Of course Tig had heard tell of Destarin, before he limped into the outskirts of the place not so long ago. Even before the keep. There were so many tales to tell, after all. They'd all been tall, too. Destarin was where the worst of the worst fled to, the stories went. Here, they could sink to the depths of the darkest underbelly, hide in plain sight among the most terrifying brigands in any kingdom, or slay their hunters with lawless impunity. The most twisted magics could roil unchecked, alongside deranged alchemies and the cults of monstrous gods, and...
The brothels. There had been much talk among the noble squires of Destarin's many, many brothels. Enough that even they, with their aristocratic appetites, would never lack for entertainment. But, as Tig came from a quiet mill, in a quiet village, with a quiet inn where everyone quietly knew that you could find yourself a quiet bit of company, all of it and him common - those squires hadn't talked to him about any of it. (Or anything, really. If they could help it.) They were loud people, though. Even by the standards of what he couldn't help but catch an echo of, back then... the Chapel would have been worlds beyond his imagining, back in the mill. All of it.
Not that he was here to imagine anything. Pink cheeked, Tig was making his very best go of trying to find someone while trying very hard not to look too closely at anybody. A terribly friendly madame who'd been savouring a dizzyingly sweet-smoked pipe just outside the door had given him a disorienting set of directions and descriptions, but, well - here he was, somehow. Before what must be Malas Pitch.
"I'm deeply sorry to disturb you," he rasped, eyes wide - but trying, truly, to avoid staring at those wings. His own shoulders twitched, hard, and rolled. "I only... I was hoping, perhaps, that you'd... be willing to - consider a deal. Of some sort. I'm told you're terribly powerful and awfully wise, in the world, and I find myself in some need of power and wisdom and - other things." Other, worse things. Tig swayed some, shoulders still mis-set. Painfully. Trying to fight the flinch off, he folded both of his itching, faintly scaled hands behind his back, tattered cuffs pulled down as far as they might go. "If we can come to terms, then I promise you: good will come of it." If good mattered to such a being.
@deathsdogma