Well, well, well. (Patreon)

Once again you've come up with a bunch of eerily accurate "guesses." Has The Three Elfettes been published somewhere? And if so, HOW?? I will get to the bottom of this, one way or another. But in the meantime, enjoy this next installment of my tale ... for those of you who don't already know how it turns out.

...

Rebecca was enjoying the music, while using her rabbit ears to casually listen in on various conversations.

Conversation 1: Talk between a canine professor and two ursine parents about their cub's grades. It seemed that little Abner Honeysnuffler could be doing better. Little Abner insisted that his dorm mates wouldn't let him study.

Conversation 2: Two groups of parents were admiring the decor. It was so VERY unlike anything they had seen in Eire!

Conversation 3: Two students, brothers, were being admonished by their mother to be good.

Conversation 4: A mink, a dog dressed like a Mephitist monk, and a strange Yew-man were calculating exactly how much of the buffet they could fit into their pockets.

Rebecca harrumphed at the lack of any valuable information. Perhaps something a bit more direct was required. She walked over to a group of gossiping hens wearing mortarboard hats, and smoothly insinuated herself into their conversation by subtly blurting out, “So… Heard anything about Zandar?”

“Oh, and THEN SOME!" the hens replied, obviously delighted at the chance to gossip about other faculty members. "Have you seen the way she sips her soup? She slurps like a drowning fish!" "And her posture! She’ll become a hunchback if she doesn’t stop slouching! And she dresses like such a tart! Though I wouldn’t expect anything less, considering what she teaches. I can think of a few ways she got the job." "She has such a chip on her shoulder! She’s always angry, always in a foul mood! And she can’t go a day without mentioning that Randolph person." "I believe the gentleman’s name was Randal." "No-no, I’m sure it’s Randolph. Always going on about how he ruined her life, and he’s the reason she doesn’t have any friends. She would have plenty of friends if she didn’t have such a repugnant attitude.”

Rebecca rubbed her chin in thought. From the sound of things, this Zandar was a sour, unlikable person. This matched Adler's description, but we were really here to determine: Was she dangerous? Rebecca decided to masterfully fish for more information. “Has she, perchance, gone on any rampages recently where she slaughtered an entire village?” Hardly were the words out of her mouth when Rebecca was rocked by a sudden chill. She had been so wrapped up in recent events, she had almost forgotten that Zandar had brutally murdered everyone - femmes and children included - in Bunkirk, her old hometown.

“W-Why? Is that something she’s likely to do?” the hens asked nervously, disturbed by the question as much as by Rebecca's haunted stare. “Not to my knowledge…” “Should we be worried?” “Xavier told us he had an excellent background checking system.” “Remember how she probably got the job, though.”

Rebecca wandered away from the group of hens in a daze, overcome with sorrow and rage. Adler didn’t want any harm to come to Zandar because Fuma might have a plan for her, but… But there must be a different way to strike out at her instead. Surely Adler would understand and forgive, if it was done just right...

Meanwhile, Thomson was dutifully paying half-attention to the inane prattle of the scholars around her, while focusing primarily on the feast of snacks and finger food on the table. After 200 years of eating ancient canned food, something fresh tasted better than holy ambrosia. In as dainty and refined a way as possible, she shoveled fistfuls of canapes and hors d'oeuvres into her craw like a ravenous beast. A student approached and asked if she was a new professor.

Thomson turned and replied “Maybe,” through a mouthful of shrimp, holding out Mr. Calaveras to field any additional questions. The student quickly backed away.

On the other side of the room, Burnside was attempting to eavesdrop on the wallflowers. She had, of course, heard the term used before, but because of the rarity of her attending a social event that didn't end in carnage as soon as she showed up, she had no clear idea what a wallflower was. She decided it must be a kind of plant. She approached a very large pot housing a miniature palm tree. How to proceed? She didn’t speak a lick of that plant language, but she had heard Adler use it plenty of times. Should be simple enough just to try and repeat a few things she sort-of remembered him saying. She leaned in close to the tree and conspiratorially made a bunch of wispy approximations of leaf rustling.

Clearly offended by what Burnside said, the mini palm tree shuddered and curled its fronds into the shape of a very rude gesture. Burnside swiped her hands across her own face in a display of shock and outrage. She curtsied and hissed venomously: “Oh, a wise-bush, eh? I’ll wipe that smirk offen yer bark!” She daintily punched the tree right in the pot, the way only a refined lady could. Instead of being knocked over, the large pot rocked back and then forward, knocking Burnside off her feet and sending her rolling towards the snack table.

Thomson had finally wiped her face and successfully gotten a scholarly man with a mustache to tell her about Zandar while showing off his expensive new belt. “Why yes," he said, "as a psychological specialist, I can tell you absolutely everything about Zandar’s mental and emotional state, and since she is not technically a patient, there is no breach of confidentiality.” During this speech, he was stretching the front of his trousers out to show Thomson the fancy, glittering belt buckle. Suddenly Burnside barreled into him from behind, causing him to lose his grip on a plate of lutefisk he was holding in his other hand. The fermented, rotten fish delicacy fell down the front of the man’s trousers. He yelped in shock and disgust as he began doing a frantic hopping dance, which sent him backing into a group of genteel ladies, and they all fell into a pile. They all began gagging at the vile smell seeping though the man’s pants.

Thomson glared at Burnside and set Mr. Caleveras down in the punch bowl with a splash. "Why I oughta…" she growled theatrically. “What are you doing away from your post?”

“Taint my fault!" Burnside protested. "Them thar wallflowers really pack a wallop! Plus, I’m hungry too! Taint ladylike to hog all the treats for yerself, ya durn pig!”

A nearby pig dressed in finery snorted “Well, I NEVER!” and oinked over into a corner to eat his salad plate angrily.

Thomson suddenly put on a jovial air. “Oh, you’re hungry! Is that all it is? Well then, close your eyes and open your mouth, and I’ll give you a BIG surprise.”

Burnside did as instructed. “Oh-boy, oh-boy.”

Thomson reached into a nearby tank and pulled out a live lobster. She stretched open the neckline of Burnside’s blouse, and dropped the unfortunate creature down the front of her shirt.

Burnside yelped in pain and shock as the lobster clamped down onto something that should never be pinched by a crustacean. She hopped around yelping and whooping back to her post on the outskirts of the crowd, bumping into and knocking over many people as she went.

Thomson fished Mr. Calaveras out of the punch bowl and casually used him as a drinking cup since he was already inverted and full of punch. She surveyed the room and mused that it sure was remarkable that no one had thrown her and Burnside out yet. Stuff like this must be a common occurrence. Or, judging by the way people kept avoiding eye contact, maybe they just didn’t want to deal with her.

Rebecca scanned her surroundings, looking for the perfect opportunity to lay a trap. An uninformed simpleton might assume she had abandoned her mission to pursue a personal vendetta, but a witch works in mysterious ways. She felt confident that by pursuing this course of action, she would find out the answers Adler wanted. How this Zandar reacted to being humiliated would tell without a doubt whether she was safe to be around or not. Plus, in a room full of wizards, the danger would be minimal. Probably. Unless a magickal battle broke out. Suddenly Rebecca perked up when she saw many large carts loaded with pastries and pies being rolled into the venue. All the lessons in japes and pranks which she learned from that holy book so long ago began to come back to her. “Perfect.”

A white-clad Chef announced loudly, “In honor of the legendary Baker Oonagh and her gifted daughter, I present this selection of the finest pastries to celebrate Pastry Day. Bon appétit!”

Rebecca casually sauntered over to the massive selection of baked goods and began covertly casting Gramaryes on them.

As Thomson continued to eavesdrop on the surrounding chatter, it occured to her that she knew nothing about Zandar, other than that she was a skunk. It wouldn’t do to run into her by mistake! She leaned over to a random person sitting near the snack table and asked without looking, “Hey, do you know what Zandar looks like?” She casually took a long sip of punch from Mr. Calaveras’s skull to avoid looking suspicious.

“She looks like me," The stranger answered. "I’m Zandar. Who wants to know?”

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