Escape From The Gingerbread Castle

Meanwhile, in the quiet burg nearby the elaborate castle...

Aerian steps off the train, one modest sized brown suitcase following him. He's dressed in black leather boots, black dress pants, a plain dark grey dress shirt and a detailed red brocade vest, which are both hidden under an ankle length dark brown trench coat, the front flap buttoning at an angle over his chest.
He looks around the station, then starts following the commons-folk through it, and starts looking deliberately for a tavern or bar... which is usually the best spot to find out the whats-what of where you're at. The castle in the distance is noticed, and noted, for now. It's interesting for sure, but he has no desire or need to go check it out just yet.

 

{I googled fulginspits and found nothing. I do not know what this word means. I think you made a typo?}

Aerian does a couple of loops around the main area of town, before finding the tavern pretty much right back where he started. Not a complete loss, since he's got a fair idea of the layout of this place and his bearing set. He heads inside, glancing around and noting the general aura of the patrons as he makes his way up to the bar, asking for a room to stay for the next three nights.

{Guess this would be mostly open for anyone who wanted to jump in and be at the town?}

 

There's a short, stocky Irishwoman haggling enthusiastically with the bartender over the cost of his "sour, overpriced piss-water" and demanding to know whose leg she has to hump to get a decent drink in this town.

A canny observer would notice that she's been pocketing every cent left on the bar by other paying customers.

 

A young man stands before the door to the town tavern. There's a lively ruckus coming from inside, the usual sort that goes along with people when they enough food and booze. It is only now that this young man has ever been away from his family home, but drastic times called for measures appropriate to the situation! With his brothers scouting for foolery and adding extra guard for the beleaguered flock, there was no one left to look for aid.

Barnaby inhales, sets his face into a look of grim determination, grips his staff, and enters.

 

It's a pity that those cool sunglasses with the slats haven't been invented yet, because that's the look Moth is feelin'. That, and probably, like, a brotank with a pun about anal or something. As it is, he's making do with verbal puns. Oral ones. If you will.
He giggles to himself. Goddammit, he's funny. If only he'd actually said that one out loud instead of keeping up a running monologue in his head to amuse only himself. Bummer.

Oh my god. There's another ginger in here. Making dirty jokes. WhO THE F--
It's cool. He's supposed to be keeping a low profile. Mum would get pissed if he got kicked out of another bar. And he WOULDN'T get pissed. Ha. Because, drinking. Good one, Moth. Thanks, Moth!
(@Avi or Barnaby or Aerian, I guess!)

 

Oh goodness. This is a lot of people. Wow. Okay.

Barnaby really does't want to be rude! That would be Bad, but he isn't quite sure how to begin. Quietly he addresses the room.

"Hu- hullo." He is dismayed when this is drowned out to the sea of the other patron's voices. Well that didn't work.

 

Like, what even is the drinking age here? Does it matter? Nah. It doesn't. What DOES matter is that the word "mead" is HILARIOUS and Moth thinks he should have some more. No really, say it a few times out loud. "Mead." HA! It's just a funny word!
He hops up from the chair he's lounging on, if "lounging" is a word that can be used for slouching awkwardly in a wooden torture device that definitely doesn't count as a chair. Moth does a weird wiggly thing with his hips to realign his spine and spins around a BIT too quickly to make his way to the bar. Some Tolkien-lookin' punks are in his way, so he makes a face and sways in a different direction to get around them, careful not to mimic the drunken antics of a certain Disney property too closely for fear of the wrath of Mickey's lawyers. If his head were a touch less foggy, he'd have made a joke about piracy. Pirating... Pirates. No. Pirating of the...... meh, it's a lost cause.

His orcish roadblocks are like, huge, but he finally weaves his way through an open spot near the doorway, knocking into some kid whose dinner-plate eyes tell Moth he's never even seen a bar before. Ugh. Country folk. Wait... this. This is the country. How friggin rural must this kid be?

"Whoops. Sorry, button."

 

Moth turns away before the kid can respond to him. He tilts his head and frowns. That's... never a good sign. Mysterious disembodied voices that come out of absolutely nowhere in the middle of otherwise normal conversations do not bode well. Thoughts of mind control and traps and... things that eat adorable plump little boys who are easily swayed by promises of great treasures and also candy. Well. Mama didn't raise no fool, but she did raise a willful and contrary lil bastard.
"Don't tell me what to do," he announced to the room at large, earning him a confused glance from one of the nearby hulking bar patrons. He turns back to the kid he was talking to for some reason. "Did you hear that?"
(@Barnaby natch)

 

Eva tucks into her too-sweet, syrupy mead and raises her tankard in salute at the shouty sprout at the door, noting his shock of red hair. She calls out something completely unpronounceable and very Welsh and flags him down.

(@Moth)

 

WELL THAT'S TERRIFYING. If there had been a single iota of Moth's being that was still inclined to listen to the disembodied voices that had suddenly appeared in his head, the sound of a bloody SOBBING DEMON CHILD would have changed that iota's mind faster than you can say "mortality." Nope, he'd better do something about this instead of just ignoring it. How about... ignoring it harder. Yes, that little defense mechanism is a personal favorite of his. He scrunches up his shoulders and relaxes, shaking them out.

Someone is yelling. There's movement at the corner of his-- oh, look, the girl he noticed before is waving at him. And yelling. This is, of course, the best way to greet people! She's clearly got the right idea. He heads over to the bar, ducking beneath the sweaty underarm of a burly sailor type. Wait, isn't this country landlocked? Eh, that's a problem for another time. For now, there's voices in his head, crying, and HE'S the only one allowed to cry in his head.

As he approaches the girl, he realizes she is... speaking Welsh! Nice! She grins at him.

"Aw, man," he says as he hoists himself up to perch on the bar. "You're blowing my cover as a super-definitely-German. What gave it away? The hair? Or the fact that literally everyone in here besides me is drinking lager?"

 

"Bit of both," Eva grins. "Ain't much call for firebrands outside the mainland. Have a pint o' swill on me."

She flags the bartender down again. "Oi! Pint o' stout for the sprat if'n ye've got anything besides this bee's spit. An' put a decent head on it!"

 

"Hell yes. We're friends now." The bartender slaps a mug down on the bar and jabs Moth in the back. Moth squeaks and hops down. "Point taken!" He hops right back up and picks up his pint. "I'm Moth," he says, lowering the mug to reveal a truly spectacular foam mustache.

 

"Eva," she replies, shaking his hand. "What brings you off the island an' way the balls out here?"

 

"Cultural exchange." He shrugged. "Apparently no one does Bacchic revelry like Central Europe. Except, I guess, the Bacchae." He took another sip of stout. This time the head ended up on the tip of his nose. "My dear mother "dabbles in the occult," which is longhand for "makes a mean cup of tea and corrects people who mispronounce Hecate." I'm just here for the ride."

 

"Damn sight better than gettin' driven off by an asscheek full o' buckshot and a posse with torches." She snorts and polishes off her tankard, signalling for another of whatever Moth's drinking that actually looks palatable. "Apparently it's still thievery even when the sheepdog says he won't mind you borrowing a few lambs if you give him the scraps."

 

The young ginger just barely misses plowing right in to Barnaby, but he got at least some manners at least because he offers an apology right after. Barnaby is certainly glad to have caught someone's attention, even if on accident, but before he can open his mouth to reply, he hears a voice that doesn't seem to be coming from anywhere in the room whispering to him.

"Whowat? Quest? I think I'm already on one of those. It's me family farm, see, some beasty's been eating our sheep and-" Oh. That little red headed fellow wandered off already. Well drat. Would it been rude to interrupt his new conversation? No, this is important, papa said so. It's okay to interrupt people if it's something important. He'll just have to be as polite as possible about it.

Barnaby makes his way through the tavern up to the bar, keeping his staff up to fend the mash of people away from getting too personable. He reaches out and taps the other guy on his shoulder, then offers a shy smile.

"Hullo, sorry, I didn't get your name then. I'm Barnaby, and me family needs some help."

 

"Thievery stimulates the econ--" Moth's undoubtedly brilliant and well-informed spiel is interrupted by a tap on the shoulder. He swivels on the bar to see the timid kid he had bumped into earlier.

Moth looks at him for a moment. Incredible.
"I'm sorry, I think you've mistaken me for a responsible adult." He begins to turn back to Eva, but hesitates. This kid is so unbelievably wide-eyed and bushy tailed. How desperate must he be to go up to the first loser who crashes into him and introduce himself with a cry for help? Jeez. Moth has always been a sucker for naivety. Or maybe not so much of a sucker as a heat-seeking missile. "... but the mistake is flattering. I'm Moth. That's French for 'jackass.'"

 

@Aviari @Salem @Barnaby Shaeffer {Good morning! Wow much has happened since I left last night! :D Tagging everyone who's at the bar.}

After renting a room and pocketing the key in a safe spot, that is to say, on a keyring kept in his shirt, so about three layers in his clothes, Aerian buys a drink and sits at the far end of the bar, watching the room. He's not hungry, per say, there was many to feed on back on the train... but a light snack would be nice.

The two loud redheads stand out fairly well, as does the poor shepherd boy who was hanging out at the door and is now going to go join them? Something seems off about these three... and instincts tell him to be wary. ... ... Nah it's likely just because they're different, like himself. Obvious foreigners. Nothing out of the ordinary here... nope.
Unfortunately growing up sheltered and being turned and kept sheltered even then hasn't quite honed these instincts to keep away from werewolves... let alone learn how to distinguish them by looks and smell.

Aerian chews at the corner of his lip a bit, wondering how long these other foreigners have been here and if he can charm them a bit... to help him do... whatever it is he's doing. He doesn't quite know yet himself.

 

"Oh." Barnaby wilts. If his ears were a bit more pointy, it's possible you could see them droop. "Well no. I mean, yes? I mean- I don't mean that you aren't an upstanding person, sir, only that I don't have any assumptions, sir. I've just got no real good place to start and you seemed a well mannered sort. Of course it's not your job, is it, to help me family, sir. I'lll just, uh. I'll be off then. Sorry for disturbin' your conversation sir, m'lady."

Barnaby gives them both an awkward, unpracticed bow, then turns away to survey the rest of the room, looking far more dismayed than when he came in.

 

"Wait! Oh my god, kid, I'm joking. I'm making fun of you. Sit down." Moth glances around. "Or, I guess, don't, 'cause there's no empty chair." Moth leans forward to regard this Barnaby kid more closely, kicking his legs out in front of him. "You can't just walk in here all clean-shaven and innocent looking with a QUEST to SAVE YOUR FAMILY and NOT expect me to mock you a little. It's adorable."