This place is idyllic...
Outside, an individual wanders into the market, a bedraggled mark from all the others around... him, maybe, although it was hard to tell. He wore a long coat, concealing almost all of the shape of his body behind its thick, seemingly leather material. A wide-brimmed hat covered the upper half of his face, concealing most everything except for the occasional glimpse of what appeared to be cold, lifelessly grey and white eyes. A red scarf, if it could be called that, resembling more a long, cloth rag, was wrapped carefully around the lower portion of his face, covering up to his nose, the red tail thrown over his shoulder, and allowing for naught but the aforementioned eyes to be seen. It was surely unsettling, perhaps even disgusting, what hid behind the mask, grey flesh with an odd texture.
His ungainly movement, reminiscent of a drunkard or medicated, was unsettling, making it seem like he was barely strong enough to be walking, but the persistent strength behind his figure shone through, however dully, the stumbling seeming an almost cautious behavior, like he was faking it, maybe to look more vulnerable than he actually was...
He carries a shovel, held in one limp arm, the blade facing the ground. It's caked in mud and... perhaps blood, once you look at it closely. The blade of the shovel is sharp and jagged, as if it had been used as a spear-like weapon before, and parts of it had maybe chipped off, the durable steel being generally worse for wear.
The man stops for a moment in the market, eyeing the people eyeing him, and scans in a circle around him, feet planted steadily, helped by the handle end of the shovel, planted alongside the feet in the dirt.
Nobody around him had likely seen him before, or had any knowledge of how he got here, perhaps regarding him as a homeless person... although that seemed strange, considering that Cluj wasn't known for it's homeless population.
Indeed, he seemed alien, in every sense of the word. He clearly wasn't from here, and there was something... unnatural about his appearance.
It didn't matter to him, of course. He knew his own story, knew why he was here, just not what he was doing.
He steps off to the side of the street, against a building, cautiously surveying the area before spotting... a bar. Such a strange thing. It had been quite a while since he'd been inside such an establishment, quite a while indeed.
He steps away from the building, and steps lazily across the street, reaching behind him to grab his shovel before continuing into the establishment.
Quite a crowd. We might... have us a party.
He looks around as he opens door to the establishment, for a moment standing motionless. He doesn't know exactly why he decided to enter... He hasn't felt hunger or thirst for a long, long time. He is still reminded of his... well, his human nature, he supposes. He eyes the crowd.
Soldiers. How quaint. And indeed they were, the recognizable, organized type of folk, clearly strengthened by their time in service. Perhaps the strength was earned, perhaps learned.
A woman. No, a beast pretending to be a woman. Or... maybe a woman pretending to be a beast. He is momentarily reminded, perhaps by the noticeable... ears, of the woman, or perhaps the foxlike nature, of an old friend... or perhaps he was an enemy. The lines do blur, after all. Perhaps this one was friendlier, however.
Other people pass his vision, their forms unimportant to him, rendering him not acknowledging but aware...
And then he sees, lower to the ground, a smaller figure. A beast... Nay, something living, in a sense of the word.
Then... there's the unmistakable stench of magic. His times with the darker side of it have perhaps weakened his ability to sense it so quickly, but there's the more... inspired side. The side given by Gods or a bloodright.
Interesting indeed... What has guided us here?
He steps further into the bar, carefully maneuvering around people to come to the bar, where he takes a seat some distance away from the fox-eared woman, which he warily eyes for a second. He places the shovel leaned against the bar, and opens his jacket to rummage around, finally pulling out a notepad and piece of charcoal. He spends some time writing a couple words before showing it to the woman, holding it out in a hand covered in leather gardening gloves.
It said, in short, roughly written straight letters of Common, Speak Common? What is going on?