A relatively young, wiry human clears his throat awkwardly when there is a pause in the crowd's reaction, hops down from a large moss-covered perch, and steps forward.  He has no armor and no substantial-looking weapon other than an incongruous mop.  While presumably an adventurer, he has the look of a sailor, and not a particularly high-ranking one at that.  At a closer glance, however, Tick notices that the shaft of the mop is actually covered by smooth bark, and entwined in the mop head are a few green strands of grass or thin vines and a scattering of small white flowers.  A few also grow near the youth's feet.  He looks slightly nervously at a huge, heavily-armored cleric for reassurance, before addressing the crowd.

"It seems to me... Sorry.  I'm not the best at speaking.  To crowds I mean.  Well, important ones.  Not that..."  He pauses.  "I... Oh, I'm known as Monkfish, for those of you who don't know me.  Winterstalker in the Enclave.  Naval division, as we like to say, although I've been all over the place as of late."  He gives a nervous laugh and then straightens up, rallying.  "A pleasure to be among so many brothers and sisters."

"It seems to me that a declaration of war would be counterproductive, and not worth the risk of so much we hold dear.  The Red Wizards are generally horrible, yes.  Especially the undead ones or those that create them.  The slavers.  The defilers.  Many do awful things to further there own twisted ambitions, that harm the areas they inhabit and the life within.  Others are scholars and seem uninterested in the world around them."

"If we declare war on them as a group, however, they will cease concentrating on personal gain, infighting, and power; and will unite to lash out on the things, places, and beings we love most.  The things we swear most to protect will become targets of revenge.  Spells cast specifically to destroy or corrupt nature to hurt us, not just as side effects, albeit intolerable ones.  And possibly worse, when when we protectors of nature and civilization are besieged, or at the very least preoccupied, potentially worse threats may go unchallenged."

"By now you are probably aware of the 'Death Curse', and the unnatural warping of the cycle of life, death, and beyond which originates in Chult but threatens all of existence.  I hear rumors that there has been progress in combating it and restoring the balance, but I intend to return to those jungles to make sure.  And I hear that Szass Tam, monster that he is, opposes and distracts whomever wields the Soulmonger.  And there have been other threats.  Not long ago giant's stormed the world, wreaking havoc.  And before that talk of dark incursions from other worlds.  And demons."

"Are the red wizards a threat?  Many are, yes.  Maybe even most of them.  But I suggest gradual, covert, surgical strikes where necessary.  And conditional sanctions against the Wizards as you suggest, where our allies are willing.  As things stand, I will not be signing this declaration."

"I am not a coward.  I am willing to fight and sacrifice with the best of them.  But let's be what we have sworn to be... protectors, not aggressors."

Monkfish looks around with calm confidence now that he has said his piece, gives a slight bow, and backs into the crowd to perch on a boulder, awaiting the council's decision.

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(And after Tick shared Stabbing Master Ar ’soon's response...)

For a long moment Monkfish, motionless, just holds the gnome's gaze with a stare that is somehow simultaneously questioning, rebellious, respectful, haunted, excited, regretful, concerned, and even a little sympathetic.  He then sighs and walks off. 

Tanner later catches him practicing some elaborate martial combat moves... leaping, kicking, twisting, and twirling his mop like a... no, as a quarterstaff against a twisted, dead tree; yet miraculously stopping just short of touching it or any of its twiggy branches or fungal growths.  What appear to be small, jade tea cups have been balanced on the tree's limbs, small wisps of steam hinting that they are full.  But the vapor trails are the only thing disturbed by the violent, yet measured flurry of blows.  Monkfish is preparing, in his own way, for the troubled times to come.