Sweet Gods why... It had seemed like such a good idea at the time, too, and isn't that always how things start off. Not too good to be true, Luc watched out for that sort of thing to be sure; the group wasn't the most cultured and that cut a decent bard's repertoire in half, and the weather wasn't ideal for traveling, but the pay offered and the amenities had been decent. No, not too good to be true, but too good to pass up with most other bards returned to home hearth for the winter, crowding out the traveling musicians without a home to claim. The next time, he'd take second string in the back of a seedy tavern and weather the winter without this much trouble.
He, yes... have to hang on to that, can't slip now. If the idiots outside knew how true their little 'compliments' about his face and figure were he'd never get out of this mess unscathed. Bad enough they'd decided he was pretty enough to bother with despite the purportedly incorrect gender. He'd even upgraded from the trimmed goatee to carefully messy stubble to emphasize it along the road. It had all started so well, too. They'd been appreciative enough of the songs and stories in the evenings when they halted for the day, the wagon was comfortable enough, especially with the craftily fashioned brazier for heat, which was less than much of the caravan had claim to... and if the bar Luc had installed across the door inside in addition to the lock had been required a few times, that was standard enough. No bard, save the ugliest of songbirds manages to go through life without a few drunken advances being pressed on them, and even those with faces that could curdle milk get some. But now? Not worth the pay, not at all.
The temporary cessation of howling and pounding at the door gains a suspicious look, and the ringing of the bell, or rather the attempt to ring it, since the cord had been long since disconnected for the sake of silencing its noise, earns Eragos a raft of foul language that makes the soldier's terms earlier seem... amateur. Well the bard is effectively beset on all sides and the anger and frustration that fills the otherwise pleasant tenor is entirely justifiable by now, and you can't be a bard if you haven't got a way with words.
Still, the nominally more polite attempt to get an answer will draw Luc to the door, not to lift the bar and open it but to draw open the tiny slot near the top and glare out at whoever happens to be there this time, free hand clenched tight around his misericord. Voice is an absolute growl, no interest in being civil likely to be demonstrated anytime soon.
"What in the name of Amasa's Ass do -you- want? Hoping I'll respond better to a less familiar face and be -your- 'girl' instead?"