Strut. Flanked by Snap and Serve. Made her grand entrance. Or rather, she glided. Into the centre of the emotional wreckage.
"Darlings!" Her voice, a melodic counterpoint to Linkin's gloom. Cut through the mournful atmosphere. "The lighting is simply divine! For a 'Tragedy, Trauma, and Triumphant Makeover' segment! Such raw, unfiltered pathos! The camera adores it!"
Snap was already in motion.
Flash! Click! Whirr!
"Focus on the glistening tear tracks! The slumped shoulders of despair! So vulnerable! So real! This is award-winning material!"
Serve produced a velvet cushion seemingly from nowhere, upon which rested several shimmering mood boards.
"Fetch the mood boards, you say, Ma'am? Already fetched! I'm thinking 'From Ruffian to Redemption Chic'! Or perhaps 'Highwayman to Haute Couture'! We'll start with a deep-cleansing existential facial scrub! Exfoliate the regret!"
Keldric groaned. Oh, for F@#$'s sake. The chaos, it seemed, was far from over. And now with added skincare.
The Bandit Leader, who had been teetering on the brink of his own tearful confession about a childhood dream involving competitive cheese sculpting, snapped back to resembling furious bewilderment.
His face, previously pale and deflated, began its rapid return towards angry reddish-purple.
"Skincare?! MAKEOVERS?!!" he sputtered, bits of spit flying. "ARE YOU COMPLETELY MENTAL?!?! YOU'RE BEING ROBBED, YOU SPARKLY LUNATICS!!!"
Pointed a trembling finger at Strut and her tiny assistants. "YOU THREE! YEAH, YOU! THE WALKING DISCO BALL AND HER... HER TINY FASHION SKELETONS! YOU THINK THIS IS A JOKE?!"
Strut surveyed them with a critical eye, much like a head designer inspecting a poorly prepped runway model.
"Darlings," Strut announced. Voice carrying with an effortless authority that cut through the lingering sniffles. "While Linkin has so eloquently addressed your inner turmoil, your outer presentation is simply… a catastrophe. An affront to the very concept of villainous chic. We cannot, in good conscience, allow you to continue offending the visual harmony of this otherwise quite charming forest."
Snap and Serve nodded in solemn, tiny agreement.
Snap adjusted his monocle that had appeared out of thin air. "Indeed, Ma'am. The aesthetic dissonance is frankly painful. Such poor posture. Such drab, ill-fitting leather. Not a single statement accessory among them."
Serve produced a clipboard and a tiny, elegant silver pen. "Subjectively, their current 'look' rates a 1.2 out of 10 for 'Attempted Intimidation,' and a flat zero for 'Overall Style Synergy.' Urgent intervention is required."
One of the bandits, a wiry fellow who had managed to pull himself together slightly after Linkin's performance (mostly by convincing himself it was all a bad mushroom trip), blinked at the approaching skeletal fashionistas. Rusty dagger still clutched. Bravado? Paper-thin. "H-hey! What do you think you're doing? Stay back, you... you fancy bone-bags!"
Strut simply raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow (a marvel of skeletal manifestation). "Fancy, darling? We prefer 'fabulous.' And we are not staying back. We are here to help. Whether you like it or not. Consider this an… aggressive style consultation."
Gave a subtle flick of her wrist. Snap and Serve fanned out, moving with explosive speed, and a predatory grace that didn't quite fit their tiny size or their supposed job.
Keldric watched, New wave of horrified fascination washing over him.
Okay. So they're not even waiting to be attacked anymore. They're going on the offensive. An offensive of what tho? Impeccable taste and weaponised tailoring? Are they going to measure him for a new villain costume before or after they knock him out with a hatpin?
The Wiry Bandit took a nervous step back, but found Serve suddenly on his shoulder. "Your stance, my dear ruffian, is all wrong for projecting 'menacing villain.' We'll need to start with your core."
Before Wiry could react, Snap was on the other shoulder. "And that lighting! Utterly unflattering for your... unique features. Let's add some drama, shall we?"
Snap, with a flourish, manifested a heavy-duty, industrial-sized flash reflector dish. The kind usually propped on a stand. Except Snap wielded it like a miniature, skeletal Hercules hefting a golden shield.
CLANG!
The Wiry Bandit, startled by the sudden appearance of a skeleton on each shoulder offering unsolicited posture and lighting advice, flinched and instinctively swung his rusty dagger.
It skimmed harmlessly off the polished silver surface of the reflector.
"Darling, your entry into this... ensemble... was all wrong! No impact! No drama!"
Snap critiqued, then angled the reflector sharply, catching a stray sunbeam and directing it straight into the bandit's eyes.
Then, as the bandit recoiled, Snap quickly produced an oversized, very powerful camera flash unit, aiming it with both tiny hands. Triggered it. A blinding, high-powered strobe.
FWOOSH-POP!
"Aaaargh! My EYES!" the bandit shrieked, dropping his dagger to claw at his face. Hands flailing. "WHAT THE F@#K WAS THAT!?!!"
Stumbled back. Disoriented. Legs doing a wobbly dance.
Snap adjusted a tiny, manifested cravat that hadn't been there a second ago. "You were simply overexposed, darling! A rookie mistake. We'll have to work on your lighting awareness. And perhaps a touch of concealer for those under-eye circles of desperation."
Another bandit. Burly. whose existential crisis had been momentarily paused by the sheer weirdness of the fashion intervention, decided this was too much.
Lumbered forward. Low growl rumbling in his chest. "Enough of this… this… fancy talk!"
Serve, unflustered, tutted. "Fancy? My dear man, this is foundational. And your aggression is dreadfully creased." Manifested an extendable selfie stick, easily five feet long when fully deployed. Held it like a surprisingly nimble quarterstaff.
Flick of tiny skeletal wrists, Extended it to its full, improbable length, tripping the charging Burly Bandit flat on his face.
THWOMP!
Bandit landed with a grunt that shook the forest floor.
"Mind the flow of the ensemble, ruffian!" Serve chided, prodding the downed bandit with the fluffy powder puff he had attached to the selfie stick's end. "Such a clumsy composition! And those dreadful wrinkles in your tunic… simply appalling!" Then, with a theatrical sigh, Serve produced a large aerosol can labelled "Instant Poise & Panache (Catwalk Collection)," aimed it at another advancing bandit's face, and let out a short, hissing blast of heavily perfumed, glittery mist.
PFFFSHT!
"Goodness, the sheer audacity of those stress lines! And is that a stain? We must address this textural travesty at once! A hydrating, confidence-boosting mist is clearly in order!"
The targeted bandit yelped, batting at the sudden cloud of lavender-and-chamomile-scented steam. Not injured. Just very confused. And possibly smelling of a spa day he never asked for.
Keldric just stared. This was performance art. Weaponised fashion critique. Foldable reflectors as shields. Camera flashes as flashbangs. Selfie sticks as… surprisingly effective tripping hazards with powder puff accessories. And now a debuff: Unwanted Aromatherapy and Forced Relaxation via glitter-mist. Are they going to start throwing spools of thread like ninja stars next? Or will Strut deliver a cutting critique of their life choices that literally cuts them? The System should be giving out achievement points for witnessing this level of creative combat.
The bandits. Confused. Partially blinded. Smelling of a luxury day spa and desperation. Tried to regroup. Their faces were a mixture of fear, indignation, and sheer 'what-the-actual-F@#$-is-happening' bewilderment. This was not the easy mop-up of some delusional fashion victims they'd envisioned.
Snap and Serve. Worked in tandem. A ballet of bizarre battle-fashion. Unstoppable. Terrifying.
Snap produced a child-sized leaf blower, painted a tasteful matte black. He gave the pull-cord, which was almost as big as his arm, a tentative tug. Nothing. Another tug. A sad sputtering sound.
Snap sighed, a tiny, exasperated puff of air. He turned to the nearest bandit, who was still trying to rub the glitter out of his eyes. "Excuse me, would you be a dear? This simply refuses to cooperate." He held out the pull-cord.
The bandit, utterly bewildered by now, just stared. Then, as if on autopilot, reached out and gave the cord a hefty yank.
The leaf blower roared to life with an ear-splitting shriek.
VROOOOOM-WHIIIIINE!
"Thank you, sweetie!" Snap chirped over the din, then immediately aimed the nozzle, cranking it to "Gale Force Glamour."
WHIRRRRRR-ROOOOAR!
A sudden, strangely powerful, focused gust of air, carrying stray leaves, hit a charging bandit square in the chest, sending him staggering back, arms flailing.
"More movement, darling! More drama in your attack!" Snap directed, his voice sharp with artistic command. "Less brute, more breeze! Feel the flow!"
Serve, meanwhile, unrolled a surprisingly durable (and surprisingly long for a 3ft skeleton to carry) red carpet with lightning speed, right in the path of another bandit, who promptly tripped over it. Spectacularly. Face-first.
SMACK!
"Mind the runway, ruffian!" Serve announced, his voice crisp. "It's for professionals only! And your tumble? A mere two out of ten for style. Points deducted for the uninspired grunt upon impact. And the landing was simply... pedestrian."
A third, particularly unlucky bandit, found himself suddenly entangled in a bright pink, sequinned measuring tape that suddenly appeared. Serve wielded it like a cross between a ribbon dancer's accessory and a very sparkly, very tight ribbon trap. It wrapped around his legs. Tight.
"Heavens, your proportions are all wrong for this level of villainy!" Serve tutted, pulling the tape taut. The bandit hopped. Then fell.
OOF.
"Your waist-to-shoulder ratio is entirely unheroic. Or unvillainous, in your case. We need to take your inseam of incompetence! And that posture! Dreadful! Are you even trying to project an aura of menace?"
They're not even fighting anymore Keldric realised, a grin spreading across his face. This is an intervention. A highly aggressive, physically enforced fashion and style intervention. With potentially lethal accessories. And scathing critiques. Forget HP damage; this is pure Ego Depletion.
Strut, who had been observing with the cool detachment of a creative director watching a chaotic but ultimately promising rehearsal, finally gave a regal nod. "Assistants. Prepare the main stage. It's time for the final look.
The pièce de résistance!"
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