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A few years ago, Deekin would have been very cavalier about this weird demiplane that just inserted itself into the Underdark, much as he was about basically everything. Times have changed, though; now Tynan is a factor, so instead of skipping merrily towards the bar, Deekin keeps his crossbow high and his stance low, even as the baby pokes his head out of his rucksack and babbles merrily.
...This place doesn't seem to be dangerous in any way.
This is intensely suspicious.
But after a quick casting of See Invisibility, a nip of Barkskin potion for Tynan, and a nice loud Curse Song in case someone's still hiding somewhere, Deekin feels comfortable enough to sit at the very polite bar and get free drinks. (Tynan gets some kind of strange black milk, which he obviously enjoys. Deekin gets something he thinks might be apple cider with a shot of cow blood, which is very nice even if it does kind of remind him of Tymofarrar.)
Deekin nods vigorously. He will definitely consult someone on the proper order of operations when he kills the Emperor.
"Deekin can give you instant communication with Deekin over any distance if that helps. Even if just for chatting, really, would be nice to have friend to talk with in new universe."
"That - would be good, yes." Pause. "And I'm going to be absolutely livid if you're lying to me and planning to go do something stupid on your own."
Deekin waves a claw dismissively. "Deekin understand all your points! If Deekin want to assassinate people Deekin will ask for advice, but right now Deekin just want to protect little family of Deekin and Tynan and Enserric and possibly several million refugees. Want communication now?"
Deekin takes Enserric in hand, and the blade shimmers into a ritualistic-looking dagger whose blade is no longer quite real. His wings unfurl with the sound of a thousand fingers along a thousand wineglasses, and as he stands up from his seat he begins to sing.
His speaking voice is high-pitched and unimpressive. Put uncharitably, he talks like a living dental drill. Singing, though, he's a crystalline tenor, filling the air with wordless notes pitched in perfect harmony with the vibrations of the universe. He accompanies himself, somehow, with his wings; looking very closely, they seem to be slowly working along a suite of invisible violins, a ten-part harmony executed perfectly by every twitch of his body. The dagger in his hand works like a conductor's baton dictating the beat of a thousand inhuman hearts.
After some minutes of this, his eyes fill slowly with brilliant light, which flows across the divide into Callida's own. The music fades out; Deekin slumps, bleeding from his slitted eyes, and gropes around his pack for a potion of healing, which he knocks back to obvious relief. "Wooh. Fun... times."
Callida should maybe not let this person into her universe without being very very sure of them.
"Are you all right?"
"Yeah, Deekin fine. Spell not great for squishy little kobold body. Breaks some stuff on way out."
And now we can talk telepathically!
Just- think at me, I guess. Think a phrase with the intention for me to hear it. It's pretty intuitive if you let yourself intuit it, really. Oh- but, I should let you know, Enserric can hear this if he wants, as his wielder he's kind of integrated into my soul.
'Lo, Enserric drawls. I'll butt out if you'd rather.
From Enserric comes the sound of facetious applause.
Huzzah! Deekin cheers.
Back in meatspace, Tynan rolls his eyes at the general telepathy and vanishes back into his haversack/apartment.
Well, I do try. A lifetime of academia followed by several more lifetimes of sitting around in a roomful of skeletons does not do wonders for one's social graces.