The Blacksmith hesitated, still cradling the box to his chest. Instead of setting it down, he simply stood there, as if reluctant to merely set it aside. "It is... a fragile gift," he answered, with a tone of soft suggestion.
When Forgraves' greeting ground to a halt--recognition in his eyes--the Blacksmith turned and gave the Collector some sort of... look. Whatever it was, it turned Algol's near-predatory stare into a roll of eyes, a sigh, and a "Oh, very well." The exchange went unexplained, but he looked to Forgraves, then. "Forgraves... how lovely to see you. And how kind of you to invite us for tea," and when a faint sinister tone threaded through the words, the Blacksmith gave him Another Look.
He eyed his brother, and exhaled. "...I apologize," he murmured to him; "force of habit." Then, more loudly again, to his hosts: "I do adore tea. I'm certain that... whatever you have made will delight us both. My brother is so very easy to please," and there was a faint dour note in it.
The Blacksmith sighed gently. He set down his box, at last, and drew out two plants, one at a time. The first was a beautiful little bonsai: with tiny, five-pointed reddish leaves, and a delicate trunk. It looked like an ancient tree, gnarled and rough, yet was less than a foot tall, and was planted in a glazed, rectangular ceramic pot in hues of gilded blue and green. The dirt around its twisting roots was thick with moss. "This... is a bonsai. -Have you heard... this word? It is a tree--fully-grown... but tended, all the years of its life... to remain delicate... and small. A microcosm-... a reminder... of life, in grand form; but small enough... for a table. It will still need... light, and water... sometimes. And this," he went on, setting the bonsai back in the box, and retrieving a far smaller pot. This one held a small, green plant, but clearly young, this one: a seedling of some kind. "I have brought you... six small pots... with seedlings. This is... a true tea plant. You will not... find its like... elsewhere in the cave, but... with proper tending? It will be... a fine drink. It is where... Algol gets... his tea," he added, with a smile in his words and a hint of playfulness in his tone.
The Collector was looking around, and after a moment, swept his robe out from beneath him and--taking Forgraves' words as an invitation--sat on one of the mud 'chairs.' He looked to Banshy. "Ahhh, but it is quite possible he knew me by my title. I do not give my name out to just anyone. My brother," he added, with his own faint tone of reproach--eyes flashing to him--"does not always share my reservations, it would seem. No matter. Thank you for the invitation. The food smells quite appetizing."
@Forgraves