"Take off the mustache," Woodstrider said . "I just want to make sure which one of you I'm making the deal with."

"Oh, of course! Fluffy would you--ppffth," Trashscarf went, as Fluffy slowly slid down his face on one side, clinging frantically with a few tendrils like a piece of mouldy bread still desperate to be toast, before losing its grip entirely with a final "Yeeehaw!" from the corner of Trashscarf's mouth, and falling into his beer with a happy splat.

He dunked Fluffy in the beer like an angora donut, and then gently set him back down in the pail of ivy under the table, and the mustache part merged back with the mold part.

"Sorry about that," he said to the Woodstrider, in a whisper so's not to wake Fluffy.

"So is this thing we're doing something to do with that thing?" the Woodstrider asked, specifically.

"Well! There indeed hangs a tale, or at least a mustache, but, as far as I can understand it, this poor creature is the veritable living network of--"

"That's enough," the Woodstrider interrupted him. "I don't actually care. I just wanted to make sure of your accent."

"--Oh," Trashscarf said, fading out a bit sadly--he'd already been tickling the threads further up the length of his scarf, touching the rust-flecked roots.

"We're leaving at dawn," the Woodstrider decided, standing up like a shotgun cocking. "With whoever else shows up."

"Er, yes. Exactly. That's what I said," Trashscarf said, also trying to stand--and this time stumbling over Fluffy's pail and spilling some of its contents, and by the time he'd sworn and stepped in it and apologized to Fluffy and scraped everything back in, the Woodstrider was, unsurprisingly, long gone.

Someone else showed up, though; Trashscarf had been busy updating his scarf with the meeting of the Woodstrider, and it wasn't until a gnarled hand in fingerless leather gloves gave a light knock on the wood that he noticed.

Trashscarf looked up at a guy who, if he happened to be an Animal, he would absolutely be a Badger. But not the cuddly come-in-for-tea kind of badger. More the flat-backed broad-shouldered look; like they'd already been run over and had then torn the vehicle apart in serious rage. But he wasn't a Badger, he was a Human; with short bristly grey-black hair and glinting little eyes.

He wore rogues' leathers, reinforced with nonconductive chain, and there was a machete-shortsword at his side, next to a swopsack, but beyond that, his posessions were a fascinating array of... objects and flasks and strange tools, and quite a number of which, if Trashscarf was pressed, he could identify as... things.

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"You'd be Trashscarf," said the man, his voice sounding just like you'd think it would. He stuck out a paw--hand. "Arvin. Arvin Beggartick... but I go by Offswitch, when I'm working."

He showed Trashscarf his teeth briefly, and whether it was or not, Trashscarf took it for a friendly smile, and returned it with interest while shaking the hand. It didn't feel like the hand of a locksmith-- more like that of a blacksmith.

"You're clearly an adventurer," Trashscarf said, looking him approvingly up and down. "Rogue of some sort?"

"Nope. I'm an assassin."

Trashscarf paused. "The genetic berserker type or the I-just-like-killing-things type?" he asked cautiously. Assassins were serious business, and scary, and he would rather not have some angst-ridden lone wolf type gothing its way all through his nice whimsical fantasy steampunk adventure.

"Hey," Offswitch said calmly, holding up his hands. "I've got this thing. Code of honor. I will never kill a living being."

"Let me get this straight," Trashscarf said, wondering if he was being led up to some horrible pun or something. "You're an assassin, but you've got a code against killing? How does that work, exactly? How do you assassinate someone if you're not allowed to kill them? Even if you're just choking them out and hiding them somewhere, they could die from that!"

"Well, you see," Beggartick replied, "I try to avoid dealing with anyone who's actually alive."

"Really?"

"Yessir, honest. It's actually easier for me. Around these parts, we've got undead, we've got constructs, we've got--"

"What about plants? or mushrooms?" Trashscarf asked, trying to surreptitiously push Fluffy's pail further out of sight, just in case. Offswitch gave a noncommittal waggle of his hand.

"Nah, plants are okay. It's just easier to work if everyone's already dead, you know? And that way I'm not uncomfortable with it, I'm not comfortable with taking a life, that's against my code."

"So you kill--"

"--things that aren't alive. You got it. Let me put it this way," Offswitch said, sitting down casually across from Trashscarf. "I'm an assassin, but I'm not a murderer, you know what I mean?"

"Do you think we're apt to run into a lot of use for your services?" Trashscarf asked warily.

"You never know," Offswitch said, with a shrug. "But I was heading back to Bridgetower anyway, and if I can travel along with a Waywalker, that's a lot better than going solo. If nothing else, I bet I can run faster than you."

"I wouldn't take that bet," Trashscarf said brightly. "But an assassin who can't kill anything is exactly the sort of thing I'm looking for, and I'll even let you tell me your tragic backstory once we're on the road."

"But!" Trashscarf stopped, "First I'd better clear this with my friend--I apologize in advance, it's a little worse for wear at the moment." And Trashscarf reached down into the pail, as Offswitch watched in mild amusement.

Fluffy was indeed reluctant to pull itself together from a spreading sprawl, but he scooped out a hefty chunk and spread it on his upper lip, the mustache forming up awkwardly, longer on one side. "Whar? Whuh? Dagnabbit, whattcha get me up fer?!"

"Here, let me introduce--" Trashscarf began, as he sat back upright, and Offswitch took one look at him wearing the big white fluffy fungal mustache, and his eyes widened so much you could actually see their color (brown). He leapt to his feet-- excellent speed and reflexes, Trashscarf noted approvingly, and he didn't trip on -anything- -- never taking his eyes of Trashscarf, or more importantly, Fluffy.

And then he fell to his knee like a brindled knight, bowing his head.

"Quaesitor!"