Tapping into a trope was something everyone did, but Trashscarf was perhaps more aware of it than others, having backed accidentally through the fourth wall more than once. Anyway, it was easy; a quick explore of Creel--and hadn't the place grown!--and he was able to find the right tavern. Not the one he and Bander had breakfasted at; no, that one was far too wholesome.

But down into the poorer edge of town, between a shop selling dubious potions and a general mercantile sort of store, there was a small sort of saloon, the simple front door and windows giving no hint to the back depths of the place. His urban instincts told him that this was a place where stories started. A quick word with the owner, and a note pinned to the notice board outside in the optimistic hope that he might even attract someone who could read, and the trap was set.

Trashscarf took his place that evening in the very back corner of the bar, back past all the tables, the spare barrels, the crates stacked haphazardly, the hulking old wardrobe (What the heck was that doing there?) and so forth. He sat at a table with his back to the wall, a few maps and diagrams spread across the table before him.

He also had a few pieces of smoothed out paper, and the stub of a pencil, in case he needed to make notes that someone else could read. And on the table he set his lighted lantern; the stained glass sides showed various horizons, and the light was like a welcoming campfire in the dimness of the back room.

The regular crowd was staying up around the front; Trashscarf noted at least one official-looking guy in uniform, but he was clearly off-duty, morosely staring into his beer. The rest of the patrons gave Trashscarf no more than a glance; but then, he wasn't trying to attract their attention. He paced back and forth from his table to the front, to peer out the windows hopefully, but the night wore on and no one seemed intent on taking up a life of adventure.

He shared a puzzled look with the bartender; the man had agreed to comp his drinks for the night on the agreement that Trashscarf's ad would bring in a selection of clientele with far more money than any of the locals, which always seemed odd because they were the ones looking to do dangerous work on only the suspicion of payment, but never mind.

To at least get some worth out of his embarrassment, Trashscarf kept his mug frequently refilled; and soon discovered that, if he was wearing Fluffy, the mustache, too, rapidly became inebriated, from being repeatedly soaked in the foam of a very nice selection of local ales.

He was teaching the mustache the words of an old drinking song-- it was a rather good contralto to his tenor--and had almost completely forgotten about why he was even there at all, when heavy footsteps rounded the corner of the wardrobe, and stopped dead. Trashscarf looked up, and stared right back at the tall young woman, dressed in hide and bone and steel, who'd loaned him a stick back in Barking; here he was like a dog himself, returning it! But she wasn't looking at the stick, she was staring at him-- or rather, he realized, at Fluffy.

"Son of a beached!" she squawked. "You--you actually found one? It's real?"

"Ya better believe it, tootsie," hiccuped Fluffy, and Trashscarf grabbed control of his mouth before it got him into even more trouble than usual.

"Miss! Or ma'm, or whatever pronouns you'd like, although I'd much rather get a name for a such a one so clearly clued into the workings of the Way!" Trashscarf exclaimed, scrambling to his feet with much more success this time, as he extended a hand. "I am called Trashscarf, and it is my great hope that you are, in fact, here looking for some adventure."

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"I was," she said warily, "But I didn't expect to see you again. Ever, actually. People call me the Woodstrider."

She inspected his hand, and then gently crushed it in her own, like a mastiff meeting a mouse. Trashscarf quickly withdrew to his seat, and she sat as well, looking at him as though he was something she'd found under a log and she wasn't sure whether he was edible or not.

"But first!" Trashscarf's bright smile rivalled the lantern, even with Fluffy quirking part of it up into a leer. "You clearly know more about this mustache business than I do, but I've recently become rather involved with the subject--"

"I ain't gonna eat his brain!" his upper lip barked. "Ain't nothin' there but a snack anyway, and he shore do taste funny."

"Buy me a drink and I'll tell you what I know," said the Woodstrider, and Trashscarf obligingly pushed over a full mug of an IPA that was so hoppy he hadn't even been able to take more than a sip of it before Fluffy had tried to crawl right up his sinuses to get away. The Woodstrider took it and downed it without hesitation.

"There's a legend among my people; I recognized part of it from your story. There used to be some weird folks, maybe some kind of cult, that wore big white fluffy mustaches. Those bandits you mentioned had some kind of quarrel with them, so they'd just go around shaving people, out of spite."

"Who are 'your people'? Trashscarf asked.

"I was raised by Orques," the Woodstrider said, narrowing her eyes and folding her arms like a couple of alligators getting comfy on a sandbank.

"Yes?" Trashscarf was swiftly tying a lot of new knots and nodes into his scarf, using some of Bander's black-and-white hair that he'd surreptitously combed from the Horse's mane on the way in. "Er. Orques?"

"You know," the Woodstrider nodded her head. "NonHumans. Big, strong. Pointy teeth. Fierce hunters and warriors, tribal structure, generally keep to themselves but you don't want to get in their way, especially when they're hungry. They found me when I was just a baby, and raised me as one of their own. Sort of."

"I see," Trashscarf said, now nodding along. "But you've left them?"

"They gave me a chance, but now I'm an adult, and I'm still too weak to keep up with them," the Woodstrider muttered. "They let me go rather than eat me, but I don't fit in with other Humans. So I just wander around the woods on my own."

"So, er, what do you do?"

"I stride the woods. I hunt things. Bring furs and meat into town to trade, sometimes do some mercenary work. That's what you're offering, right?"

"Ah! Far more, the Woodstrider, actually--"

"You can just say Woodstrider, it sounds better," allowed the lady, and Trashscarf gladly accepted the edit.

"Woodstrider, what I offer is far more than simple mercenary work. In fact, this is not just a job... but a Quest!" Trashscarf looked so dramatic and noble that you could almost imagine a glowing sigil floating above his head. "This land shudders under a terrible plight, and--"

"Are you playing some kind of game?" demanded the Woodstrider, who was pawing at the maps on the table. "These aren't from around here. And this one has a word search and a kid's menu on it."

"We already done did the crossword on the flipside," Fluffy put in.

"My Ways are vast and complex and unruly," Trashscarf retorted, grabbing the map back and wadding it up and stuffing it back into his scarf.

"You got money?" asked the Woodstrider, as blunt as her axe wasn't. "I thought you Waywalkers weren't allowed to carry money. That's why no one bothers to rob you out on the roads."

"We can carry it, we just have to spend it briskly, or give it away to anyone in need," Trashscarf sighed, "So, no, not on me-- But! I do have wealthy friends, and I can almost possibly maybe guarantee, if we're lucky, that you'll come out of this richer than you were before, and you have my Waywalker's Word on that."

The Woodstrider considered this, glaring into the middle distance. "Just one thing," she said slowly.

"Yes?" Trashscarf asked, bright-eyed innocence as Fluffy did its best Dali impression.

"Take off that mustache," the Woodstrider growled menacingly.