Guffin didn't dare speak, or try to stop them. Not with Slim Pickens as a fate; they knew the differences between, and had already made their choice. That Harriet's pride had cost her that choice would be her own burden, and Guffin would find her by the light of morning.
She wasn't entirely unjustified in her decision, the little goblin-beast knew. It was indeed loud in here. And crowded. And smelly. Filled with fried foods, which could upset a sensitive stomach. And Guffin could have explained the equal and opposite horrors of Slim Pickens a little better, given the time and patience, but it had been raining, and the pair had already been fighting, and it wasn't like the mage took anything that they said seriously at the best of times, and...
It is a known tenant of many, many sorts of goblins, trolls, kobolds, imps, and the other unnamed Creatures from the area, that one must look after themselves first. Someone who is struggling can be of no assistance to anyone else. And so, for this night, Lady Harriet was on her own.
So, Guffin ate. And ate, and ate, and ate. Course after course of greasy food came out of the cauldron full of oil, and more things from boxes and bags hidden in the cabinets in the panelling. Fried chicken and river mussels, fried fat from larger farm creatures, fried vegetables and grains at at one point even a shoe that someone had lost, and someone else promptly ate. Bacon bits and olives came from jars, and chips and crispies from bags, and crackers and crunchies from boxes. The writhing bodies in the dark also ate and ate, and swelled larger, and smelled smellier. Guffin ate until their eyes popped out from eating, and they had to undo a button on their coveralls to make a little space, and their slightly-too-small tee shirt no longer quite covered their rounded stomach.
"You'll be one of us in no time, kid," a sloshy sort of beast grunted from the floor as Guffin grabbed another plate full of food.
Food stacked up faster than even the crowd could manage, and dessert was beginning to be flung around. Meat was buried, or thrown out the windows, under an avalanche of funnel cakes, cookies, candies, and frosty scoops of ice cream just melty enough to stick to a fist or the wall. Chocolate syrup flowed over the floorboards like tar, carrying a tide of nuts and bits and toffee, leaving behind a sticky stain that blended nearly perfectly into the other sticky stains that already lived there.
Eye-poppingly fat though they were, the denizens of Fat Pickens were only getting rowdier. Those that could no longer walk, rolled, and both sorts were singing and dancing and trying to juggle the food that they weren't actively consuming. Several times, Guffin got caught up in the dance, and joined in enough not to make a scene; howling some tune from the Pumpkintown Opry show until they laughed at the little beastie's terrible singing (even by goblin standards) and let them back into the outside of the group.
Still the rain pounded on the roof, and Guffin began to weigh their options to get some sleep before trying to rescue Harriet at dawn.
Behind the tables and chairs, they would just get caught up in the song and dance. The cook-pot remained over the fire, still bubbling with oil, and was unlikely to be clean enough to sleep in, even if it was big enough; or ever emptied, which seemed more unlikely by the hour. Finally, they managed to trade a box of cookies outward from a cabinet hidden in the wooden paneling, and creep in before any of the beasts noticed. There wasn't quite enough room to stretch out, but there was plenty to curl up and catch a little bit of sleep.