#baronyofthesilverwolf

She opens the thermos and pours the soup into the platter.

The already rich broth shimmers, then brightens, turning a golden color threaded with faint sparkles of glamour.

It takes only a moment before the first mote notices. It drifts down and settles onto a noodle like a tiny raft. Another follows, perching on a slice of carrot. Two hover close, dicker in small, agitated arcs, then separate to claim their own bits of shredded chicken. Within moments, the surface of the soup is covered, a greenish-white layer of fluttering forms vibrating gently across the bowl.

A few little motes still hover around Thistle and Bronn, but are easily shoo'd towards the mass.

Gwen watches with interest, a part of her feeling incredibly proud of her mom's soup!

At first, nothing seems to happen. The motes cling to the soup, vibrating faintly, the greenish cast still dull and persistent. Then a shiver runs through the mass, subtle at first, then spreading outward like a ripple across the bowl. The sickly hue softens, thins, and begins to melt away, bleeding out of the sprites in faint wisps that vanish into the steam.

"It's doing 'something' " Gwen observes.

Art leans in to look closer. "They seem to like it!"

"It may have been dumb enough to work?"

A moment later, there is a thin, crackling sound... and the air suddenly fills with sharp, staccato sounds, like popcorn popping or a toy popgun firing in quick succession. One after another, the sprites fling themselves free of the soup, ricocheting through the air in sudden bursts!

RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT
PING-TING-TING-TING!

Art has to fling himself back to avoid one going up his nose! "Ack!"

They ping and skitter around the room like sleet in a sudden squall, rebounding off walls, windows, and furniture. Wherever they strike, delicate frost blooms for an instant, lacy and intricate, before settling into thin crystalline patterns.

"What th' (&&^^&((*(^$%!?"

" ###################! "

One zips between Gwen's horns, and another almost clips one of Thistle's eartips!

BUT

the flurry passes as quickly as it came.

The sprites slow, their movements easing into gentle drifts. Now they are clean and bright, no trace of green remaining. Their fractal wings are complete and precise, each pattern whole and balanced, no two alike. They float through the room in quiet spirals, tiny fairy snowflakes at ease in their own shapes at last.

Art is ducked on the floor, covering his head. "Is it safe?"

She huffs.

"I think so. All kinds of Suzy Snowflake now."

The once-steaming soup is now frozen solid in the tray - and has an unpleasant greenish hue in any case, as though it had been aged into a proper sluagh delicacy.

"Well, I'll be." Bronn says, and coughs. He still sounds like he has a cold, but a bit of rosy-purple has returned to the hue of his cheeks.

He blows his nose, experimentally, and gives a relieved sigh. "I can breath through my nose again!"

Gwen blinks as one zips between her horns.

"Think we need to treat what's left as a bio-hazard..."

"Unless Elizbet is feeling brave," Gwen says staring at the results, then turns to Bronn and kenning him.

"Do you still want to gather them up?" Art asks. "Maybe we can take them somewhere more appropriate."

Bronn's glamour feels back to normal now, to Gwen's investigative senses.

"Well, they're pretty harmless now. Probably happier once they're outside."

Gwen has a guilty look on her face , then nods.

One lands on Thistle's nose for a moment, and brrrr! it gives her a chill like a nip of frost.

Gwen opens the door "There you go, folks. I think you'll find Winter Snow is a different kind of cold from what troubled you. And sorry if I was mean to you."

"You were worried and mother-henning, it's what you do."

Bronn looks to Gwen and bows to her from his seat, careful and earnest despite the blankets. “Dame, I can’t thank you enough. I truly thought I was going to perish in a sea of... effluvia.” He clears his throat, color rising in his cheeks. “I am deeply grateful.”

Art chuckles. "That sounds like a Sluagh name."

As the door is opened and cold draft comes in, the motes flow out that way, naturally drawn to the cool air. They drift past Gwen and a few rest of her for a moment, giving a touch of cold, but leaving lacy frost patterns on her rocky skin that linger, a lovely pattern, for moments longer than the warmer skin of the others.

Thistle tilts her head, fingers itching for a pencil.

Art does have a satchel that always seems to have books in it...

Gwen smiles at Thistle's commentary "I do do that yeah." Then to Bronn, "Any thanks should go to my lieges who I serve. I am their knight and by their will I act to protect all folk of the Barony. But, your thanks are appreciated."

"Oh and some to Thistle, and Art here," She adds.

One of the sprites, slightly larger, seems loathe to leave Bronn's side. It circles around him, and the sound of it's wings is almost like a tinkling noise of faint sleighbells in the distant night air.

"You should go, little one." He says, "Or you're bound to melt."

"I.."

She frowns behind the mask, then unscrews the jar from the Snweeper.

"Hey, idjit. You'll melt. C'mon." She offers out the jar.

It floats in lazy drifting circles, not seeming to want to follow the draft out.

When Thistle approaches, it floats to her, welcoming her presence as easily as it did Bronns, and investigates the inside of the jar.

"Bronn, you and Thistle both spent glamour. Do you want time by the balefire?"

"I'm good." She lightly settles her hand over the mouth of the jar.

A tickle of chilly frost tickles her hand, but the sprite seems happy to remain within.

"I was giving Bronn a choice," Gladiola says to Thistle, "YOU I'm totally mother henning, or at least gonna hurmph at you."

But she does have a slight smile as she says it. A hurumph will do if Thistle insists on not camping by the fire.

"I think I'll be good now, to be honest. I think... " A deep breath, "I might actually be able to sleep without coughing." Bronn says, gratefully.

"Good," Gladiola nods to Bronn, "Fortunately Chief Innovator Thistle knows her stuff, and Squire Arthur is most insightful. We're just glad you're okay."

"And glad you thought to bring the magic elixer that saved the day. Though, I am sad it's gone." Art is carefully bagging up the frozen bio-hazard soup remnants.

"Yeah, " She looks at it with a 'ugh' face and nods.

"Do you think there's any more back at the manor?" Art asks, hopefully.

"Probably a whole kettle," Gwen says "Mom does not cook for just one if she can help it."