I walked in and it turned out the tavern looked exactly like a tavern, just not the dramatic firelit Prancing Pony from the Lord of the Rings movie that had been living rent-free in my head.

  Instead, it weirdly reminded me of a TGI Friday’s, only if someone had decided the core design principle was more wood. The floors were wood, the beams were wood, the bar was wood, and even the ceiling seemed determined to prove that trees had truly given their all for this establishment. Which, considering that most metal was just to made into weapons or armor, and the nearest drywaller was probably several dimensions away it made sense.

  A long bar pushed out into the center of the room like it wanted attention, with a wide spread of dining tables arranged around it and a small stage tucked into the corner as if it had been added as an afterthought after someone said “You know what this place needs, live music”.

  The comparison to TGI Friday’s became unavoidable once I looked at the walls because they were absolutely covered in random medieval objects that felt less historical and more aggressively themed. Crossed swords hung at uneven angles, a dented shield with what might once have been a noble crest was mounted proudly despite looking like it had lost several important battles, and a cracked spear had been fastened horizontally as if retirement had found it whether it liked it or not. There was a section that seemed to be fishing themed with nets, oars and half a boat. Tankards dangled from hooks, a faded tapestry sagged under its own age, and a framed map with no label or explanation occupied an entire section of wall purely on the strength of existing. It had that same chaotic decorative energy as an American chain restaurant that commits to a theme so hard it forgets subtlety exists.

  What kept it from feeling artificial was the lack of uniforms and polish. The staff wore whatever they owned, moving through the room in rolled sleeves, leather vests, and practical boots, and the woman behind the bar had a scar running down her forearm that suggested she had once had a more hands on relationship with violence. The tables were thick slabs of wood carved up by years of knife marks and ringed with old drink stains, and the chairs did not match in shape or height, which made the booths along the wall look like a later upgrade added when someone realized privacy could be monetized.

  Steampunk-looking gaslights lined the room in iron brackets, yet the flames inside burned clean and steady without smoke or soot. They seemed to glow brighter than they reasonably should have, which made me fairly certain magic was involved.

  It was midday and roughly a quarter of the tavern was occupied by people eating or drinking in low conversation, including a pair of merchants counting coins with suspicious intensity, a man in partial armor sulking into his mug, and two women sharing bread and stew in quiet discussion, none of whom looked remotely interested in starting a bar fight.

  I had deliberately chosen midday because it seemed like the safest window to walk in and attempt being a [Bard] without immediately testing my constitution against a dagger, and my plan did not extend much further than introducing myself, trying my luck, and leaving quickly if anyone looked like they were remotely feeling “stabby”.

  No one greeted me when I entered and no one paid me particular attention, but after taking in the room I did not get the impression this was the sort of place where newcomers were casually hunted for sport, so I stepped up to the bar and waited as politely as possible for someone to notice I existed.

  After a few minutes the woman with the scar on her forearm finally made her way over to me. As she stepped into my space her details flickered into view above her head as I focused.

  Mage {Level 47}

  I blinked once and tried not to stare directly at it. Oh wow. That was… pretty impressive. Level 47 was not beginner territory. I wondered what kind of [Mage] she was. I was not seeing fire licking around her fingers or sparks of electricity snapping off her shoulders. No floating ice crystals. No ominous purple haze. She just looked like a tavern worker with strong forearms and a scar that suggested she had survived something unpleasant.

  “Hey there, new face,” she said in a gruff voice that carried across the bar even though she was not trying to raise it. There was a forced friendliness to it, like she had decided at some point that customer service was technically part of the job. “What can I get you?”

  Her eyes dipped to the guitar strapped across my back before returning to my face, and the way she looked at me felt measured. Not hostile, just that she was assessing me and calculating something.

  “Hey there,” I said, keeping my tone even. “I could use a drink and some lunch, if that works.”

  She gave a short nod. “We’ve got a nice ale and stew of the day. Fresh kills. Wolf’s the main meat, I think. Some veggies and spices. It’s pretty tasty.”

  Wolf. Of course it was wolf. I hesitated for half a heartbeat, then reminded myself I had eaten nothing but magically generated berries for days at thispoint. “I’ll have that,” I said.

  She turned without another word and moved behind the bar with easy efficiency. For a [Mage], she did not look delicate. She moved like someone comfortable lifting kegs or throwing a punch if needed. About a minute and a half later she returned with a wooden bowl and a heavy mug, sliding both toward me in one smooth motion.

  “That’ll be 15 copper.”

  I pulled the coins from my pocket and slid them across. She gathered them up without counting, which either meant she trusted me or did not need to count to know if I was short, and then walked off to another customer who had waved her over.

  I lifted the mug first and took a careful sip. The ale was darker than I expected and slightly watered down, though not in a way that felt cheap. There was a spice underneath it that I could not quite identify, something adjacent to walnuts if I had to guess, earthy and faintly bitter with a warmth that spread slowly.

  I had never been a brewery guy back home. I had gone to a few for work outings and enjoyed the social part of it, but I had never been the one debating hops like it mattered. Still, this felt like the kind of ale I could see a group of regulars nursing for hours while arguing confidently about things none of them fully understood.

  I set the mug down and dug into the stew. It was thick enough that the spoon left a gap as I dragged it through, and when I lifted it out it was coated in a rich gravy that clung to everything in the bowl. It was extremely meaty, the chunks tender enough to fall apart as I chewed. The only vegetable I could clearly identify were peas scattered throughout, but whatever else was in there blended into the sauce and made the whole thing heavy and satisfying. It was the kind of meal that settled into your stomach and told you that you were not going anywhere for a while.

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  I sat there for a while enjoying my ale and stew and generally watching the room. For the most part everyone seemed to be minding their own business. Nobody looked like they were prowling. No wandering eyes scanning for easy targets. No drunk bravado building toward a table flip. It was just people eating, drinking, and talking in low steady tones.

  From what I could tell the [Mage] with the scar was the one in charge. Staff deferred to her without hesitation and she moved through the space with the confidence of someone who owned both the building and the problems inside it. Manager maybe, but I suspected owner.

  As I was finishing up she returned and collected my empty bowl and mug.

  “How was it?” she asked in that same gruff voice.

  “Oh, it was pretty good,” I said. “I enjoyed that.”

  “Hm,” she replied.

  And that was when I felt it.

  [Influence Immunity] activated, there was a skill being used against me.

  That tiny sensation like small rocks being thrown against glass inside my skull.

  “So tell me, handsome new face, are you any good with that guitar?”

  Ohshitdonotreacdonotreacdonotreactdonotreact.

  Okay, play this cool. She probably had some kind of subtle [Mage] skill meant to nudge people. Influence, maybe charm. Something to get free entertainment out of traveling idiots with instruments. Nothing malicious necessarily, likely just business. Roll with it.

  Oh wait. If I did not respond like someone being lightly charmed she would absolutely notice. That would be suspicious.

  Very suspicious.

  Crap. I had to commit.

  I sat up straight. Too straight. I forced what I believed was a confident smile, though I am pretty sure only half of my face got the message.

  “Yes,” I said way too fast. “I am good at guitar.”

  Strong start. Very smooth.

  “I mean, I can make it make sounds… good sounds… on purpose.” I gave a small nod like that was impressive. “With my… hands.”

  What the fuck is coming out of my mouth?

  “I have been told,” I continued, because stopping was no longer an option, “that I am… easy to listen to. That people like what I do.” I swallowed. “Sometimes they even clap. Not all of them. But enough.”

  I gestured vaguely over my shoulder toward the guitar. “This and I have a strong working friendship. I strum it. It responds. We both try our best.”

  Why am I describing it like a farm animal.

  “So yes,” I finished, attempting what I hoped was a charming tilt of the head and probably landing somewhere near confused owl, “I can play. For you. If you want. In a way that is… musically pleasing.”

  Then I made eye contact and tried to wink. I am fairly certain what actually happened was both eyes closed, just one slightly slower than the other.

  She stared at me for a long moment.

  Oh fuck. She knows something is up. I am going to have to walk out of here and pretend I was never born—

  “Okay,” she said. “Let’s see what you can do.”

  She gave me a wink back that was significantly more coordinated than mine and tilted her head in what I assumed was meant to be seductive.

  What is with people in this world and bad acting?

  She waved toward the small stage in the corner. “You can play for the rest of the day and collect tips.”

  I started to counter and barter by asking for some pay from the tavern, but then I reminded myself that I was supposed to be influenced and that I was still learning how this world worked. Plus it felt like a poor time to test the patience of a [Mage] who could probably turn me into something decorative. I swallowed the instinct to negotiate and gave her a nod along with what I hoped was a friendly, flirty smile.

  I stood from the bar and took a step toward the stage before stopping because I realized I was missing something important. I turned back toward the bar where the [Mage] was already watching me with an expression that suggested she had seen this exact moment happen before.

  “Uh,” I began. “If I am playing for tips do you mind if I borrow a bowl so people have a place to put coins?”

  I tried to say it in a relaxed way like this was standard practice and not like I was submitting a formal request for office supplies. I even added what I hoped was a light smile at the end to imply confidence and not panic.

  She gave a small nod without much expression and reached under the counter before producing a simple wooden bowl that looked like it had lived several lives already. She slid it across to me and I picked it up with what I hoped was professional gratitude instead of over enthusiasm.

  “Thanks,” I said in what I aimed to be a casual performer voice.

  I turned and walked toward the small stage in the corner of the tavern while feeling the subtle shift in attention behind me. It was not dramatic but it was there. A few conversations lowered in volume and I could feel eyes following my path as if everyone wanted to see whether this was about to be entertaining or deeply unfortunate.

  There was a chair set off to the side of the stage area that I dragged carefully into the center. The legs scraped softly against the wooden floor which somehow sounded louder than it should have. I placed the bowl on the floor in front of the chair at a visible but not desperate distance and adjusted it slightly so it did not look like I was begging before I had even played a note.

  I set my pack behind the chair where it would be out of the way and then slipped the guitar from my back with a slow practiced motion that at least suggested I knew how to handle it. The familiar weight settled against my torso and for the first time since standing up I felt something close to steady.

  As I sat down I could feel the shift in attention across the room in a way that was not loud or dramatic but steady and focused. Conversations dipped in volume without fully stopping and a few heads turned more openly now that I was clearly about to perform. The curiosity in their faces did not look hostile, but it did look evaluative which meant I had one shot to not embarrass myself.

  I pulled one of the wooden picks from my pocket and began lightly brushing the strings while making small careful turns on the tuning pegs. The guitar only needed slight correction and the notes settled quickly into something warm and even. Tuning gave me a few extra seconds to think through my next problem which was that I had no idea what people in this region actually listened to. If I launched into something strange or obviously foreign I risked outing myself as an outsider which in this world felt a lot like painting a target on my back labeled easy experience.

  So I kept it simple. No singing. No flair. Just something instrumental that could sit in the background without demanding attention.

  I started with a slow steady rhythm that felt natural under my fingers and let the chords roll into each other in an easy pattern. The sound carried well through the wooden beams and tables and even basic progressions felt fuller than they should have in a room like this. Conversations did not stop but they shifted. Shoulders eased. A man at the bar tapped his fingers against his mug in time with the beat while two merchants kept arguing in quieter tones. The armored guy leaned back in his chair and loosened his grip on his drink.

  I kept the tempo steady and resisted the urge to show off because subtle felt safer than impressive in a room full of strangers who might decide I was worth more as experience than entertainment. The bowl in front of me stayed empty at first but I noticed a woman at one of the side tables glance at it and then at me as if quietly deciding whether I had earned the walk. My hands grew more confident with each pass through the melody and the tight knot in my chest slowly unwound as the rhythm settled into something comfortable and familiar.

  After another round through the progression, she stood and made the short walk over without any ceremony. She dropped a single copper into the bowl and the small metal clink sounded far louder to me than it probably did to anyone else in the tavern. I gave her a small nod of thanks without breaking the rhythm and kept playing as if I had expected it all along. She returned to her seat and the music continued to weave through the room while conversations resumed at their earlier volume but with a softer edge.

  The room did not go silent but it felt aligned in a way that had not been there before, which I counted as a win.

  Even though I was not singing out loud I was absolutely singing the song in my head like this was the most serious performance of my life.

  I'm gonna keep on dancing at the Pink Pony Club…