grimr like birb

Grimr arrives, following Spirit Warden Xenthos An'Ryshe, the Ebon Strategist.
Ilistala emerges from the shadows, curiously looking around.
Brennan Stormcrow cocks his head to one side, looking Xenthos over with an appraising stare.
Brennan Stormcrow exclaims, "Mighty Crow has his eye upon you, Dark Savant!"
A dark nighthag turns her gaze to Xenthos momentarily.
You almost gag watching Xenthos casually chew upon the rotten flesh stuck in the nest in the trees.

Xenthos pats the Master Ravenwood Tree in a friendly manner.

Ragniliff gives the world a smart salute.

Spirit Warden Xenthos An'Ryshe, the Ebon Strategist says, "This is the Master Ravenwood."

Ilistala, an enormous leopard chirps happily at Ragniliff.

You tilt your head curiously.
Dipping their head, you say, "Spirit Warden."

Looking somewhat disappointed, the ephemeral examines the Master Ravenwood closely. "Not quite a leader of trees, but still pleasing." they murmur, looking up into the branches overhead. "Quite like our Megalith in some ways, and yet not."

(The Shadow Kindred): Exeryte says, "Disappointed in the MR!!!"
(The Shadow Kindred): Exeryte says, "Target: Grimr."

You narrow your eyes to thin slits.

(The Shadow Kindred): Zala says, "Not quite a leader..."

The screeching of a crow echoes through the dark woods, sounding almost like harsh laughter.

(The Shadow Kindred): Exeryte says, "It's 5v1, we can take them!"
(The Shadow Kindred): Xenthos says, "Lol."

You have emoted: Takhre seems to take offense at the ephemeral's conclusion, though they bite their tongue and look to Xenthos as if seeking guidance.

Spirit Warden Xenthos An'Ryshe, the Ebon Strategist says, "Mm. It is a child of the Tree of Trees, an anchor between this plane and the Ethereal."

Zala presses her lips together.

(The Shadow Kindred): You say, "Takhre is a foolish birb."

A black direwolf tilts back her head in a low, resonant howl.
The screeching of a crow echoes through the dark woods, sounding almost like harsh laughter.

(The Shadow Kindred): Xenthos says, "Is a guest, can say whatever you wish!"

Floating in a circle around the clearing, they examine the nexus closely before nodding in understanding. "Pleasing. Glomdoring must be proud of such a thing." states the ephemeral, turning their attention to the mortals nearby.

Grimr sniffs you, trying to decipher just what that smell emanating from you is.
You begin to follow Xenthos.

You call upon the spirit of wolf to give you courage. As the power of Wolf infuses you, you let out a howl of the wild.

Grimr blinks incredulously at you.

You have emoted: Takhre stands their ground, peering at Grimr. They sniff as well, and poorly hide a wrinkled nose.

---> look Grimr

Amorphous in nature, this bulbous entity is composed entirely of roiling black fumes reminiscent of burning pitch and oil, with hints and flashes of burnt sienna occasionally peeking through their form. A quartet of guttering smaragdine flames shift across what might be loosely considered a visage in random, smooth motions as their attention is caught. Their ever-stirring physique drifts noticeably above the ground, yet excretes a trail of unctuous oil and slime to mark their passing. An acrid stench of overpowering fumes lingers in their wake, defiling the very air about them. Opaque, twisting coils of tainted, caustic smoke trail behind the ephemeral much like a cloak caught in wind, constantly shifting and wavering arbitrarily regardless of their movements.
They are wearing:
a miasmic bow tie of puce fumes
a busted and rusted steam pipe top hat floating clumsily within their head
a hemlock flower floats somewhere around where their lapel might be
an enveloping cloak of swirling, tumultuous fumes

Midnight shadows coalesce around a new day, and Mother Night embraces the land in utter darkness.

Grimr, the Pestilential says, "What an odd mortal."

Their feathers puffing out, you say to Grimr, "You are not quite normal yourself, you know."

Grimr, the Pestilential's bulbous form quakes and billows as they give off a discordant, rasping laugh.

You glance askance.

Grimr, the Pestilential says, "I very much like this one."

The heady scent of roses and congealing blood resonates from Xenthos, carried on a light wind.

Grimr, the Pestilential says to Xenthos, "I think I will take my leave. Your patience and explanations are appreciated, as were those of your leader."

Forks of black lightning strike up into the sky from the depths of the Balach Swamp, sending the dark clouds above swirling ominously.

You think to yourself: I hope this doesn't mean they'll make me smell like one of those blasted engines.

Xenthos nods his head at Grimr.