The Avvar standing quietly behind Lazar has been watching his back and trying to take her job as armed muscle and backup very seriously, although she’s distracted by her studious ongoing attempt to count Danny’s fingers. She keeps losing track as the dwarf gesticulates wildly in growing affront, as his fingers curl into a fist. Is it an inexplicably normal five fingers per hand, or only five total? Is it, like, a joke or something? An inside joke?

But all of her distraction vanishes at the familiar whistle of an arrow sailing over their heads, the rasp of drawn steel, the tell-tale signs of diplomacy having broken down. (This is why Riftwatch didn’t send the kids from Diplomacy.) She straightens, immediately whipping her own bow up to eye-level.

“Oh, we’re doing this already?” Astrid says, brightening as they hear the distant noooooooo_oo of Danny Five-Fingers vanishing down the ravine, now a mystery never to be solved. But she nocks her weapon, squints down the line, follows the trajectory where that first arrow came from, lets loose—

A few seconds later there’s a yelp, up on one of the rock ledges above the bandits’ camp. Her nose crinkles, drawing another arrow as one of the men marches toward Lazar.

“Really did think you were being polite,” she says to her colleague.