Neve Nevergreen - Smallfolk Rogue
"This . . . this could work. She's, the witch is, she's an elf. Though - " Neve clambered up a nearby stump and made a 'get down here' gesture with one hand while the other went to her face, her thumb to her lips where she bit down hard enough to conjure a small welling of blood.
Gesturing to Valfren's forehead with the injured thumb, the halfling drew a shape in the air - miming what she wished to draw upon the elf's forehead.
"There's a mark, like the eye on the door. Just like it, actually. She's a . . there's a cult of . . ." casting a sidelong glance at the cleric, Neve stalled, though if it was for want of recollection or hesitation at invoking a heresy of the priestess faith. " - she is beholden to an old goddess, and there's a mark. I can draw it on you."
If Val consents, Neve begins to draw an eye upon the wildlings forehead, quick deft strokes revealing the outline of the image and then smaller, finer marks, almost runes, drawn into the edges of the epicanthal fold like unshed tears.
"The Seeress who claimed she knew this Witch; I think she was trying to impress my - " she almost says Lady Nevergreen, hauls herself back " - patron by association so I didn't put much faith in it. But she mentioned the mark, and said the Withered Witch was cruel to those she had cause to be kind to, and kind to those she meant cruelty. So smile like you're imagining their guts on your garters and speak like you would to a spoiled child with their hand caught in the cookie jar. Sweetness and venom. It's as good a disguise as any."
"As the sister says, have one of us with a flaming oil ready as a backup? If 'The Witch' needs to make good on a threat?"