'Don'tCryOverSpilledTea...'

“Halt!  I cannot allow you to go any further!”
The softly masculine voice held no room for debate.  The words were a clearly demanded order.
The traveling adventurers blinked and looked up the lazy lull of an incline ahead to spot the elvish band barring their passage.  White-fletched arrows strung on longbows pointed unmoving in their direction.  One elf stood apart from the others.  His long pale blonde hair swaying ever so subtle in the gentle breeze.  It was the only thing on him that seemed to move.  The man was otherwise a rigid statue with dark eyes pointed forwards down the hillside towards the group coming his way.
Pollade pursed her pretty lips and screwed up her brow.  “Hail!” the woman called out in a polite tone as Quarion came to stand still beside her looking up towards their elvish brethren up ahead.  The noble Sylvan chose not to speak up though he offered a salute towards the band, or namely, towards its obvious leader.  Zanza swallowed roughly and seemed to freeze in place after skittering to hunker somewhat behind the other two.  His adoptive brother simply arched one brow and came to a strolling halt.  Darfein De'Viir crossed his arms over his chest, hands resting near the hilts of his weapons as he stared out from beneath the shadow of his violet cowl.
“Greetings, there, Ivellos!” called out the last member of the party.  Well, in truth, he wasn't a member.  The man was more of a guide.  Keth Obad, the towering half-orc shaman, gave a friendly wave towards the elves up ahead.  The motion awarded him a small bob of the one in the front's head.
“Hello, Keth Obad of High Hobble,” Ivellos returned.  Pollade glanced over at the tall guide and arched her brow.
“You know them?” the ranger-bard asked innocently.  Receiving a nod from Keth she chuckled and smiled.  The woman moved to step forward, expecting that since the halfblood was known to the elves then things were on fair terms.  She was wrong.  Almost instantly, the whine of tensing bowstrings could be heard.  Pollade ceased moving and looked forwards with an expression of childish shock.  
“You cannot continue,” the elven leader spoke once more in his flat, unrelenting tone.  
“Well, I'll say!” the woman gasped, slapping her hands onto her hips.  “Why not?!”  Pollade looked over towards Keth and back towards the men standing atop the hill more than a hundred feet away and back again as if demanding some sort of explanation.  But all the half-orc could do was give a slight frown.
“You bring strange company with you, Keth Obad,” Ivellos warned.
“What's that supposed to mean?” the female elf murmured, looking extremely hurt.  “They haven't even given us a cha--”
“These are Chipper Dale's heroes, Ivellos of the forest,” the barbarian-cleric spoke up in defense.  His deep voice carrying loudly across the expanse between the two parties.  
“I've never heard of any drow called a hero,” the elf protested, his eyes narrowing.
All at once Pollade's shoulders slumped.  She glanced back at Darfein with a hint of worry in her blue eyes.  She and Quarion had met up with the dark elven rogue months before in the midst of overthrowing a drow city that had overtaken a dwarven mine.  A drow city that Zanza had previously belonged to.  Though the shy little druid had never seemed to hold any true allegiance to the houses of his would-be home.  After all, he'd led the adventurers straight into the Matron's quarters to assassinate her and had fought for two days alongside the elves he now stood hiding behind.  No, it wouldn't be Zanza that might take offense to such a comment.  But Darfein?  The drow was volatile when his ire stirred.  He seemed determined to be known as an individual more than by the color of his skin at times and other times the man seemed to sneer when others quivered before him whispering the name of his race.
The rogue arched one brow and snorted as he looked up towards the elven band up ahead.  “I'm not most drow,” he spoke in an eerily calm voice as a wry grin curled at his full lips.  “And I wouldn't presume an elf to hear of our heroes anyways.”
Pollade sighed as she gave the man a look that said 'that's not helping, you know' before she turned around towards the elves up ahead.  “Why should one's race matter when they prove themselves worthy!” she called out proudly.  
Ivellos blinked and glanced at his fellows sidelong before staring the woman down.  “You would vouch for this drow?”
“I'd vouch for them both!” she retorted with a little huff.
“As would I,” Quarion spoke up.  The wood elven ranger shifted his weight and took a deep breath as if speaking up loud enough to be heard across such a distance was an uncomfortable thing for him.  “We fought side-by-side over the period of several days now and never once has either faltered us.  They are trustworthy, I swear by it.”  The short, stocky elf looked over to the rogue and cowed druid.  Silently he whispered to himself how he hoped he was not misspeaking.  It was true that he had trusted them both with his life already, but they hadn't known each other for an extended period of time.  Darfein smirked over to Quarion before he turned his smug grin forwards.
“Forgive me if I am not entirely convinced,” the high elven male retorted with a frown.
“Hey!” Pollade complained, taking a single step forward only to collide into Keth's arm as he put it out to block her.  The petite female glowered over to him as if she were ready to stalk forwards and tell the other elves what for and his bodily barricade was unfair.
“Zanza sorry.”
The squeak of a whisper distracted the etriel's attention back to the little druid.  He looked up meekly to her and the others, swallowing roughly.  “Zanza sorry.  No mean cause trouble.”
“Oh, honey, it's not your fault the silly little high elves are being stupid,” the ranger-bard cued beneath her breath as she turned around to step close to the smaller male.  Gently she set her hands onto his shoulders, shielding him partially with her own thin frame.  Pollade turned her face forwards again with a pouting frown as if daring any of the high elven band to call the drow dangerous now as she cradled him.  The sight did indeed send the others to glancing back and forth between themselves, but none laxed their bows.
“I vouch for them, Ivellos,” Keth spoke up at last.  The burly fellow crossed his arms loosely over his barrel of a chest.  “I have asked them here on behalf of High Hobble to try to deal with the recent...troubles.  If Chipper Dale has trusted them, then why not us?  Maybe they can stop the attacks and make our lands safe once again.”
That seemed to hit a chord.  Ivellos frowned but his shoulders did seem to ease from their taut tension.  “If you speak for them as trustworthy then we shall extend ours,” the elf spoke and gave a nod to his men.  
“Well, I didn't say they were trustworthy.  I just said that they are Chipper Dale's heroes and they have done well there,” the half-orc drawled.  All four of the adventurers turned to give him a look at that comment in varying degrees of astonishment...and offense.  Keth scratched at the back of his bald head.  “They've done right by Chipper Dale and even took down the drow there.  So they cannot be all bad.”
Darfein snorted and rolled his eyes.  Why were they helping these people again?  Seriously.
Ivellos shrugged and then waved the group forwards.  “Come.  Sit with us and share tales.  Perhaps then we will know the truth of you.”
The moment the man's back was turned Pollade made a face at the high elves, sticking her tongue out with a huff.  She pouted at Keth's back as the tall humanoid led the way up the hill as if taking personal offense on the behalf of all herself and her male friends.

The high elven band was no more friendly when they at last led the others to their meager camp.  For the most part the scouts stood off to the side as silent sentinels.  Their faces were stoic but their bodies spoke of their tense concern at allowing two drow so close.  Ivellos ordered one of his men to start up a fire and fetch some tea for all those around.  In short order they were all nestled close around a small blaze with mugs in hand.  Darfein sniffed at the drink and wrinkled his nose.  Pollade and Quarion seemed to sample of it just fine.  Though it was somewhat bitter for the woman's tastes she did not complain.  She was determined to be polite even if her hosts had been somewhat less than.  They could be as haughty of sticks-in-the-mud as they wanted.  She'd prove she was the bigger person.  
Zanza, on the other hand, had the most interesting of reactions.  The little druid stared blankly at the cup offered out to him at first.  When he accepted the draft he sniffed at it like an animal might.  Tilting his head from side-to-side he brought it near his lips only to frown at the heat.  He blew at the snaking tendrils of steam as he saw others doing before taking a small sip.  The drow smacked his lips loudly and clacked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.  The elven scouts exchanged glances and arched their brows watching him make strange faces at the taste.  Ivellos frowned.  “Is it not to your tastes?” he asked flatly.  The druid didn't even seem to realize he was being spoken to as he took another swallow.  And once again he quivered and shook his head in a little flourish and squinted his eyes.  It was almost like watching a dog lick at peanut butter.  Pollade started giggling helplessly.  Zanza looked over at her innocently and offered a shy, wry grin.  He kept drinking at the tea and eventually seemed to cease his antics, despite whatever seemed to be making him fuss about it.  Darfein did not.  
The rogue had allowed the  hot liquid to cool enough to touch to his lips.  And instantly spit the stuff back into the cup before even pulling it away from his face.  Dear lord it was bitter!  His eyes watered slightly and he held the cup towards his lap as if content to let it just sit there and not taste any more of it.  
Noticing it, Pollade frowned and grit her teeth as she spoke over the edge of her own mug in a low breath towards the rogue.  “Drink it.”
“I don't want to drink it,” Darfein retorted in the same manner, eying the woman.
“I don't care,” the bard returned.  “Be polite and drink it anyways.”
Some of the scouts nearer to the pair turned their gazes towards the debate as the drow subtly shook his head.  Pollade narrowed her eyes in feminine warning.  Still the dark elf refused.
“Drrrriiinnnnk it.”
“No.  If you like it so damned much, -you- drink it.”
“I -am- drinking it.”
“Good, then you can have mine.”
“No, I won't.  Because you're going to drink it.”
“No, I'm not, woman.”
“Oh yes you are...”
By now more than a few sets of eyes had turned on the arguing pair.  Especially as their grating hushed voices instead grew louder and louder.  Pollade reached over and nudged Darfein's arm to try to push the mug towards him.  The rogue frowned, resisting, as he bat at her hand.  The etriel did it again and instead shifted her 'attack' as he moved to counter.  Catching his forearm she gave it a shove.  Darfein pushed back and they ended up squabbling until the man let out a yelp.  The hot tea spilled over and splashed all along his stomach, hips, and loin.  Spitting out curses, the drow quickly wiped at the liquid with his cloak.  “You want to drink it now, woman!?” he snarled.  Only to be answered with a fit of giggles from the ranger-bard.  Slow but sure Pollade's humor seemed to grow contagious as Quarion chuckled beneath his breath and Zanza began to laugh at watching the other dark elf hop around.  Keth shook his head mumbling the word 'fruitcakes' over and over until at last even the high elven band began to snicker to themselves.  All of which of course only seemed to fuel Darfein's fire.  He glared daggers at Pollade and looked as if he were about to pounce her and be sure to drench her in the rest of her own cup.
Zanza chuckled as he shook his head and moved to take another sip from his tea.  It really wasn't so bad once you got used to it.  The drow lifted the mug only to blink as he caught sight of his reflection within the liquid.  That fact was hardly peculiar but for some reason he swore he could've caught a strange glimmer within the ripples.  His heavy brow pinched low over pupiless-magenta optics.  The small druid leveled out the cup to allow the drink within to settle itself still once more.  With a simple tilt of his head he could spy his reflection again.  This time there was no denying it.  The image within was swimming, its edges fraying.  Zanza's pulse quickened as he leaned over the beverage to peer all the closer.
Within his vision the drow watched as his visage shrank away as if he were no longer looking into some sort of mirroring surface but watching a figure step further and further away from him.  Even more frightening was the way that the familiar features began to twist and contort.  His already thin lips curled back from elongating fangs beside reaching mandibles.  His eyes burned with an unthinking malice.  Gaunt and hideous his face was mutated with enraged hatred.  Zanza swallowed hard as his eyes widened at the sight.  Before he could do anything, the face turned away from him sharply to look towards something off to one side.  The druid's heart thudded hard in his skinny breast as he ended up watching in on a scene unfolding before him within the quivering cup.  
There stood a large drider baring his figure at the forefront of its bulbous arachnid rear.  This monster that looked so much like him—no, it WAS him!  Zanza knew somehow in his gut he was looking at some image of himself—crawled down a web-strewn stalagmite.  Its mandibles clicked as it growled, salivating with anticipation as it came to circle in front of a shadowed figure.  The drow druid could see the humanoid squaring off against its foe.  Only to come up short.  Blades dipped towards the rock below as the drider reared up with a terrible screech.  And then Zanza caught a glimpse of the figure.  It was Darfein!
The rogue slumped his shoulders.  A metallic clang sounded out as the dark elven male released his scimitars.  “I won't fight you, my brother,” came the resigned whisper.  Darfein merely stood there, openly defenseless.  The drider shrieked in demented glee as it lashed out.  There was no resistance.  He would not fight his brother.
Zanza watched in absolute horror as the monster version of himself captured his adoptive brother and slowly began to spin him into a webbed cocoon.  Somehow he understood within his mind that Lolth had done this.  Had twisted him and sent him after Darfein.  He had failed...had be mutated under her magics and had lost himself.  And she'd sent him after his brother.  She knew that Darfein would not resist!  She had used him to get to his brother!  And he'd let her!  The druid watched as the vision seemed to zoom in on the rogue's surrendered features just before they were encased within webbing...
“NO!!!!!!!!!!!!”
Everyone blinked as Zanza suddenly screamed in absolute terror.  The tiny druid dropped his mug holding the elvish tea to the ground where it cracked and broke into pieces.  The drow flung himself away from it, retreating in on himself like a scared child trying to huddle against a terrifying world.  The elves tensed, some even drawing their bows at the ready or reaching for various weapons belted at their hips in alarm at the strange reaction.  Keth and Ivellos arched their brows in curious concern.  Pollade and Darfein instantly ceased their antics.  The drow rogue sidled past the elven bard to rush to the other male's side.  Only to have Zanza shriek and swat at him.
“No! Go away!  Get away from me!” Zanza cried out—for once not using third person to speak of himself.  The druid whimpered and crawled away from the rogue, putting his head in his hands as he rocked back and forth rapidly.
Darfein froze in place, one hand still extended slightly.  The cocky male looked as if someone had slapped him across the face.  With a wooden shaft studded with stone and metal beads.  His lips parted slowly as if he wanted to ask what he'd done.  Zanza had been little more than a lowly commoner enlisted into slaving services for the matron when Darfein had met him.  In return for aiding him in his hired mission to assassinate the pompous bitch that had taken over the dwarven mine, he had accepted the other male under his wing.  Darfein was the last of his house.  The only other living De'Viir until he had passed the surname onto Zanza as well.  He had been trying to teach the younger male to hold some sense of worth and dignity to himself ever since and had grown a true brotherly affection for the smaller man.  Zanza had been all too eager to prove himself worth something to his new-found friends and had especially bonded to his adoptive brother.  Never once had he cast Darfein aside.  Never once had he pushed the other male away.
Darfein blinked.  He recoiled his hand and felt the strangest sensation.  His vision blurred and his eyes...dampened.
Quarion looked once over towards the rogue before moving closer to the druid.  Zanza flung his arms around the muscled wood elf, clinging to him like a child might.  The Sylvan gently embraced the scared drow with a look of worried concern on his gentle features.  Zanza shifted about as if trying to maneuver Quarion's body in between himself and any direct route towards his brother.  He knew of any of them, that the strong wood elf would be able to stop him.  Of anyone, Quarion could physically keep him from hurting Darfein if it came to it.  Zanza trusted that.  He took faith in that as he pressed his face against the other elven male, whimpering to himself as he shook terribly like a leaf caught in a breeze.
“What's wrong with him?” Ivellos asked, his face wrinkled in confused astonishment.  Quarion could only shrug and offer a look of concern.  His sky blue eyes moved over towards Darfein once more.  There the rogue stood, looking as if all the weight of the world had slammed onto his shoulders.  Standing there looking as if at any second he might cry.
Delicate digits slid onto Darfein's shoulders as Pollade stepped close.  The impish demeanor was gone thoroughly from the woman as she cooed softly to the hurt rogue.  The tall etriel eased her arms boldly around him as she encouraged him into an enveloping embrace.  And there they stood.  Both rangers cradling the two drow males that the high elven band had been so adverse to allowing to advance on fact of the danger of their being born with black skin and white hair.  There they stood trying to comfort two distraught brothers that had no idea why the other was curling away from his companion.  
“Shhhh, shhhh, it's OK to cry,” Pollade whispered endearingly as she tightened her embrace.  “It'll be OK, I promise.”