"Aye..." The Rabbit nodded slowly to the Griffin as if in agreement, but then continued, "I be outta rum." He said with a sigh. Then the door started making noise. He turned his head to face the fellow who stood behind the door as it opened.

"Aye!" He said enthusiastically at the man's question, "..." He looked as though he was going to say something else, but stopped. Not entirely sure why they were there, in all honesty, or how to address someone while tresspassing. Typically, when he tresspassed, he tried to avoid the people who lived there.

"Me friends from outta town will tell you why we be here." He said before looking back at the group.

By this point, the butler was standing just a little bit behind the door, peeking around it rather than remaining in the open, more owing to Corin than anything.

"Sir Corin," he ventilated gaspingly, "please, mind your stick."

He sounded more fearful than offended. He was at very real risk of getting accidentally stabbed.

"Then please mind your half-pick!" pleaded the butler with increased vigor (and wincing).

Someone not-Corin really needed to step up to the plate, here.

Typically, Key wasn't the sort to interrupt a debate, especially when that debate included a large, very mobile implement of destruction (weapon type or name was completely irrelevant to her- all that mattered was it could hurt her). However, Corin's... eccentricity was standing between her and possible warmth. At this point the cape was barely doing much of anything, and she felt somewhat bad for Ember and the others who were still shivering.

And besides, she had a card she could play, despite how... annoying... it could end up being. It really was amazing what freezing cold could inspire in her.

"Hey!" She called at Corin. "Y'can have fun threatin' people with your pike, but at least let us get inside first?" With a glance towards the butler, "Assuming we're, y'know, welcome, but at this point if you don't let us in to at least warm up, we might let our new... I guess you'd call 'im an acquaintance? Whatever, point is, let us in or Mr. Big Stick gets to keep menacing you with it."

As if inspired by her words, Corin (or, rather, Corin's spear) inched menacingly forward.

"I still don't even know what you people want!" exclaimed the butler as he relinquished control of the doorway with a great flailing of his hands. "You may come in without threats, Sir Corin, but at least tell me—"

"What is the meaning of this commotion?!"

A most displeased throat noise erupted from behind the butler, who visibly shrank at the voice, his head retreating nearly below his shoulders. His feet scuffled and shuffled rapidly as he moved briskly to one side then stood bolt erect, making way for another, less kind greeter.

This one was a much... different looking man. His attire was similar, but perhaps more ornamented, more esteemed—a gold chain here, some finer embellishments and embroidery for his garments there—but still fitting of a steward. The completely snow-white fellow, lithe and a little on the tall side, sneered down at the lot of them. He was shorter than Corin, but somehow, he managed to sneer downward at him, too. (It was really all in the nose-up posturing of the head, you see.)

"Mister Corn, have you no sane wit left in you but to prattle on and barge in into this home with weapon raised, and, and—who are they?"

Uh oh. He stormed but a step forward, but it was with the severity of a wave crashing on a beach, the way he snapped toward them. He seemed utterly appalled.

"If they're any friends of yours, they would be better off seeking sanatorium," retorted the steward, hands folded calmly in front of his waist, as he stared half-lidded down the shaft of the spear with an unaffected, unafraid air. "Now, I am only going to say this once: Nothing, no lunatic's raving or spear waving, is going to get anyone through this door tonight."

"Oh?"

There came another voice from behind the group.

"Am I to use the back door, then?" asked the man from the shadows. Actually, he wasn't so dark after all, once he stepped up to the tail of the group, and into the light of the oil lamps. His broad-brimmed, rich, red hat glittered with frost, along with his fanciful cape, and his snow-white coat—definitely the dashing sort, and perhaps proud of it.

"... No, of course not, monsieur," answered the once-loud steward in a mumble as he stepped back several steps.

The apparent master of the house weaved his way as delicately as possible through the group, and into the home—pausing only to examine the doorframe.

"This passage seems fine to me, Deverell," he said, peering at his steward.

"..."

Deverell did not reply.

"You're dismissed, Deverell," said the nobleman.

Deverell bowed ever so slightly and silently, and departed with a stride that nearly slithered for all the venom in his gaze.

The noble turned back to the group, stepped back a few paces, and motioned broadly with his hand for them to enter. "Please—forgive my steward. Come in."

Ivan watched as Corin waved his pike around like a mad-man as he spoke. Even for him, it was a bit ridiculous and unnecessary. It'd be like him waving his sword around while speaking.

"Arr... I've heard of talkin' with yer hands, but..." He muttered.

Then the master of the house came along to save them from whatever hole that Sir Corin was digging them into. Ivan wasted no time in making his way inside when invited.

"Thank ya." He said as he stepped passed, then spun around.

"Do you got any ale ya won't miss?" He cut straight to what was important, of course.

He cracked a smile at Ivan, but didn't respond just yet. After all, he was being greeted. With one dexterous motion, he flipped his cape behind him, swept his hat off his head and behind the small of his back by its crown, and took Jack's hand to shake it. Oop, wait, nope—he bowed slightly at the waist and kissed it, instead.

"Pleased to meet you, Ms. Jack," he said quietly, smiling and peering up at the griffin through the tops of his eyes from mid-bow for just a moment.

He stepped back a stride, and bent once more at the waist in a gesture of politeness to the rest of the group, although a bit less deeply this time. "Baron Dureau von Fremont," he declared himself without further flourish, then stood straight and held his hat out to the side for the nearby butler (the more timid one from before) to take. Curiously, he also removed a large, ornate shield from his back, and deposited it in the shorter servant's care, as well.

"Please, come. Sit, and warm up—there's a wonderful fire over here," he said a bit more brightly as meandered his way farther into the main hall, motioning for them to follow.

Truthfully, the area they entered wasn't the most grand castle in existence or anything. Its scale, while impressive (at least by any normal, not-filthy-rich home-owning standards), wasn't gargantuan. The floors were a white, almost pinkish marble, well polished, and some pillars held up the high ceiling, which was capped off by a dome containing a complex-looking mural of some kind. The grand staircase was straight ahead, replete with curling banisters, and a gallery of family portraits visible at its top, but to the left before reaching the steps was a sitting area with poofy, antique-looking chairs and sofas—a mismatched assortment, likely collected over many years, surrounding a large, brightly-burning fireplace.

The butler came back quickly from toting the Baron's things, and started trying to politely relieve the others of their coats and other frosty accessories. Though he didn't start with Ivan, it may have been interesting when he got around to Mr. Pirate...

Contrary to Jack's statement, they may or may not be in the company of a thug and/or brute. Well, more a thief than anything, really. He wasn't one to ignore an invitation and moved toward the main hall, where their kindly host lead them.

He looked around at the decorations, furnishing and whatever else was eye-catching. Thankfully, though, while he may have been a thief-by-trade, he did know a certain saying: Don't bite the hand that feeds you?

This guy was nice enough to bring them in out of the cold, so he was cool in Ivan's book. So far. Then the butler came to him. Ivan looked at him. Just... kinda... stared at him. No particular emotion on his face, just a deadpan stare that might make a person uncomfortable.