So it is interesting that when you play ambience music for hours at a time you eventually stop thinking about the mechanics of playing and start absorbing the room instead. I had been at it close to three or four hours, long enough that the lunch crowd drifted out with scraped chairs and cleared plates while the early dinner crowd filtered in and claimed the warmer tables near the hearth.

  I worked through acoustic versions of some of my favorite songs, bouncing between Hamilton, Blink-182, and every major Taylor Swift song I knew well enough not to embarrass myself. I had just finished a Weezer song and my fingers were moving on habit more than thought. By then I could feel the room had settled around me. Conversations flowed under the music instead of fighting it and nobody shot me an annoyed look or made a point of covering their ears. Every so often I caught a head bob or a boot tapping against the wooden floor.

  My tip jar had grown heavy enough that I noticed it every time I shifted my foot near it. I had not counted but there were piles of copper and several silver mixed in. If I had to guess I was sitting at about six or seven silver total for a few hours of playing, which should cover a room for several nights somewhere without dipping into my bag of gold. That was far more than I expected when I started since I figured I might scrape together fifty copper or maybe one silver if I got lucky.

  As the coins kept dropping in with soft clinks I started thinking about why people were so ready to tip. This is a world without phones or speakers humming in every corner. There are no recorded tracks waiting in your pocket and no playlists you can call up on command. Music here only exists if someone makes it and if that someone is halfway decent. A lot of the people in this room came from places where music was constant and effortless, so maybe hearing something played live meant more than I realized.

  I had also been keeping an eye on the same handful of people who had been here at midday when the tavern was only a quarter full.

  The two merchants who had been counting coins with suspicious intensity were gone now, their table cleared except for a faint ring where a mug had sweated into the wood.

  The man in partial armor had finished his drink and slipped out at some point, leaving behind only the empty stool and the impression of someone who did not want to be watched.

  The two women who had shared bread and stew earlier had left as well, their quiet conversation carried out into the street with them, and the space they occupied felt oddly larger without their low voices filling it.

  Others had come in and taken their places and most of those had left again as the hours rolled on. I kept playing. I was finishing up my acoustic interpretation of “Hotel California” when I saw the [Mage] catch my eye and tilt her head toward the back in a subtle motion. I gave her a small nod and finished the last progression clean instead of rushing it.

  With that I stood and gave a small bow, and to my surprise I received a round of polite claps scattered through the room. “Thank you everyone,” I said with another slight bow. “I appreciate your generosity. Hopefully I get to play for you again soon.” I bent down and picked up my bowl of coins, then made my way over to the bar and slid into an open seat near the manager.

  She came by a moment later and set another ale in front of me without asking.

  “On the house,” she said.

  I tilted my head and gave her my best attempt at a charming smile. “Oh. Why thank you.”

  The moment I took my first sip I felt that familiar tug again, that subtle pressure against the edges of my mind, and my [Influence Immunity] kicked in like it always did. The sensation faded almost instantly.

  “That was a pretty decent stretch of playing,” she said, leaning against the bar. “I only expected you to go on for an hour or so. That’s typical. You must be a serious [Bard].”

  I smiled back and this time it was more genuine than I meant it to be. Even knowing she was trying something on me, the compliment still landed. “I just played as much as any good [Bard] should.”

  “Hmm,” she said, her eyes drifting toward the door as another patron stepped inside. “You might not realize this being new here, but [Bard]s tend to draw a crowd. You might not see it yet, but I can. We’re going to have more people coming in for dinner. Word spreads fast when there’s music, and people gather around it like Kobolds to cheese.”

  I laughed like I understood exactly what that meant and nodded along.

  “Tell you what,” she continued. “Take a break. I’ll get you dinner and a few more drinks, and I’ll pay you two silver to play through dinner until midnight.”

  I paused and ran the numbers quickly in my head. Two silver was nothing compared to what I had already made in tips, but if the place filled up I would probably make several times that again. On top of that I needed to keep up the act of being affected by her magic, which meant agreeing was the smart move.

  “You’ve got yourself a deal,” I said with a smile and what I hoped was a flirty wink, though I was fairly certain I just closed both eyes at once.

  “Good,” she said, holding out her hand.

  I shook it.

  “My name is Prudence,” she said, her smile just a touch too sharp to be entirely friendly.

  “Prudence,” I said again, like I was testing it. “That’s a lovely name. That was my mother’s name.”

  That was absolutely not my mother’s name.

  Why did I say that. I genuinely have no idea. Somewhere in my brain a switch flipped and decided that inventing a sentimental backstory about my mother was the height of charm. Maybe I thought it would make me sound thoughtful. Maybe I thought it would make me seem deeper than I am. Instead it just sat there between us, heavy and awkward, like I had skipped three steps in a conversation and landed straight on uncomfortable.

  I am not built for this.

  No wonder people crash and burn trying to flirt. I cannot imagine attempting this on purpose if I actually cared how it turned out, because this already feels like performing surgery with oven mitts on.

  She stared at me expectantly.

  What. Oh.

  “Let me introduce myself. I am Lloyd, at your honor,” I said with a slight bow, which was strange considering I was seated and still balancing the beer in my hand.

  She nodded once. “Well, glad you came in, Lloyd. I’ve got some other work for you too, but I’ll get back to you.”

  “Okay,” I said, nodding as she walked away.

  A few moments later someone stepped up beside me and placed a fresh bowl of stew on the bar without spilling a drop.

  “Manager’s order,” he said.

  I looked up and caught the floating designation above his head.

  Bladesinger {Level 27}

  That tracked more than I expected once I actually looked at him.

  He was lean and precise, built more like a duelist than a dockworker. His movements had a strange cadence to them, almost rhythmic, like he was following music only he could hear. When he shifted his weight it was quiet and balanced, heels barely touching down before he was already gliding into the next step. Even the way he set the bowl in front of me had control to it, placed exactly where it should be with no scrape, no slosh, no wasted motion.

  His hair was tied back and I thought I saw what looked like a pair of daggers tucked into his belt. The air around him felt edged. Not aggressive. Just sharp.

  “Appreciate it,” I said.

  He gave a small nod that felt more like a courtly acknowledgment than a server’s reflex, then turned and moved down the bar. He weaved between tables with effortless footwork, pivoting around chairs in smooth arcs instead of awkward sidesteps. When someone stood suddenly he adjusted mid stride without breaking flow. It was less like walking and more like choreography.

  Someone laughed too loudly near the hearth and his head tilted just slightly in that direction, eyes narrowing for a heartbeat before returning to neutral. If something went wrong in this room I got the sense he would not rush toward it. He would arrive exactly when and where he meant to.

  I looked down at the stew again and took a bite, but part of my attention stayed on him. The way he moved through the tavern made it feel smaller somehow, as if every angle and distance had already been measured and memorized.

  If he ever stepped onto an actual battlefield, I had a feeling it would look less like fighting and more like a performance.

  The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  I kept working through my stew and watching the room at the same time, and sure enough the trickle of bodies through the door turned into a steady stream until the tavern felt properly full. Not packed. Just alive. Boots thudded on wood. Cloaks shook out. The low hum of conversation thickened into something that carried weight.

  I finished the last of my beer and just as I set the empty glass down the [Bladesinger] appeared at my elbow again. He placed another ale in front of me without a word, smooth and deliberate like everything else he did. I gave him a nod and he inclined his head in return before gliding off to the next table.

  Back home two drinks would have had me warm and drifting toward the idea of a couch and a nap. Here I barely felt a thing. It was probably due to the bump to my constitution, because the beer tasted like it had the expected amount of alcohol in it.

  Whatever the reason, I finished both the stew and the second drink without the room tilting even a little.

  Prudence returned right as I pushed the bowl away. She scanned the tavern with a look that told me she counted coin faster than most merchants, then gave me a tilt of her head.

  “Well,” she said, “I think they’re about ready for you. Better get up there.”

  I nodded back and slid the bowl of mixed copper and silver toward her. “Can you make change of this for me?”

  She looked down at the pile and smiled. “Sure.”

  “But,” she added, drawing the word out just enough to make it deliberate.

  And there it was again, the subtle tug at the edges of my mind. The touch of a [Mage] trying something small and clever.

  My [Influence Immunity] snapped into place and the sensation vanished like a hand pulled back from a hot stove.

  “As long as you do me a favor,” she continued, like nothing had happened.

  “Oh?” I said, forcing curiosity into my tone instead of irritation.

  “You actually sing this time,” she said. “It’d be nice to hear a voice. Not just the plucking.”

  I hesitated for half a heartbeat, then gave her a nod that I hoped looked confident. “Okay.”

  I picked up my guitar and made my way back to my spot. As I stepped into view the room shifted. It was not the sharp spotlight focus of a real concert crowd. It was quieter than that. Subtler. The kind of hush you get at a gathering when someone stands and everyone senses something is about to happen.

  Conversations thinned. A few mugs paused midair.

  I sat down and adjusted the guitar on my knee. My fingers ran across the strings out of habit, checking the tuning even though I had just played. My stomach tightened in a way it had not when I was only playing.

  I can sing.

  But just okay-ish.

  It has never matched the guitar. I could not lean on Blink-182 for this. Taylor Swift would fall apart fast if I missed the phrasing.

  Then the answer slid into place.

  Older music. Songs I grew up with. The ones my dad used to sing in the car when he drove me around. The ones that do not require perfection as long as you mean them.

  I started to strum.

  The sound rolled out soft at first, just enough to pull the last strands of conversation down into silence. Even the hearth seemed to quiet.

  I took a breath that felt bigger than it should have.

  “Hey Jude…”

  So I am not proud of it, but I basically worked my way through every Beatles song I knew.

  After that, I threw in some Elvis.

  That alone carried me close to three hours, which made sense because I was definitely dragging the tunes. I found that if I slowed the songs down and stretched them just a little they sounded better, especially when I matched the rhythm to my voice instead of trying to keep up with the original pace. My voice was not built for speed.

  Now you might be wondering how classic boomer-era Earth music went over with a fantasy tavern crowd.

  Turns out, pretty decently.

  Nobody was screaming or throwing themselves at the stage. People were still talking, laughing, drinking, living their lives. But the ones closest to me were listening. Nodding along and watching my hands. Taking in the lyrics even if they did not fully understand every reference.

  It was quieter than earlier, but it was steady.

  Tip-wise, I was absolutely raking it in.

  I did not stop to count mid-set, but eyeballing the pile as it grew I was sitting somewhere around thirty silver by the end of it. If I remembered right, Old Garrin had quoted me two silver for a stay at an inn. If two silver was roughly a hundred bucks in Earth terms, then between the earlier seven or so, this thirty, and the two silver Prudence the [Mage] had promised me despite her complete lack of boundaries when it came to mental magic nonsense, I had earned about thirty-nine silver.

  Call that around two grand back home.

  For a guy who literally walked in off the street.

  Everyone had been receptive overall. The only friction came during the breaks when I paused to adjust tuning or catch my breath, the [Bladesinger] had been kind enough to bring me several beers. A few locals wandered up asking for songs I had never heard of. When they named them I just blinked and said maybe later, and if they pushed I told them I had a set list I followed for luck. That seemed to make most of them back off politely, though I caught a couple disappointed looks and one or two mild glares.

  After about three hours I could feel the shift. Interest was starting to wane just enough that pushing further would hurt more than help.

  So I closed with one I had touched on earlier and went into a full rendition of “Hotel California.”

  When I hit the line “You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave”, I saw a visible ripple go through parts of the room. Eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and a few people leaned back like they were chewing on it. In a world like this that line probably hit different.

  When I finished I stood and gave a proper bow.

  This time the applause was real. Not just polite clapping but actual approval.

  “Thank you. Thank you. Appreciate your time as always. Hopefully I get to play again,” I said, repeating myself almost word for word from earlier.

  I gathered my things and carried my tip bowl back to the bar where Prudence was already watching me.

  I slid in and braced internally for whatever came next.

  She opened her mouth and right on cue I felt that familiar push of an influence skill trying to wrap around my thoughts before getting smacked down by my [Influence Immunity].

  “That was decent enough,” she said smoothly. “I haven’t seen this place this packed in months.”

  “Thank you,” I replied. “Only doing what a good [Bard] should.”

  “Hmm.” Her eyes narrowed just slightly. “You up for coming back tomorrow night? I’ll sweeten the pot. Five silver this time if you play during tomorrow’s dinner.”

  Five silver.

  “I should be able to do that,” I said.

  She nodded and reached down, lifting my bowl.

  “Here you go,” she said, sliding coins across the bar. “Looks like you had eight silver in there.”

  That was slightly over what I expected. She then added three more silver beside it. “Here’s what I owe you. And a little extra,” she said with a wink.

  “Appreciate it,” I said, scooping the coins together.

  I hesitated for half a second and then the words came out before my brain could stop them.

  “Any recommendations for a place to stay?”

  Her eyebrow lifted.

  “There’s a decent inn a block and a half north of here. Thinking of staying there?” she asked, giving me a look that said she absolutely knew what she thought I was implying.

  Oh, shit.

  She thought I was hitting on her, didn’t she.

  I sighed deeply inside. If she thought I was flirting, then I had to flirt. But I needed her not to like it, but still want me to play here.

  I leaned on the bar and tried to look cool, but I probably looked like I was barely holding myself upright. “So,” I said.

  She waited.

  “It would probably be smart for me to stay close by,” I added.

  She tilted her head. “Oh?”

  “Yeah,” I said, nodding like that explained everything. “Close is good. If I am going to play here again. And… reasons.” I paused, then, for why I will never understand, added, “Penis reasons.”

  I froze.

  I had an image of me driving a minivan full of other versions of me. The one driving was the one that though “Penis reasons” was a good idea to add; everyone else in the car was screaming at the driver like he had run over a puppy on purpose.

  She just stared at me.

  I pushed forward. “I just think we have a good connection. I play music and I saw your pretty face liking what I do.” I nodded again, like I was delivering a very serious point. “And maybe if I stayed nearby, we could talk more. About stuff. Music stuff. Tavern stuff.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “You think I’m pretty.”

  “Yes,” I said immediately. “Very. But respectfully.”

  I could feel my face burning.

  “You’re strong,” I continued. “And in charge. And kind of scary. In a good way. I like that.”

  She crossed her arms, still watching me.

  “You like scary,” she repeated.

  “Yes,” I said. “Not like monster scary. Though you could hide under my bed any time you like.”

  I tried to wink, nothing happened. It probably looked like I was in physical pain.

  “I could write you a song,” I added. “About how good you are at being scary.”

  She laughed.

  “You are very bad at this.”

  And then leaned over and touched my hand.

  HOLY HELL, HOW IS THIS WORKING? WHY WOULD ANYONE LIKE THIS?!?!?

  Her fingers started brushing mine and instead of taking that as a normal human moment, my brain did what it does best.

  Panic. Go nuclear.

  I straightened up, chest out, confidence entirely manufactured.

  “The gods,” I announced, “clearly want this.”

  Her expression went flat.

  “The gods,” she repeated.

  I may not know much about flirting, but I know nothing kills the mood more than bringing religion into it.

  “Yes,” I said, warming to the idea in real time. “Think about it. I walk in here. I play. The tavern fills. You prosper. I prosper. That is divine alignment.”

  There was a pause long enough for someone at a nearby table to glance over.

  “I do not think that is divine alignment,” she said slowly.

  “No, no,” I insisted quickly. “It is obvious. This is fate. Or destiny. Or at least strongly encouraged coincidence.”

  I began counting on my fingers.

  “Byto would approve of a performance-based partnership. Jora definitely supports bold chemistry. Vyn’kai too, knows how to make things make sense.”

  Why was I naming them out loud?

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man’s head snap sharply in my direction when I said the name Vyn’kai.

  Prudence stared at me like I had just grown a second head.

  “You are invoking gods to justify flirting,” she said.

  “Yes,” I replied confidently. “Because when you zoom out cosmically, it makes sense.”

  “The gods,” she repeated very slowly, “want us to be together.”

  I nodded.

  “That is what you are going with.”

  “Do you not feel it?” I said.

  The silence between us thickened. The [Bladesinger] had stopped weaving between patrons and was now moving in a straight line toward me. A chair scraped somewhere behind me.

  “You need to stop talking,” she said quietly.

  “But think about it,” I pressed on, fully committed to self-destruction. “What are the odds. A traveling [Bard] just happens to wander into your establishment on this exact night. The crowd surges. Coin flows. Sparks—”

  “Do not say sparks,” she warned.

  “—metaphorical sparks,” I corrected weakly.

  The [Bladesinger] was suddenly behind me. Large hands settled on my shoulders, firm but not yet aggressive.

  “Alright, pal,” he said calmly. “I think you’ve had a bit too much to drink.”

  He looked toward the [Mage]. “Another lovesick puppy, Prudence? They do seem to find you.”

  Prudence shot him a sharp look.

  She sighed.

  “I think it’s time for you to go, Lloyd,” she said. “If you can sleep this off and avoid any more divine destiny speeches, you are welcome to come play tomorrow night.”

  I nodded meekly.

  “Understood.”

  I reached down and grabbed my bag and guitar. My fingers felt clumsy now, like they had forgotten how to hold things properly.

  The [Bladesinger] did not remove his hands until I was fully standing. Then he stayed close. Very close, but never impolitely somehow.

  He simply shadowed me all the way to the door like a polite executioner making sure I found the noose.

  The night air hit me the second I stepped outside.

  The door shut behind me.

  I let out a long breath I did not realize I was holding. That went exactly as well as I expected my first attempt at flirting to go.

  Which is to say, horribly.

  I invoked multiple gods. I said penis reasons. I was thrown out of a bar.

  And somehow I still had the gig.

  I adjusted my guitar on my shoulder and started walking.