Lord Vincent Surtova looks in the direction that Signy points and points his nose up at her pompously. "I already know that of course! What do you take me for? A fool?! Noo the blessed line of Surtova has been made of colonizers and adventuring lords for generations! I need no map! The directions are in my very blood ha!" The man struts like a peacock in the direction Signy pointed before spinning about to face Meneas once more. "But first your most uncouth friend must unveil himself to me! It is my noble decree and as a mere peasant it is the law that commands you to obey! Show yourself knave!"
Signy just goes back to fiddling with her nails, scraping some of the dirt out from under them.
"Cousin, you have no authority here. And if you do, it is us. So I advise you to be more respectful in the future." Meneas says coldly. "I am Meneas the Cowl. You might know me as 'that half-Kellid bastard.' The one who 'shamed the family name.' Do not test my patience." The knight urges Veil forwards, looming over the nobleman and letting her tread on Vincent's toes.
"He's of no use to anyone. Let him die out here."
Signy smirks at Meneas.
"Too late. I've already given him directions. He doesn't need our help anymore."
"Either way." Meneas shrugs. "Leave him to his fate."
"You might be surprised, Wisp." Meneas observes mildly. "I don't know how it is in the River Kingdoms, but this far north, bandits tend not to be terribly... strict with themselves."
"Aye, an' to the farmer, the hungry blackbirds may 's well be demons." Wisp gives a languid shrug. "An' to the hunter of wolves - "
She is cut off as Signy makes out the cries for help and the group rushes ahead to the man's rescue.
Wisp is patient and sweet as she calms Vincent down, easily earning his trust with the same easy-going smiles and shrugs and equivocations she was just wielding in the awkward bandit conversation. "Oh, of course! Aye, just awful, m'lord. ... You hung there how long? You're made o' stern stuff indeed, Lord Surtova. ... Goodness, you don't say..." Not even a hint of annoyance with his manner seems to flicker in her eyes or twinge in her voice. She graciously accepts the coins and makes sure to clarify that it really isn't needed, but is is a mark of his nobility and generosity, and that the party will never forget Vincent's charity towards them.
Meneas's sharpness doesn't faze her one bit, either. She acts almost as retainer, in fact, doing her best to soothe the noble's battered ego. She shrinks away only when she realizes that these two know each other, quickly moving from between the pair and allowing the standoff to play out..
As the groups part ways, she makes sure to curtsey deferentially to the nobleman, making some gentle apologies - "You know how it is, folks out here likin' their hoods an' masks, very prickly, he's had a long day, m'lord - " before following after.
She is silent as she rejoins the party, assuming the nobleman doesn't pursue. A serene smile remains drifting idly across her face, as if she's just enjoyed a truly lovely conversation with a dear acquaintance.
Meneas--a Surtova?! Brental whirls towards the cowled knight, unable to conceal his surprise. He had questions to ask him later. Was no one else surprised by this revelation? Had Brental been the only one not in the know? Or did they just not care? Even as a bastard--common in noble circles--this meant that they now had two nobleborns in their company. Or they would when Lorna returned. Brental isn't sure what that means for the expedition, but it's certainly curious.
Brental instead tries to pay attention to the unfolding scene. Vincent implies that there is a "game afoot" having to do with his family. His and Meneas' family, that is. A scheme of some sort, perhaps. Brental had left Silverhall to get away from noble schemes. The Oakstewards had plenty of their own schemes, but they weren't locked behind outdated traditions of inheritance or bolstered with overflowing coffers filled with the taxes of the common man.
Then there was the matter of his dealings with the mitflits. What had he done to become their captive? Perhaps just stupid arrogance and the displayed lack of charm. And there was now the infiimation of the gremlins' affinity for vermin of some kind.
Finally, he was working with some mercenaries who had probably gotten sick and tired of him and abandoned him. Brental couldn't blame them. Though he had money, Brental could recall this lord well enough. He had coin, for sure, but little influence. He'll be sure to confer with Meneas about that assumption later.
Brental likewise swings back up onto his horse as Meneas marks an end to the conversation. Knowing nobles, Vincent Surtova is likely to try to continue, but Brental doesn't care much. He turns to his companions and moves the conversation in a different direction.
"Let's try to find another way across towards the tree. I don't trust the look of this bridge. Maybe there's a shallow part of the river."
As if to answer Brental's unspoken question about what she is thinking in the aftermath of of their encounter with Vincent Surtova, Signy asks several questions.
"The river is beautiful, do you think there's a way to get to it? I wonder how cold the water is? When are we going to break for lunch?"
Vincent manages to pull his toes back just in time before Veil can crush them under her impressive bulk. All flustered he stumbles over his words now and attempts to form a cohesive sentence as the band begin to depart. "YOU?! The Surtovan Pretender?! It is no wonder you can be found out here among your fellow banditry! Such is a deserving place for one who would attempt to murder a woman! My very cousin no less! Come! Face me I deman-" The man now seems to sputter incoherently as Meneas' threat truly sinks in and all the color drains from the man's face.
Addressing Wisp in a huff the man replies handing her the coin, "At least you've shown some respect little one. Take your coin and some advice. Heed it well! Your dear friend need watch his tongue and find refuge somewhere far from here for very soon he shall not be welcome in the lands of his blighted birth nor these lands or any nearby! Good day madam!"
As the party make their way towards the Old Sycamore, a greying hulk of a tree clinging to its last years of life, it becomes increasingly common for them to run across the bodies of mites and kobolds, free of gear as it has presumably been stripped away by the victors of whatever brawls these were.
Soon they arrive at the border of the tree itself and must decide how to proceed.
Brental is too flustered by the revelations amd corpses to be paying as much attention to things as he should. He can't see a clear way in, and supposes that calling out for an emissary might not work.
As they travel along, though, he addresses Meneas.
"We don't have to discuss it now, but I have many questions. When you're ready."
Meneas casts a glance back at the nobleman. "You're pathetic. If you want to fight, fight. If not, then go bother someone else."
Later, at Brental's question, he shrugs. "It's not that exciting a story, but if you want to hear it, you're more than welcome to ask what you want to know."
"What a cranky guy. Stupid though if he's really going to follow the directions I gave him."
By the time the big old sycamore tree is within sight, Signy is confident it's safe to say "kobolds and mites sure don't like each other."
"I don't see any mites up in the branches or skittering around on the ground, so I guess that big hole at the base of the trunk is where we'll want to look."
Lina notes the detail of Meneas’ lineage for future consideration. He seems not to be as concerned by it as Brental, which makes sense to her, though she expects her perspective is skewed by her roots. Legitimacy, she knows, is much formal among human kingdoms, especially those much larger than a tiny elven nation like Hymbria, whose capital, even, is small enough for everyone to know everyone else, more or less. Regardless, the Cowl meets his relative’s rudeness with admirable restraint, all things considered, and she watches his pretentious cousin storm off with some amusement.
“And he had such lovely hair,” she sighs…
… before, turning to the others, her grin shows the sting in the tail, “Shame about his personality, and a pity we probably can’t encourage the mites, really.”
Her attention fully captivated, for once, since what she's asked to focus on is a singularly impressive specimen of tree, as the group approaches the Old Sycamore, she identifies the precise species even before looking for signs of the mites.
"I can see why someone might want to hang around here. I'm sure the old girl would be beyond generous with her honey, and sycamores make sweet syrup," she chatters, before Signy recalls her to the matter at hand. "It will be a tight squeeze, so some of us might have to be more selective about our armament, unless we want to announce our presence from here? I might put forward someone with a shield to lead the way, but I don't mind."
Actually, she thinks Wisp has the best build for it, but the small druid doesn't look particularly martially inclined, and all the evidence points to the fey being rather aggressive.
"Maybe later," Wisp says, as Brental politely prods at Meneas for context and Meneas seems surprisingly open to answering. "Want to save somethin' to talk of over the campfire tonight."
Wisp places herself in the middle of the party, her easy-going manner having slipped away rather quickly after the encounter and given way to another period of mute passivity. Normally she would advocate to call out, to avoid any perception of being burglars or invaders, but the words can't quite seem to escape her dry throat. The mask she put on didn't come off cleanly this time.
During the pause without a plan, Signy lays things out as she sees them for the others.
"Well, here's what we know. The kobolds and mites hate each other. We seem to have a reason to believe we can get along alright with the kobolds. The mites seem to be the bigger problem in the area, maybe even being covered under our banditry charter, although it may be closer to sneak-thieving really. We probably can't be buddies with both. We probably aren't going to be able to make peace between them, and might just make everyone mad by trying."
"I think the place we're at is 'kill the mites'. What exactly would announcing ourselves help with?"
Wisp looks up sharply at this. "Urgathoa's rot!" they blurt. "Every last one? They - they might not be the nicest, but they still be o' the First World. Cut that tree an' it bleeds fire! Why not seek to drive 'em off, or - or at least try makin' peace first? Dark bloody butcher's eyes through which you see the world, girl!"
"Mites aren't bright enough to be bought off." Meneas points out. "Or really, to be negotiated with in general." He shrugs, spreading his hands wide. "If they prove amenable, I do not mind trying to speak with them, but I don't really trust them to remember we were here at all, let alone whatever bargain they had with us."
"I don't especially like the idea of killing them, but... if you think that this is somehow something that the First World would object to, Wisp, I think you're putting too much value on mites. Not even their gremlin kin like them."
"'Tis not about 'value', for Pharasma's sake, an' not about their popularity! 'Tis about respect for - " Wisp sputters, beating her staff agitatedly against the dust as if trying to expel an excess of emotion. "Wretch or not, a mitflit be a fey, an' there be a right an' wrong way about it. Some forms of respect have nothin' to do with the fey itself an' everythin' to do with what it... with what it... it's... the flow of a..."
The gnome seems to lose their thread and founders, unable to keep the words flowing in the right order, let alone in an order that makes any real sense. It's too much, and all at once. Going from an argument that dug up too many old thorns to playing sycophant for an abusive coxcomb to this... They look to Brental, then the strange new elf, hoping to find an ally in this argument.
Signy shrugs.
"I respect humans, and kill them when it needs done obviously. I don't see a difference between humans and mites as it goes. I like Peri and Tyg; I'll kill the mites."
Wisp doesn't seem to know how to respond to Signy's seemingly bland attitude towards the matter. She just gestures emphatically towards the tree and taps her walking stick against the road.
Meneas sighs. "So long as they are here, Wisp, they will provide an ongoing excuse for any anti-fey sentiments in those who come to live or pass through here, leading to further violence." He pats Veil on her neck. "But feel free to try to negotiate with them, certainly. If you have some means of sending them back to the First World, so much the better."
Signy continues with her analogies.
"I'm not going to go looking for bears to kill just to kill bears. But if a bear is a threat, I'll kill it."
"Peri and Tyg said the mites would readily murder them. Mites are fey who don't like fey. I'm more than a little willing to kill fey that would kill fey I like."
Brental's brow is fixed furrowed as he listens to Meneas and Signy debate with Wisp.
"I don't have the same inherent reverence for fey that you do, Wisp," he begins. "But I did not come here to kill them either."
Brental is working to coax Vodnykel into going into the tree, which looks like it will be an uncomfortable squeeze.
"I would prefer to negotiate with them. They have stolen things from other residents of this area that I would see returned. Their warfare with the kobolds must end, for both their sake. I cannot hope to change their nature, but I do not see us as a warring party. We are, however, entering their home unannounced, and that will make us seem to be a threat. If they are willing to wait instead of attacking us on sight, then that will be a good thing. Let's try, at least."
With a hand on his cold iron dagger, he adds, "But I'll not be killed by them this day either."
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During the pause without a plan, Signy lays things out as she sees them for the others.
"Well, here's what we know. The kobolds and mites hate each other. We seem to have a reason to believe we can get along alright with the kobolds. The mites seem to be the bigger problem in the area, maybe even being covered under our banditry charter, although it may be closer to sneak-thieving really. We probably can't be buddies with both. We probably aren't going to be able to make peace between them, and might just make everyone mad by trying."
"I think the place we're at is 'kill the mites'. What exactly would announcing ourselves help with?"
“Mainly just getting them outside where we can stand up straight if it all goes wrong,” Lina says. “I’ve talked to a few people who’ve had occasion to fight through a goblin warren, and I gather that makes what would otherwise be an easy fight considerably more nasty.”
And then the conversation blows up, including a demonstration of the diversity of thought within druidic circles. She watches and listens for a few minutes, trying to figure out what everyone’s main concerns really are before contributing her own thoughts.
“We’re not planning a massacre,” she reassures Wisp, “just trying to assess the situation realistically. If they surrender what they took from the kobolds peacefully, or after a certain amount of brawling, well and good. Otherwise, it’s as the River Freedoms say: ‘You have what you hold.’ Holds for kingdoms generally, sadly, even beyond the Shifting Lands, but certainly among bandits and bullies, which one would think they would think of. Running face-first into a spear also tends to run certain other risks as well.”
She elaborates with the unnerving sang-froid of a witch, a Daggermark alchemist, and an elf brought up in the embrace of Calistria’s teachings – or, worse, a combination of all of the above: an uneasy, deeply cynical smile just tugging at the corners of her mouth. “What we know is that the kobolds and the mites are at war, the former are willing to treat with us, and, at least according to them, the latter stole something vital to their religious ceremonies, without which they’ve been exposed to some sort of pox. Demanding whatever the thing is and enforcing a peace seems the best option, and if the mites refuse, without a very good reason, they’re welcome to take their chances and throw down their arms once they’ve tasted iron.”
She turns to the tree again, glance flicking up from the entrance among the roots into the branches, as if searching for inspiration. It’s quiet, so she’s not sure the group’s even being watched, and she wonders how far her voice will carry down below in any case. She’s not sure how much luck they’ll have if they all try to sneak between the roots, though. She looks to the others before taking a deep breath...
Signy slides off her horse and digs into the bag on its back for a bit of bread and jerky to snack on while she waits. She also keeps her bow leaning right against her and ready to go.
"If y'all want to talk with them be my guest, the stage is all yours. Here's the thing though, even if it goes swimmingly and you get the kobolds' whats-it back and everything ends in big grins, nothing will have changed. They will still be the same horrible little s!&%s they've always been. They'll still be a menace to everyone who isn't them, and we'll be right back here in a month or two anyway."
Brental considers Lina's comment about the goblin warrens and suddenly feels an anticipatory ache in his neck and shoulders. Fighting while crouched would certainly not be pleasant. And especially with the prevailing mood and the evidence of carnage, some sort of combat seemed especially probable. He sighs resignedly and pulls Vodnykel back from the tree. Not yet, at least.
"I suppose Iomedae and Sarenrae are more of the gods of redemption. But even they have a breaking point where their tolerance breaks," the druid muses. Brental doesn't know much more than the basic tenets of the major religions of the world, but Signy has shown herself about as ready for a fight as any Caydenite. Brental appreciates that about her, even if she's faster to act than he might prefer.
As Lina calls out, Brental retreats back a safe distance with Vodnykel, hanging for a moment back near Wisp.
"You know I'm not much one for making nice," he says, idly itching at his scalp, damp with the day's travel. "Perhaps you can try to reason with them, if they come out to greet us. I admire your intentions."
Brental smiles at the gnome as he tries to encourage her.
Meneas inclines his head slightly. "Signy's right. But I'll let you do as you like - maybe these ones are smarter and less malevolent than the others." He ponders a moment. "I will say, I'm not very stealthy, and without Veil, I'm not at my best in terms of fighting. That said, I'm willing to do battle if need be, and to sneak... if I must."
Signy slides off her horse and digs into the bag on its back for a bit of bread and jerky to snack on while she waits. She also keeps her bow leaning right against her and ready to go.
Lina’s voice rings out under the huge tree’s crown as she attempts to summon the mites. Her toes curl instinctively on the ground as she, well, stays on her toes and imagines, hopefully, the sycamore’s roots giving just the slightest twitch as the reverberations of her shout die down.
She keeps her hands off her spear, for now, and any other of her weapons, but she makes very sure she can easily reach sword and dagger, and keeps her scanty handful of incantations almost on her lips.
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The peculiar elven woman calls out in her sing-song voice for the mites of the Old Sycamore and for a time nothing happens at all. No response as even the birds quickly still their calls. The party is almost ready to proceed when they notice the first big puffy blue head emerge from the hole in the tree's roots, then another, and another. More and more ugly little gremlin creatures crawl out of their hole until they number eight in total.
Finally one emerges that appears to be a female of the species but as she emerges from their subterranean home she is quickly surrounded by the hideous black forms of the creatures snaking out around her. Deadly pincers, shiny black carapaces, and many MANY legs are the sight which greets you as the five giant centipedes rapidly spread themselves out around the woman taking position with the other mites.
Hobbling forward between two mites that appear to be taking turns attempting to toss caltrops in one another's mouths and actually swallowing them with a slight cheer when they manage it successfully. The woman stares at the party, squinty through her swollen black eyes and pulls out a dagger picking her rotting teeth with it before she addresses the group.
"O que temos aqui meninos? Uma nova caixa de brinquedos para brincarmos, talvez? Que bom que eles se apresentem aqui para nós, já que acabamos de jogar fora nosso velho brinquedo. Mas o que esses novos brinquedos querem, eu me pergunto? Brinquedos de guincho, guincho! Eu ouviria seus lamentáveis apelos por misericórdia!"
Signy looks up when the mites and creepy minions emerge, but she stays where she is. She stops eating and exchanges the remaining bread in in her hand for a flask of acid since they've so conveniently decided to stand all together in a bunched group.
Then she waits.
Meneas eyes the puny fey from beneath his hood, shaking his head slightly. "Well, that's hardly a reassuring start. Anyone recognize the language?" His hand rests lightly on his cold iron sword.
Oh, beggar me, Lina thinks as the mites pour out en masse and – what is worse – rely on a language she doesn’t know. She drastically updates her acquisition priorities for her grimoire, but for now she tries to make any sense of the mite leader’s words beyond the rather cocky tone.
“It’s not Aklo, I don’t think,” she says quietly. “There’s definitely a bit of Elven there, but it’s very deep down. Maybe Undercommon? I think we have to be the ‘brinquedos,’ but I have no idea what that means apart from being pretty sure I don’t like it. I think she’s expecting us to grovel.”
She switches to Elven, trying to avoid any fancy flourishes, and trying to adjust her pronunciation to the hint of her own language she detects in the mites’. She looks around helplessly to see if any traces of the fighting are visible from right under the tree, hoping to be able to point them out. How revolting. “The kobolds. We want their statue. Let them pray to their gods at least, even if you want to keep fighting.”
What did Brental say their god was called? Sharptooth? She also tries Draconic, just on the off chance, and then inspiration strikes. If she’s not getting across verbally, she’ll root around in her pack for a scrap of parchment and stoop to sketching her best impression of a kobold attending to a cult image.
While his companions are struggling to understand the misfits, Brental reaches into his bag and pulls out his newly acquired linguist's codex. Clipping through, he runs the feyspeech continuously under his breath as he looks up the phrases and tries to translate for the group.
This had been an area where Brental had excelled in his studies with the Oakstewards. Would it work for him this day?
"O brinquedo range muitos ruídos engraçados, mas eu só entendo alguns deles. As palavras que entendo me deixam com raiva. Ela chia muito dos kobolds! Esses desgraçados estúpidos! Os que não entendo me fazem pensar que estão zombando de nós! Como todos os outros."
The mite woman sneers and spits at the ground where she proceeds to throw her dagger to the ground and point at the floor emphaticly shouting.
"Eu te dou uma última chance de coisas altas! Implorar! Implore no chão como uma lagarta e não poderemos cortá-lo onde você está!"
Signy watches while sucking on one of her front teeth with her tongue. Things seem to be going about as well as she expected.
She sighs, and then calls over. "Maybe try Sylvan?"
Brental finds the right series of pages in his book and frowns. He was beginning to get a sense of their speech from its similarities to Elven, but gets the specifics after reading a bit.
"They are considering us something to play with, like Vincent Surtova. They're angry about us talking about the kobolds. They think we are making fun of them. And they want us to beg for mercy. They are threatening us now."
Brental makes no move towards his knees. He glances at Wisp. "I can translate for you, but it's now or never if you want to try."
Brental tries a couple of quick phrases to stall, though they come out slow and measured as the druid makes sure his pronunciation is close and his syntax is accurate. "Espere por favor! Queremos falar primeiro."
Brental holds himself high and unmoving while continuing to glance more at Wisp than anyone else.
A dry chuckle emerges from beneath the knight-errant's hood, before stopping somewhat shortly. "I'm sure they think they're quite menacing." Meneas says dryly, though he prepares himself to urge Veil to charge against the puny critters.
Just so there's no unfortunate confusion about her plans, Signy adds "when you get tired of all this, or they do, move aside. I have a good opener before you start hacking."
The mite woman looks excited momentarily and holds her arms wide. "
Sim bom! Finalmente o brinquedo faz sentido! Guincho 'Por favor' mais brinquedo! Nós gostamos desse."
Brental continues to translate loosely, trying to keep his face neutral. He doesn't quite capture all of the nuances, so the level of arrogant superiority with which they address the group gets lost along the way. His eyes, however, involuntarily begin to shade crimson. They were outnumbered about two to one including their animals, but this seemed to be somewhat more neutral territory rather than being within the warren. Still, attempting a parley might be preferred.
Lina changes her mind about fetching sketching equipment when the mite leader has her fit of pique and throws her dagger down threateningly. She’s not about to turn her back on the creatures, under the circumstances.
Nor, though, is she about to just roll over, yet. With Brental’s help, she tries to set up an opportunity for Wisp to try winning the things over, since she seems so eager to do so, piecing together something like a diplomatic offer.
"Por que você quer a pedra idiota dos gnomos, afinal? Tenho certeza de que você não precisa disso para lidar com eles, ou com a próxima almofadinha que tropeçar em seu caminho, mas o que acontecerá se você encontrar alguém que não será desanimado facilmente? Por favor, pense em seu povo! Quantos mais você perderá enquanto continuar lutando com os lagartos?"
A thinly-veiled threat is not far to seek in Lina's words, as she puts an ironic twist to the mite leader's demand, and is notably not grovelling. Nonetheless, she keeps her voice sweet and her expression friendly, leaving room for others to build on her words.
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Signy continues with her analogies.
"I'm not going to go looking for bears to kill just to kill bears. But if a bear is a threat, I'll kill it."
"Peri and Tyg said the mites would readily murder them. Mites are fey who don't like fey. I'm more than a little willing to kill fey that would kill fey I like."
Wisp avoids eye contact and taps the staff repeatedly against the ground. Either she doesn't have a response or she doesn't know how to voice it.
Brental's brow is fixed furrowed as he listens to Meneas and Signy debate with Wisp.
"I don't have the same inherent reverence for fey that you do, Wisp," he begins. "But I did not come here to kill them either."
Wisp gives several small nods and limps towards the tree, uncharacteristically bold, it seems, as she follows to stand beside Lina. She is tense, her eyes narrowed, her hand tightening on the staff as she works to ease her breathing and settle her racing heartbeat, working a prayer for the world to walk with her a ways and guide her words to come . It's not just the argument that has her rattled. It's not even the whole exhausting day, even though every altercation seems to bleed her a little drier of the words she so urgently needs right now.
To say that Wisp worships fey would be a grotesque simplification, one that might even offend her. You don't worship fey. You respect them. You avoid them. You deal with them. You trick them. Rarely, when forced to, you scare them, or even fight them, or even slay them. But to kill a fey - even the most wretched of their number - is to cut down an ageless oak. It is a terrible price for peace.
Even so, her fingers curl tightly around the staff when the mitflits begin to spill from their foul warren. She listens carefully, struggling to make sense of things with what Elven she was taught, and prepares to speak.
She's still rattled. She's not in the right state of mind for this, and she knows it. But Wisp is also certain that if she doesn't act to stop the bloodbath, no one will. So the gnome takes a deep breath, pounds her staff against the earth - sparks fly from the tip and scorch the grass beneath just before being quashed by the strike of the staff itself - and speaks with as steady a voice as she can manage.
"Your Ladyship! Please, listen to we ragged wretches, Great and Noble Lady of the Earth, Fair Baroness of the Many-Legged! Legends of your glory, your cunning and wisdom have spanned from the Kingdom of Brevoy to the Empire of Cheliax, and it is truly an honor to behold She For Whom Ten Thousand Knees Bend In Servitude!" Wisp carefully avoids trying to use the mitflit woman's actual name, nor implying that the woman is the one in charge of the whole colony, because she has no idea of the former and no certainty of the latter. Besides, she rather has a feeling the mitflit is not accustomed to being addressed with the sorts of titles she is using, and she is rather hoping it will catch the mitflit's fancy. "We are sent to treat with you and your kin, My Lady, and to bring our greetings from your neighbors in Brevoy."
She clears her throat and curtsy low, but not too low. It is the respectful prostration of a visiting dignitary. She shoots the others an imploring look to at least provide some gesture in kind, though she doesn't expect much at this point.
"However, My Lady, we also come bringing sore tidings. Wretches spread ill and unfair rumors of the noble mitflits, deceive the worthy of your nature and intentions." Her expression goes grave. "I beg your forgiveness, My Lady, for to even speak these uglinesses - these rank lies being told about your noble kind - agh, it disgusts me to even repeat them, but you are a Noble Lady and deserve to know."
She pauses to make sure the mitflits are curious before continuing, beating the staff in another brief flicker of flame if she needs to recover their attention. "The mitflits be a noble people indeed, My Lady, and the people know this. Aye! Tales are told far and wide of the glory of the Old Sycamore." She gestures dramatically to the great tree. "But foul cowards have been spreading ruthless lies. Lies that you are..."
Her voice lowers to a dreaded hush.
"... less-than-pleasant neighbors."
She presses on, afraid that if she stops talking she will lose her words again. "Of course, this is absurd. Why, the kobolds never wished to fight with you! They are unworthy crawling lizards who know that their place is in their disgusting, wretched holes of cold stone, not your glorious, comfortable caverns of cool earth, and they have always respected your wisdom, your mastery of the Sycamore. Indeed, all have always known that the Noble Mitflits are far too important, far too dignified, and far too mighty to even bother with the silly, unimportant nonsense beyond your Great and Mighty Tree. Does the dragon leave its lair to battle with mice? Does the queen leave her throne room to bicker with street urchins?
"The kobolds never, ever thought ill of you," she says, raising a finger, "until they were deceived by a force of malice into believing that you were nothing but unseemly neighbors - thieves, even. But you and I," she smiles sweetly, "we know that the mitflits are a wise and ancient and extremely important people, and have never been anything but neighborly. We know that you would have happily returned the silly little idol of the kobolds had they but asked politely. The noble mitflits are far too powerful to concern themselves with such matters."
"Of course, a price will have to be paid for their actions, mistaken though they might have been. But why sully the mitflits' hands with the worthless blood of some lizards? To do so would only add credence to the words of the deceivers, and might even damage your noble reputation." Wisp holds out her hands, almost begging the stupid little gremlins to please not start a fight when she is this close to the bleeding front lines. "We have come as neutral emissaries - servants of your equals in the neighboring kingdoms - to offer our services as peacemakers. Let us negotiate the idol's return, and negotiate a proper punishment for the kobolds, that they will remember both the consequences of disrespecting the Sycamore and your great mercy. Let us settle this silly mess they have made, that the mitflits may return to their noble business and trifle no longer with the tiresome nonsense of outsiders.
"If we cannot..." Wisp shakes her head sadly. "I fear the glowing reputation mitflits have always enjoyed among our people might become... smudged."
The mitflit's swollen black eyes seem to squint as the creature cocks it's head to the side listening to Brental but glancing back at Wisp over and over again. Towards the end of the grandiose speech a blackened liquid substance, like befouled water, even begins to leak from the creature's eyes as it regards Wisp's words.
Considering them for a time the mite woman falls to her knees shortening her already slight stature and reaches into her back pocket behind her. For a second Wisp, Lina, and Brental are hopeful that this is the kobold's idol she is retrieving but these hopes are quickly dashed as a wickedly jagged tipped dart is flung out at the gnome with surprising force and astounding speed by the mite woman.
As the dart pierces into Wisp's sternum the mite woman spits at them is harsh tones.
"Seu sarcasmo machuca, odiado inimigo. Quase tanto quanto isso vai acontecer. O seu partonismo não o poupará de nossa retribuição! Agora você vai sentir nossa dor!"
Lina is absolutely delighted to realize she’s traveling with someone who enjoys words at least as much as she does. The small druid lays it on so thick, though, that the witch finds herself wondering if Wisp actually believes what she’s saying.
I wonder what she’d do if she ever meets something more deserving of flattery. A true dragon, say, like in the tales? Fortunately, Lina has long experience with keeping both secrets and a straight face, so neither her eyebrows nor her lips so much as twitch, though they’re sorely tempted with amusement. ‘Less-than-pleasant neighbours,’ quotha.
She watches said uncivicminded creatures for any false movements, almost wishing she were dealing with something more sensible like proper gremlins, a feeling she knows would go over about as well as dusting the lot with iron filings or fetching up any of several other charms that stand ready in her thoughts.
A few seconds later, she's glad she did, as the leader of the mites rejects the adventurers' overtures in no uncertain terms.
Wisp gasps and stumbles back as the dart punctures her torso, a shallow but painful strike. The gnome glances wearily back at the others, and draws in a deep, shuddering breath. "Signy, dear," she says, with a long-suffering bitterness gnawing hungrily at every word, "be the kobolds' idol, by any chance, a very small, jagged arrow?"