Pilfering The Past

[FennWenn]

Fenn wrapped his soggy, slowly-solidifying cloak around his person with a bashful slump of his antennae as Yvvie hurried over to fuss about him. Build a fire? A soundless laugh wracked him, and he shook his head. Where would they get dry firewood in a place this drippy-damp? Where would they get the fire? Where would they light it, amid the wet black earth and roots. Still, the offer was kindly. He pointed to himself then clasped his hands together, “speaking” one of the few little gesture-words he had shown Yvvone before they’d previously parted. “Am fine!”

Really, he was. Well, considering his previous skin-soaked state of being, anyway.

The tall not-drakari lady had sauntered over to them too for talking. Very loud talking. Fenn nodded blankly at what she said, not entirely registering the words. At least, she carried a warmth with her that combated his own cold magics, helping him in his goal of not becoming an ice statue. Going by the waterskin clutched in her hand and her relaxed demeanor, the fae detected drunkenness. It was a quality of being he’d be happy to match. Indeed, he wanted to ask for some of her booze.

That would have to wait, though. Fenn became faintly aware of a prickling on the back of his neck; magic-brightness stirred his being. It was with a sense of dread that he glanced over his shoulder. The gaggle of fae on the other side of the tree were suddenly not-so on the other side of the tree. A plethora of bright-winged and dark-expressioned fae peered from branch-perched and from behind the knobby trunk, their ears pulled back and their eyes narrowed — and with the dressed-for-adventure orange-hair at their fore. It seemed that the drunky lady’s boisterous nature — her unrepentant volume — had broken the camel’s back and garnered this prickly strawheap of attention. Fenn bared his teeth at them and sulked behind Yvonne. Considering the half-dwarf’s earlier… proclamations, they were probably double-ticked.

“Our apologies, but we couldn’t help but overhear your words. Pyromancer maniacs? Excuse us, but our magics are very much under our control,” the orange-haired fae called out, flames dancing around her crossed arms. Her amber eyes darted to Fenn. “Unlike certain other creatures.”

A quiet hiss escaped the puck. A certain unpleasant finger was shown — he spoke common-knowledge body language as well as his little hand-gestures.