"What the hell did you say to that demon, Demon?"
"Shayde," said the demon. "And she was'nae a demon, she was Seeliegh. A Fae."
"You speak gibberish, demon," said Sir Ethil. "More so than usual. Everyone knows that fairies are small and have butterfly wings. That monster looked more like an insect trying to appear human."
Behind Sir Ethil, Tragyk the Mage snorted. He had a lot of trouble with pollen, every time Sir Ethil spoke. It was almost miraculous.
"I said 'fae', ye dingleberry. They're a lot different, ye ken. And fer yer big fat information, I was jus' talkin wi' her in Gaelic. Her home tongue, as it were."
"You converse with too many unworldly beasts."
"'Cordin' tae you, I am an unworldly beast. Why can't I have a wee chat wi' me fellow beasties?"
Not for the first time, Sir Ethil vented a growl of frustration. "The entire point of a Hero's Journey is to combat the forces of evil, gather and gain his strength, and make the world a better place by it."
"And rescue the ball. I mean, sexy lamp. I mean, Princess."
Sir Ethil stared at the creature. "You have the most peculiar way of talking, demon. And I would know what you said to each other, ere we head into the Forbidden Temple."
"Aw, it was just a bit o' parley. Which one of us best represented th' local intelligent life, what th' pubs are like, which way tae th' nearest crossroads. Just nonse. She was lost, ye ken. How would you be if ye took a wrong turn an' some lummock twice yer weight hauled intae ye wi' a bloody great sword?"
Sir Ethil laughed. "I would welcome the challenge and fight the foe with all my might, knowing that the Gods are on my side!"
Now it was the demon's turn to growl. "Now I ken tha' empathy is yer dump stat."
"What is it babbling about, Mage?"
"Just her home tongue of Nonse, Sir Ethil," sighed Tragyk. "Pay it no mind."
The demon coughed its way around, "Should be easy."
Sir Ethil grumbled his mandatory, "Silence, Demon." And had but a mere handful of second's worth of peace and quiet before their path was blocked by a fearsome spectre.
"Boo," it said.
The demon replied, "Pacem dicimus, nihil mali passus est."
The spectre deflated into the shadow of a little old lady. "Ah. Nasturtiums sapiunt."
"Don't tread on th' flowers," said the demon.
Now Sir Ethil was getting irritated. "Really? Do all ghosts speak Latin, now?"
"Well o' course," breezed the demon. "It's a dead language."