as she pushes plates and empty bowls away from her spot, clearing a space large enough for her notebook. Flipping it open to a blank page, she quickly jots down the date in the upper corner, and on the next line, scribbles her name: Nell Harlow, for anyone close enough to read it.
”Peeper,” she says briskly, and writes their name down as well. ”Don’t see you at these too often. Any thoughts on tonight’s Call of Heroes?” She pauses then, her pen poised just above the paper, and looks up at the familiar goblin expectantly.
Pril notices one of the big folk taking notes. "Ah, there's a smart one," she says to her new friend. "It'll be difficult to remember everyone's name. She's writing them down." The gnome taps her temple. "She's thinking. Looks like another warrior. Interesting." Her eyes continue to roam over the crowd.
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In response to the hopeful journalist, Gull Peeper scratches their chin and drains one half-empty mug, and another half-full one. "Maybe I'll run away and join the circus," they say, eyes glazed over with memories. Abruptly they lean forward conspiriatorily, and point at the various guests. "Moustache, gnome and ugly elf were talking earlier. Then dramatic cape man pulls in and sits with Moustache. Now Nell Harlow come in, talking to Gull Peeper." They shrug and sit back down, leaning on the table.
"I would keep an eye on all six of them, Nell. I have a feeling about this, in my stomach. I trust my stomach. A'hero-ing go we."
Nell follows along earnestly, taking down the goblin's quote, and eyes the others that they point out; a few familiar faces, some newcomers, and all people of interest. Eager to gather as much information as possible before the meeting begins, she thanks Gull and rises from the table, heading for the gnome and elf at the bar.
"Nell Harlow." She gives Allandír a nod of recognition, and offers a firm handshake to the gnome. "And you are?"
"Nice to meet you, Nell. Pril. Pril Piddwiemog," the gnome says in response taking the woman's hand in her small one. She glances to where the woman stashed her book. "I can spell that for you if you'd like," she adds. "I mean if you were planning on writing it down or something." She winks at the woman, but then waves the idea away. "I know, I don't really need to spell it. It's not like some of those names out there that are absolutely atrocious to try to spell. That's why I picked something easy."
Nell lays her notebook on the bar and leans over it, writing along swiftly as Pril introduces herself. "Got it," she says confidently, even as she proceeds to spell the gnomish name rather creatively.
"Not from Breachill. Here for the Call of Heroes," she states matter-of-factly as she writes, and then looks up at the gnome inquisitively. "You an adventurer? What's your signature move?" As she asks, she flicks her pen from side to side and then jabs it forward, imitating the swing of a sword, apparently interested in Pril's fighting skills.
Pril nods as Nell lists off and then notes various facts, but looks confused when she asks about her signature move. "Signature move?" the gnome repeats with confusion. "Ummm... I didn't know ..." She glances at Allandír before looking back. "I'm just a student. I don't have a signature move." Her brow furrows. "Does that mean I can't participate in the Call of Heroes?" She seems genuinely concerned.
"No, no," Nell assures her, quickly backpedaling. "I use this." She pats the hilt of her elven blade, and then gestures at Allandír and his longbow. "Some people use a bow, some can conjure up big fireballs." She shrugs, tapping her pen on the paper. "Whatever you're good at. People like to know."
"Oh," the gnome says and then looks thoughtful for a moment. She then brightens. "I can feel the earth move, does that count?"
Allandír's forest-green eyes dance with amusement at Pril's confusion and Nell's hasty reassurance. "A 'signature move' is something the storytellers invented," he adds his own explanation, his voice soft. "It makes fighting sound more, ah, romantic than it truly is. But if you're ever in a real fight, you use whatever comes to hand, foot, or anything else. The storytellers somehow leave that bit out: the, ah, the desperation to live, at any cost."
His gaze is somewhere quite distant, before it snaps back to the present, focussing on Nell - or rather, to the weapon at her shoulder. "That is a magnificent blade, young lady. What can you tell me of its history?"
"Oh, that's good," Nell breathes, hastily scribbling down Allandír's words. At his question, though, she stills, and caps her pen for the first time since entering the tavern; reaching around, she takes the sheathed blade from her side and holds it flat in front of her.
"Antírrio," the half-elf says proudly. "It's been above our mantle for as long as I can remember, but my grandfather never liked to see it sitting around collecting dust. He brought it with him from Kyonin, back when he was an adventurer."
Pril leans over to get a better look at the sheathed blade.
"In Sylvan that would translate to something like 'Dragon Petal'," she says, her eyes lighting up. "Is that elvish? Is it more like a dragon or more like a flower? I bet it's pretty in either case." She shrugs. "I hope you don't have to draw it - no offense."
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Allandír nods in acknowledgement. "Such blades are uncommon, it was unlikely to have been forged elsewhere than Kyonin. I wonder who its maker was."
"And I shouldn't worry overmuch," this in a friendly smile to Pril. "The Call for Heroes is generally low-key, I believe: track a missing shipment or solve a minor mystery. I doubt it will involve us, ah, battling the forces of darkness in a fight to determine the fate of the world. It is, after all, a small town."
As noon approaches, the time for the Call for Heroes draws near. You make your way to the town hall, located at the south end of Monument Circle. This marble-paved circle is the visual centerpiece of Breachill. Around it stand six deep wells that the nearby residents and businesses rely on for fresh water. In the center of the ring is an elegant, 15-foot-tall bronze statue of the wizard Lamond Breachton, Breachill’s founder and the town’s most important historical figure.
A small crowd mills outside the town hall, waiting for the appointed time for the meeting to start. In all, about 40 townspeople have turned out to witness the Call for Heroes. Among the crowd, you notice a well-dressed goblin woman pacing right outside the building's front doors. This studious-looking goblin has her hands clasped behind her back, and she's mumbling to herself, oblivious to all those who stand nearby. "My Bramblebashers," she laments in a distraught tone. "Why haven't I heard from my Bramblebrashers? Are my people trapped in the citadel?"
Not having any experience with goblins, Pril steps up to the monologuing woman.
"Hey, is everything ok?" she asks. "You look a little lost."
The goblin looks at Pril. "Oh! My apologies." She straightens up and assumes a dignified expression. "Please, do allow me to introduce myself. I am Warbal, ambassador to the Bumblebrasher goblins of Hellknight Hill. It is my great honor to serve my fellow citizens of Breachill as the town’s official representative to the Bumblebrashers. I communicate with the Bumblebrashers, convey the town’s concerns and interests to them, and advocate on the tribe’s behalf. It is a duty I take very seriously—they are my people, after all. Hence why I am here today, and my rather distracted nature earlier. I hope you’ll forgive it."
Pril smiles. "Nothing to forgive," she says, holding out her hand. "Pril. Pril Piddwiemog. So, are you here for the Call for Heroes?"
Warbal shakes Pril's hand as she nods. "Indeed. The Bumblebrashers are a tribe of goblins who have, for years now, lived peacefully and in isolation in Citadel Altaerein, the former Hellknight keep on the hill just outside of town. Typically, every two weeks I meet with Helba, the tribe’s chieftain, on the road outside the keep. We discuss news, and I convey the town’s interests and hear any concerns that the tribe might wish me to bring before the council. It is a relationship of utmost importance, and Helba is normally punctual. But she has missed our previous two meetings, and I have seen plumes of smoke coming from the top of the citadel. The smoke is a chalky red in color—the tribe’s traditional color of distress. I fear that the Bumblebrashers are in danger, or that something dire has befallen them. It has sickened me with worry. I plan to present this information to the council and ask them to hire adventurers to contact my tribe."
Allandír has a regrettably complicated (or, perhaps, regrettably simple) history when it comes to goblinkind; enough, to be sure, that he kept himself apprised of the news when a goblin tribe took over the nearby ruined fort.
His approach to the few goblins in town has been live and let live, in a fashion: he will acknowledge their existence when he encounters them; and acknowledge their right to continue existing, provided they don't do anything too goblin-y.
As Pril looks to talk with this goblin, he steps back, quietly briefing the gnome on what he knows but otherwise not joining the conversation.
"Well, then, we might end up talking again, Miss Warbal. I'm here for the Call for Heroes as well, but to offer my humble self for whomever may need assistance." She looks towards the Hall. "I'll probably see you inside," she says as she takes her leave.
"So, a fort filled with goblins," Pril says to Allandír as they move closer to the Hall. "And there hasn't been word in a while. Even if that isn't one of the offered jobs, it sounds like it would behoove us to investigate anyways. It would be the right thing to do."
Allandír nods at Pril's words, his forest-green eyes gleaming with determination. "You're quite right. For too long we have stood idly by and let the greenskins occupy such a strategic position. Enough! Even if the Council won't act, it behooves us to do something..."
He trails off as his ears and his brain catch up with his mouth. "No, wait - are goblins the, ah, the good guys these days?"
His brow wrinkles. "Honestly, it gets so confusing."
Gull Peeper listens in on the conversation between Warbal and the gnome, trying to remain inconspicuous, but also not especially caring whether or not they are seen eavesdropping. Oh, that, that's bad. The castle goblins, in distress?
The acrobat waits for Pril to leave before ambling up to Warbal. In a gesture of respect and severity, they hold their hat/wig to their chest while speaking.
"I will help you," they pledge. "We look out, for each other."
Pril shrugs. "How about we say that the goblins aren't the 'bad guys' until they at least do something to warrant the title."
Her eyes look afar as she remembers. "'A flower should be considered on its beauty alone. Not because it bears the label of 'rose' or 'daffodil'. It should not have to carry the weight of its ancestry.'" Her cheeks flush a little. "Or something like that. I could never remember his words exactly."
Warbal thumps her chest in a goblin sign of thanks. "I appreciate your direct offer, friend," she says to Gull. "But there is a system in place for a reason. Come with me into the meeting--you and your friends as well, Pril!" she calls to the gnome. "Listen to my official petition. If you are up for my task, I beg you to offer your services to the council. You might be my tribe’s only hope!"
Nell scribbles down a few notes about the Bumblebrashers for context as she watches the interaction between Warbal and Pril play out, but doesn't take part in the conversation. She stands by with her book, waiting eagerly for the meeting to begin.