Quentin looks offended as the satyr says all elves look alike, "Excuse me! Mister I Didn't Catch Your Name but I'm Clearly a Bad Leader, not all elves look alike. In face only one two of use are even elves and out of those two only one of us is even native to here. These two only have elven blood in them." Quentin points to Raven and Gal, "And this one is human." He then points to Elwin. "Whoever this Naica is I suggest you remember what they look like instead of just attacking random people. Not everyone is as nice as us. I know elves that would have turned you to stone for this."  

"Can anyone do something for him?"  Raven asks, moving to the one who was trying to flee.  "I don't have much skill with this sort of thing..."

Medicine:  20

Del goes over to poor Thistlebum - is he alive at all? Del will try to stabilize Medicine 22

If he is alive but not stabilized, Cast Healing Word for 5 hit points restored

As Galanodel casts his spell, Thistlebum's eyelids flicker and open. Then he sees Raven leaning over him, gives a terrified shudder, and plays dead.

Meanwhile, Patterbole drops his club, staring at Mindartis, as other satyrs slowly creep out of the arbor, whispering, "Feylord..."

Elwin relaxed, and grimaced at Patterbole as he lowered his weapon. "Are you daft?!" he nearly roared as he smacked Patterbole's chest with the back of his hand. "How could you mistake me for an elf? Have you never seen any humans before?"

Shaking his head, he planted his spear into the ground next to his feet, then glanced over at the others tending to Thistlebum. The satyr was lucky. Elwin didn't have a lust for killing--like a few frightening men he knew--but he wouldn't have shed a tear for a git that got killed attacking innocent folk.

What nonsense this had all turned out to be.

"Hey, you!" yelled the warlock, clear irritation in his voice, as he pointed toward where the boss had hidden. "Roffles, or whatever! I suggest you get your furry backside out here and explain yourself! No one likes being accosted for no reason, least of all an entire party of adventurers!"

Quiet and calm, in Sylvan Easy, Thistlebum was it? I'm Del Tosh, that's my friend. (not presuming Raven wants her name shared) She was the one who tried to stop the fight, remember - you just ran past some overzealous types. We'd appreciate your help figuring all this out. Persuasion 7

Del swaps out longbow for fiddle and bow, and does a little soothing rustic tune (to cover giggling over "Mandy the feylord" )

The satyrs all come out into the open now, half surrounding Del with wistful eyes, the other half surrounding Mindartis, and kneeling down.

Roffles, seeing that the fight is over, emerges.  Blood-soaked, and his hair still smoking, he throws himself sobbing at Mindartis's feet. "Oh mighty Lord of the Fey!  Please forgive us, and in your mercy and grace, come to the aid of us poor, humble Fey creatures! We have been cheated! Swindled! Hoodwinked! Bamboozled!"

Mindartis feels his fury ebb out into something he could think in. "What are you talking about Satyr. Who's been cheating you?"

Sniffling, Roffles stands up, and says, aside, "Go get it."  Two of the other satyrs scamper off.

"We had a deal with Amryl Naica," says Roffles. "My band worked their fingers to the bone in the Western Wilderness, foraging and gathering stuff the Naicas needed for their tavern and brewing.  Berries, truffles, mushrooms, special barks, rare wildflowers, wild game, you name it. The deal was that, in return, every month we got a barrel of the Naica's best beer."

The two satyrs who ran off before come back, rolling a large barrel in front of them.  They tip it up so it's standing, and Roffles smashes the lid in with a fist.

"Well, go ahead, taste it," he says in an aggrieved tone. "Does THAT taste like the BEST beer?"

"All this over beer?"  Raven asks with a sigh, getting to her feet and dusting off her tunic.  "You said something about missing nephews and such earlier... what of that?" She doesn't even glance at the beer keg other than to shake her head.

Mindartis looks to the Satyrs, then the barrel, then shrugs and goes to taste it.

The beer is watery, flat, sour, and has a strong overtone of mold.

"Of COURSE over beer!" says Roffles in outrage to Raven. "What else would we go to war over?"

"Wine?" suggests another satyr. ""Hot dryads!" says another. "Fried apples!" shouts a third.

"Elves have screwy priorities," Roffles growls. "And this isn't the first bad barrel they've sent us, the last two were bad, but not as bad as this. And oh, yeah.  My four nephews have been missing for a couple of months as well. The last anyone ever heard, they were going off to meet Lemmet Naica. Not a hide, hair or horn of them has been seen since."

Quentin rolls his eyes before saying, "Shouldn't you be more worried about your nephews than beer which is never good to begin with?" 

"Beer affects the entire band, Elf Lord," says Roffles with dignity. "It is the stuff of life and dreams, without which existence is meaningless.  My layabout nephews are just a pain in the tail.  But still family."

"Plus Satyrs have always loved a good party, and you can't have a party without beer in their heads," Mindartis looks down at them. "I will speak to this Nacia about your beer situation. And then maybe you can tell me more about your missing nephews. Now then, you are to stop attacking travelers in the road, do you understand me?" He says this last part with such quite ferocity and fury in his eyes that even his smirk looks terrifying.

Roffles quails slightly at the fierce expression, but jumps with excitement.  "Yes!  Yes!  Let's go to the Naicas and tell them off! We were JUST going to do that ourselves, just as soon as we had some...um...hostages to bargain with. But elves pay way more attention to other elves than to us, and even Amryl Naica will quail before the rage of a Feylord!"

As he leads the way toward the tavern, he continues talking. "My nephews are named Jop, Fip, Skump and Hart. They're always getting into some scrape or other. Last summer they got the idea of having elk races, and nearly trampled a gnome village.  Nearly got themselves killed, too, when the elks ran under tree branches.  They were pulling pine needles out of their beards, tails and nostrils for the next week, I tell you. Don't even ask about the time they decided to invent a flying machine."

As you near the tavern, some of the satyrs quietly slip away into the arbor...more and more of them, the closer you get. By the time you are near the steps up to the door, only Roffles is left, and he is looking pale in the face. "You know," he says, beginning to back away.  "Maybe I ought to leave this to you.  Elf to elf and all that. Yell if you need help, we're all out here backing you up!" He runs for the shelter of the grapevines.

"I'd watch your step in questioning the nobles."  Raven says to her group as they near the door.  "These are not enemies you wish to make..." She nods towards the tavern door.  "If you care about the opinion of someone who knows a bit about this place, you will find yourself simply gone, and probably the rest of us with you, if you make them wish it to be so. And by gone I mean quite dead."

Elwin was surprised his tongue wasn't bleeding by this point.

Attacking random elves--or anything close--all because of being swindled out of beer by their employer? And now fawning over some random Eladrin as if he was a patron of power? While off-handedly mentioning missing family members who'd tried to deal with the situation? And why hadn't these gits already done something about all this themselves?!

The young warlock knew he wasn't much for terribly complicated thinking or book smarts himself. But apparently he was a genius compared to this lot. It was all enough that, while he wasn't much interested in enforcing the laws himself, it sounded like punishing this Naica family directly would end a lot of this nonsense.

(( EDIT: N/m, Astalda worked it in ))

He grabbed onto Patterbole before the satyr could make his way toward Mindartis. "Hey," he growled in a low, hushed tone, letting the Eladrin handle the rest of the would-be brigands. "Tell me about this Amryl Naica. He's an elf, yeah? Why haven't you guys just taken him out yourselves? Is his crew too big? Or maybe he's a magic user, with more spells than you can handle? What's up with that?"

He had pulled the satyr close to him, holding onto his arm rather firmly, but not too forcefully, still rather annoyed at having been dragged into the situation. He clearly didn't intend to let go until he got enough answers suitable to ending the entire farce.

Patterbole looks at Elwin with a shocked expression. "But Amryl is a Naica.  She runs the tavern.  You don't mess with the Naicas. There's a reason they are the only ones in Lomalos who make beer and wine.  it's because anyone else who tries goes out of business.  Mysterious fires in the breweries. Mysterious blights on the vineyards. They say that if you go into her office, you never come out." He lowers his voice to a whisper. "They say that under the wine cellar is where they bury the bodies. Hundreds of 'em, from all the centuries since Myril first built the place!"

 Elwin nodded as he released the satyr. Intimidation. Of course. One of the oldest ways that scoundrels kept others under their thumb.

"Let's see how they react to folks who don't intimidate so easy," he thought to himself as he waited for one of the others to knock.