Awfully put together, this little changeling he'd run across. He'd heard she had a level head underneath all that purple, but he hadn't expected it to be on quite so straight. Whether a good thing or a bad thing he wasn't sure yet—Needle seemed to deal best with the people who were a little cracked, he certainly fit in better—but either way he had her attention and she was ready to follow him, and that wasn't nothing.

“Let's get you out of this room first, lovely. This is where they're expecting to find you and this is where you've got nowhere to run—take it from a pixie, hiding in plain sight and public view will keep you safe more than skulking in your own little quarters.” His wings buzzed to life behind him, dragging his little feet forward as he propelled himself up onto her hand. He walked as though he was comfortable on flesh, little pin-prick heels dimpling the skin as he strutted up her arm. That damn song... this was not the place he needed a hotbed of activity tonight, but beggars couldn't be choosers. Making his way up to her elbow, he took hold of her sleeve with one hand and gestured with his needle to the table.

“Black sheep, black sheep, have you any ink? I've a letter to write our darling matriarch and I can't very well do it in gore, can I? That's a message I [i]don't[/i] wish to send, not yet, she's not exactly the forgiving sort and I'd rather keep off her naughty list for a time. Besides, there's no reason she can't be the best of friends so long as she keeps her fucking elf claws out of my head...”

Looking to her with a wide grin, he snapped the needle against the cauldron. “Tick tock. I'll write, you pack. We've got to get you out of this little shoebox of yours before the foot comes down.”