bitches aint shit and they aint sayin nothin

Galen loves touring. It's exciting, moving from place to place; playing loud, energetic shows; entertaining hundreds of people. It's freeing - aside from the occasional speedbump caused by running into Light territory - and he really isn't looking forward to the point at which he's going to have to end his career to hide his lack of aging. That's about twenty or thirty years down the road, though, so he tries not to worry about it; right now is what's important. Right now he's in a band with some humans he really fucking likes, touring the world, and making music. He's having fun. And that's what's important.

Of course, checking in at each city's waypoint isn't exactly high on his list of fun things to do, since he either has to sneak out or make excuses every time he takes off to do it, but he's been to the Dál once before. It's a good spot, and Trick is a good guy. Hell, he probably could've called his arrival in, but he decides to stop by anyway for a drink and some conversation. Normally he'd bring Brad, his technically-claimed-human, but Brad has some things of his own to do, and that's fine with him. He doesn't plan to stay long, anyway.

So he gets himself sat at the bar, orders up a beer and chats with Trick about the tour before the elder is pulled away for a private conversation with a very attractive woman in a high ponytail and heels. Damn. He doesn't eavesdrop, though; just drinks the last of his beer and leans an arm on the counter, looks out at the rest of the pub. The place isn't packed, but it looks like a lot of fae have made this their go-to place for the evening.

Glancing back over at Trick and the heelsy woman, Galen decides he'll stay for another drink and then head out to eat. He has a busy night ahead.