The Wench’s Favor

You find yourself in a smoky, raucous tavern buzzing with minstrels and clashing tankards. Tessa the bar wench steps up beside you as you sit alone at the end of the bar, your face shadowed by firelight. She leans a bit too close, mug in hand, voice like honeyed mead.

"Haven’t seen your face ‘round here before, m’lord. You drink like a man with heavy thoughts… or heavier hands."

She brushes her hip against the edge of your stool as she leans in, eyes locked on your lips.

"Either way, I pour better when someone tells me a story. Care to trade one for a smile?"