“A new lute… Who said I was looking for a new lute?” I asked, trying to keep my voice casual, and not looking up from my stew.

“Is that not what you bards do?” Curr said. “Play instruments and sing songs?”

“Usually. But my lute—”

“Yes, yes, I know. I destroyed it. But all that means is you should be looking to acquire a new one.”

I frowned. Did Curr somehow know about my bargain with Phlegm? How could he possibly, though? There was no way. He seemed pretty straightforward. Maybe he really did assume I would be looking to replace my instrument after he broke it.

“Or you could have just not broken the first one,” I said.

“Alas, I was fairly drunk myself,” he replied. “Not to mention I had just spent days immersed in battle rage. Once more, my apologies.”

I eyed him, trying my best to suss out any deceit. Spying none, I decided I was willing to accept that response. Who hasn’t been drunk and done something stupid?

“Thing is, I’m a little short on coin to think about buying something new,” I said. Sure, I’d just gained seventeen gold from pickpocketing Garvis—an act I was not very proud of—but that couldn’t possibly be enough to buy a lute. Could it?

I wonder what the dollar-to-gold coin ratio is?

Does not compute…

Curr took a big swig of water and motioned for the waitress to bring more.

“There are other ways of procuring items,” he said.

My brow lifted.

Did Curr notice me picking the halfling’s pockets?

It’s possible. Your aptitude using that skill is still low, therefore your actions were somewhat obvious.

Obvious?

You weren’t exactly Oliver Twist, champ.

I’m getting sick of you.

“Well, I’m not gonna break into a shop and steal something,” I said to Curr. “I’d get arrested, maybe even killed for doing something like that. Right?”

Curr shrugged. “You would likely just lose a hand.”

“Just a hand?” I scoffed. “And what value would a lute be to a one-handed man?”

“If that man were you, I am not sure most would notice the difference.”

“That stings.” I dropped my spoon and leaned back in my chair.

“You should be less sensitive. Besides, you could have easily been killed by the halfling a few moments ago. Somehow you managed to survive that little ordeal.”

“I don’t know about easily,” I argued. Then after a few moments of silence, I added, “You think he could’ve killed me?”

Curr nodded.

Your Luck is fairly high.

Seriously, what does that even mean? How are people ranked here? Are you messing around about all this?

A lesson for another time.

Perhaps once your Intelligence is greater than a 4.

That gave me pause.

Is that low?

Quite.

I know I’d never been the brightest crayon in the box—my grades in high school had proven that—but I’d never considered myself dumb. I was smart enough to make a decent living off my music until my agent screwed me over. Convinced me not to take a deal with a midsize label. Said better would come. Only… it never did.

Then the suits were no longer interested in us when we came crawling back, and my agent was no longer interested in me. My band broke up and we all stopped talking. Goddamn suits.

That was how I wound up stuck with a regular Friday at the Heart-Shaped Box half-a-year back. I was on the precipice of something great and then, wham! All my dreams, washed away in an instant.

“On another day, that little man might have mopped the floor with you.” Curr looked around the tavern. “Something this establishment would benefit from.”

“Still, there’s a bit of a difference between a barroom brawl and shoplifting, don’t you think?” I asked, deciding I was hungry enough to quit my mope sesh and return to the stew.

“A fight is a fight. Whether in combat or the battle to achieve a goal.”

“Does everything in your world come down to fighting?”

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Curr grinned. “On a good day.”

“Well, I’m sorry. My life is a bit different. Really different, in fact. There’s not much room for fighting in it.”

Even as I said it, I felt stupid. We might not battle with swords and shields back in Willistown, but there’s always one group arguing with another about some policy or law.

Curr leveled a finger at me. “Do you not sing songs about brave heroes besting vile monsters? Do those stories not involve fighting something or for something? A treasure, a princess, a mug of ale even?”

“Well, yes, I suppose so.”

“And there is the point. Conflict is the thing that makes people desperate enough to listen to your singing. It is certainly not for your quality. Life without conflict is no life at all. There is nothing that makes a man relish living like being near death.”

We were quiet for a bit, listening to clay and pewter banging around the tavern, the few patrons talking and laughing.

“And what if you happen to be terrified of dying?”

“Then get good enough at fighting that you do not fear death,” Curr said. “It is a simple solution to a complex problem.”

“Yeah. Easy for you to say. Look at the size of you. There’s never been a fight you couldn’t win.”

“You know nothing of my battles,” Curr said, sterner than I’d heard him yet.

It made me wonder what trials filled his past, and reminded me he wasn’t alone just the night before; he’d been surrounded by fellow braugs.

“That’s fair. But you saw how badly I fought earlier.” I tried to steer the conversation back to my shortcomings. Which wasn’t all that difficult. I had a lot.

His smile returned. “You will improve with every battle. Worry not.”

He is correct. Your current Melee Weapon skill is a 9.

A nine?

That didn’t sound encouraging.

My old nana was probably an eleven. Ugh.

Information unknown.

“How good is a nine?” I asked Curr, since the screen was a worthless pile of garbage. I wondered if every skill in this world was based on a number system.

“Nine is higher than eight. Lower than ten,” he said. That answer didn’t reveal whether or not he knew what I was talking about.

He doesn’t.

Does he have a… you?

No.

Does anyone here?

Only you. Aren’t you just the shiny penny?

But… How do they know what they’re good at?

By living. Duh.

So, I don’t actually need you?

Psh. You wouldn’t be able to live without me.

I wasn’t sure if the screen was speaking metaphorically or literally, but I let it go for now. I couldn’t help but wonder why I was special enough to get this detailed, play-by-play look at the world around me. It seemed apparent that the screen wasn’t ready to answer such deep questions.

“Did the fight injure your head?” Curr asked, likely noticing my faraway stare as I conversed in my head with the screen like a mental case.

“Sorry, just thinking…” I said. “This is all new for me.”

He smiled. “Be proud you fought for something, Danny. That is what is important.”

“It didn’t seem like I had a choice.”

“No. You fought to defend your honor. He drew a knife and showed none.”

“I guess…” I’d never thought of myself as having any sort of honor. Though after what Kurt did, I can’t say it didn’t feel good to stand my ground against a hotheaded thug.

“You have a limit which you will not allow yourself to be pushed beyond. And that is a good thing. It is the cowards who never fight for anything that will always break loyalty at the first opportunity. People like that are worthless and gutless and should not even exist.”

He spoke as if he had experience with such things. Probably did. He spooned another big helping of stew into his mouth. I hadn’t even noticed the bar wench—am I allowed to say that these days?—deliver another bowl.

“Seeing you fight makes me hopeful you are not one of those scum,” he added, a bit of thick brown liquid dribbling down his chin and into his beard.

“I’m not,” I responded as quickly as I could.

I’m not, right?

No. You’re a thief.

“Words do not carry the same weight as watching you in action,” Curr said. He gestured to my bowl of stew. “Eat up.”

I helped myself to a few more bites, which by now tasted amazing. The nausea I’d felt after my fight slowly waned as I ate and washed it down with the tepid water.

CURRENT HEALTH: 95%

Looking good, stud. Remember, food is fuel!

I smiled. Ninety-five percent seemed accurate. Better than I’d felt since being here.

Curr, for his part, appeared determined to eat the tavern out of their entire stock. I figured as long as he was buying, what was the problem?

When we were both finished—him long after I’d had my fill—I leaned back and took a breath. “I’m stuffed.”

Curr patted his stomach. “With that completed, let us see about procuring you a new lute.”

“Really?” I asked. “Why are you helping me now? What happened to the asshole who broke my lute?”

In response, he lifted his mug. “Water, not ale.”

“That’s it? I was drunk so I did bad things?” It wasn’t the first time he’d made that claim, and now, it seemed he was sticking to it.

“Perhaps I see now that you may have the potential to become adequate at your profession.”

“Because I didn’t die?”

“Because you have heart,” he said, tapping his chest.

I went to stand, but he took me by the hand.

“Two things,” he said. “One: never refer to me as an ‘asshole’ again. That is disgusting.”

I nodded.

“And two…” He placed a dagger in my open palm. It was the one he’d taken from the halfling and clearly hadn’t given back. The blade had a few nicks and a bit of rust at the base.

I didn’t close my fingers. “Why would I need this?”

Curr blinked. “Why would you not?”

“I’m not going to stab—”

“It is not the finest blade, but it is small, and you have a lesser chance of hurting yourself with it. Take it.”

He forced my hand shut around the grip and once again left me feeling like I had no choice. I guess it couldn’t hurt to have something to defend myself with, considering drunken halflings were apt to pull knives on you in this world for just an innocent joke.

WEAPON OBTAINED:

Rusty Old Dagger (Melee Damage 1-3).

It’s kind of worthless.

It’ll probably break the first time you use it.

“Thanks,” I said, awkwardly stowing it in the back of my belt.

“We will have to get you a proper scabbard.”

Curr had promised me a meal and that was it. What had him wanting to help me further was beyond my line of reasoning, but I’d been taught never to look a gift horse in the mouth. After all, I was alone here except for the annoying screen.

As we exited the tavern, the wellick and dwarf troubadours gave us—mostly me—a sneering glare. They now sat away from Garvis, at a separate table even. The halfling was almost comatose from the beating and the beers.

Still, he did manage to nod at me. “Thanks for the fight.”

I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I simply nodded back and followed Curr outside. The bright sunlight made me wince, my eyes soon adjusting. Townsfolk continued to bustle about without caring that a giant of a man and an instrument-less bard stood, gathering their bearings.

“Wait,” Curr said, raising a hand.

“Now what?” I groaned.

Curr motioned for me to follow him. “Over there.”

He pointed to a small alleyway. Someone had parked a brightly painted wagon in it.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Their wagon,” he said. “The halfling learned his lesson, but the others should not support his trade or behave as they did in an upstanding establishment. We must teach them a lesson.”

“Wait, what?” Who was this guy, Batman? “What are we gonna do?”

“We are going to make them reap what they have sown.”