[center][color=007236][h2]Glimmerdeep, South West Mangroves[/h2]

[h3]Bunfights and Buttonwoods: The Grogar - Glimmerdeep Parley[/h3][/color]
[url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aPnzuj9uFTY]Haints in the Branches[/url]
@Sigma[/center]

The shack was never meant for diplomacy. 

It clung to the gray-white sand like a barnacle, its driftwood beams creaking with every sigh of the tide. Yet tonight, the gnomes of [b]Glimmerdeep[/b] had transformed the ramshackle structure into the stage for one of the most delicate negotiations in recent memory—talks with their unpredictable neighbors, the [b]Grogar[/b].

Inside, two gnome merchants worked with frantic energy. [b]Tibble Reedknot[/b], the eldest, wrinkled his nose as he stirred a cauldron of grog—genuinely foul grog—with a ladle far too large for him. The gnomish pair were adorned in ceremonial armor. Lamellar shark hides were accented with flamboyant jungle fowl feathers and twinkling gemstones. Sharp oranges, iridescent greens; they were more likely to bedazzle a foe than defend against them. They stood shy of a meter, with Tiddle well under the mark, a glancing Grogar blow would shatter them with the same effort as the Potoo birds echoing outside. The armor was for show, to present a strong face to the Grogar, appeal to their [i]warrior spirit[/i] as they had been instructed. In practice, a true warrior  might think they were a prank. 

“Needs more sea water,” Tibble muttered.
 “No it doesn’t,” grumbled [b]Perrit Nettlemane[/b], already massaging his temples.
 “…the orcs will [i]taste[/i] the difference,” Tibble insisted, splashing in another ladleful of brine despite the horrified squeaks of the others.

On the table lay the rest of their “orc-appropriate” feast: [b]a tower of smoked fish[/b], arranged as tastefully as possible for something that smelled like it died twice; [b]loaves of stale, green-speckled bread[/b], which Tibble prayed the orcs would assume was intentional; and worst of all, [b]a massive bowl of lightly seared monster guts[/b], glistening with oils and stray bits of bone, still steaming faintly. None of the gnomes could look at it for long without gagging.

In the center of the cramped room stood their ambassador, [b]Lyrasha Tidewhisper[/b], a merfolk woman with gentle sea-glass eyes and a presence at once calming and oddly rough-edged. Her beauty was simple, natural—unadorned save for the tide-etched tattoos curling down her arms. She carried herself with an unrefined but earnest charisma, the kind that softened tempers and made warriors hesitate. Her more fishlike features lurked half-submerged in brine. A small slit in the shack’s floor had made passage for their amphibious friend. She would not last long exposed to the dry air– even without the fumes that curled within. 

She checked the table with a thoughtful hum.
 “They’ll respect the effort,” she assured them. “Orcs admire honesty—and bravery. This meal suggests both.”

“Or they’ll think we’re mocking them,” Perrit whispered.

Lyrasha smiled. “Then I’ll tell them the truth: that we prepared it with all the reverence we could muster without fainting.”

Outside, two towering lizard-kin sentries stood on either side of the shack’s entrance. Their obsidian scales shimmered with salt crystals; strange, erratic mambele blades shimmered crudely in the orange dappled dusk. The gnomes exchanged nervous glances every time they heard the guards low-growl at one another. The clack of fishing shoebills in the distance seemed to jag them with angst.  

Given the long, thorny history between lizard-kin and orc tribes, a fight breaking out before negotiations even began was not only possible—it was [i]likely[/i].

Tibble peeked out the window.
 “They’d better behave tonight,” he whispered. “If either of them starts a brawl, the orcs will take it as challenge-for-territory and we’ll be eating our own teeth by moonrise.” But the guards were not the only source of unease.

[b]Jinch Humithand[/b], a gnome dressed in muted robes and a fine ambered necklace– clearly not receiving the same instructions as his compatriots– parched lazily through a tuft of old faded papers. The binds of their booking were well worn, nearly rotted; her spine crackling with each delicate turn. Its text was strange, old, brutish, yet beautiful. It was orc writing. Memoirs of a great philosopher of their people. Brutish though the Grogar were, they had refinement in their midst. Great minds, art, wisdom. They were like gemstones hidden beneath the crusted opal surface. If only they could be polished. Or cut. 

Scattered amongst the pages of prose were spreadsheets. Crop yields, trade margins, mineral production reports, all the data that the gnomes had been able to gather on their Grogar neighbor’s economics. They were surely incomplete, but they were data, and to Jinch that was a beautiful as lacey worded classics abounding. But with this beauty came fear. Numbers that reflected the Grogar were hungry. Satiated, growing, fierce as ever; but Jinch knew they were hungry for [i]more[/i]. 

It was the more that he, his people, this jungle could not provide. At least not yet. The once great halls of Glimmerdeep, the endless jewel rooms, the wealth beyond analytics was gone. Or at least it was still buried. The gnomes needed time, they needed safety from the baiting axes of their brutal neighbors, they needed [i]investors[/i]. At the very least, they needed their neighbors occupied with the spoils of fertile lands elsewhere. Free passage elsewhere, or perhaps paid passage. For now, the northern wood was untamed. The gnomes that inhabited it were mystics and fools, their minds tortured by the Storm and their subsequent capture by the dense jungle prison which had erupted overnight. The only gems they cared for gleamed on the oily napes of their cassowaries. The mutants were a cancer; the same and yet different, spreading their ideas and obstructions with each pulsing generation. They needed to be removed, with force. And yet a [i]delicate[/i] force. One that could preserve the jewels in their midst and understand their value. Glimmerdeep needed a scalpel that was both. Glimmerdeep hoped their scalpel was hungry.   

[hider=Summary:] 
- An odd assortment of Glimmerdeep ambassadors attempt to parley with the Grogar
- They hope the Grogar can be convinced to raid elsewhere. And if not elsewhere, then at least in the northern woods where the indigenous tribes and strange noises stir. [/hider]