Her scream barely had time to echo into the night before my hand was already up — instinctive, firm, but polite enough not to leave a bruise — covering her mouth.
"Please," I whispered, eyes locked on hers, "just… quiet."
She froze. Her light brown eyes, flecked with hints of gold, stared at me not in panic, but calculation. She was sizing me up, trying to decide if I was dangerous or just some idiot who got lost on the way to the latrine. When I felt her body relax — just a notch — I loosened my grip and let her breathe.
"You're insane," she hissed back, furrowing her brow and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
"Maybe," I said with a smile I hoped was charming and not criminal. "But before you scream again: I'm lost. Literally. Not just emotionally."
She gave me a look that lasted a second too long — the kind of stare that suggests someone's debating whether to punch you or call for help. Instead, she crossed her arms and took a slow breath.
"You're not from around here. It's obvious. Nobody from Ashveil walks around like a chicken thief."
Okay, quick sidebar: I was kind of a big deal in my past life — a total lady-killer. And the girl standing in front of me? The kind of redhead you'd put in a song and regret by verse two. I would love to flirt with her. But successful flirting requires knowledge.
| SYSTEM: Dante's Charmcraft v1.0 – Tactical Flirting Framework| CATEGORY: Social Manipulation & Seduction – Passive Charisma Tree| USER: Dante (Race: Half-Orc)
"So this place is called Ashveil?" I asked, feigning ignorance with the grace of a tax-evading bard.
"Yeah," she said, still wary. "Tiny village in the middle of nowhere. Mist under the beds, and the kind of place where everyone knows everyone… and hates surprises."
"Is there a law against evening strolls?"
"There's a law against sticking your nose where it doesn't belong," she said with a half-smile. "But lucky for you, I'm nice."
I chuckled and took a better look at her. She was pretty. Redheads usually are. And in a place like this, especially in a tavern, she was probably the most noticed person in a ten-mile radius. Which meant she was used to being noticed — and those are the hardest ones to impress. The more attention a woman's used to, the less she cares about yours.
Especially when you're a green-skinned, battle-dusted half-orc like me.
Fortunately, this world had no social media. Odds were the only men she'd met were traveling merchants with halitosis and the drunk locals who thought "romantic" meant not yelling first. Compared to that? I was a gifted poet with a jawline.
She sighed, easing up a little more. "The tavern's the center of the place. Always someone nearby. Further down there's the main square, town hall... We've got a library, but it only opens during the day. Only decent place if you actually want to learn something useful. The bar is where people laugh, drink, and gossip. And the newspaper… well, the guy who runs it thinks he's the king of information."
"Library, bar, newspaper, town hall," I muttered, then looked at her with a side-smirk. "You work here every day?"
She blinked. "The tavern? Yeah… almost every day."
"Impressive. And today's one of those 'please end me' shifts?"
"She said it's always a busy night," she let her shoulders finally chill the hell out. "Drunks don't understand the concept of limits."
"Oh, I get it," I said, leaning casually against the wall beside the door. "I once dealt with a drunk who used wind magic to flip the waitresses' skirts. Not recommended. You should get hazard pay for magical indecency."
She let out a short laugh, the kind she tried to hide but couldn't.
"You're not from around here, are you?" she asked, narrowing her eyes. "You sound like one of those Capital folk."
"Guilty," I replied. "Didn't even get a chance to practice my yokel accent."
She laughed, more relaxed now. Her body shifted slightly toward me, less guarded, more curious.
"My name's Dante," I continued. "Adventurer. Or… that's the working title."
"Oh yeah?" She crossed her arms, smirking now. "And what brings an 'adventurer' to a misty pit like this?"
| MODULE: STATUS INFUSION (DHV)| NAME: Higher Value Monologue| TYPE: Active Skill – Conversational Highlight| EFFECT:→ Injects stories that demonstrate charisma, danger, or unique experiences.→ Each successful story adds a stack of [Perceived Worth].
| SAMPLE USE:→ "I got kidnapped by a circus grandpa. No joke. Net and everything. Laughs were had."
| COMBO:→ Synergy with NEG STRIKE and AURA OF INDIFFERENCE grants [Magnetic Curiosity].
"A long journey," I said, pausing for effect. "Final leg involved a kidnapping."
"A what?"
"Kidnapping. Circus grandpa. Net. It wasn't elegant."
Her eyes went wide — and then the laughter hit.
"You're messing with me."
"I wish. Sadly, all true. Would not recommend circus transport for cross-regional travel."
She was laughing now, for real — the hand-on-the-stomach kind of laugh. When she finally stopped, she looked at me differently.
| PASSIVE UNLOCKED: Natural Sarcasm→ All modules above gain +15% effectiveness if delivered with ironic sarcasm and faux humility.
| ATTRACTION STATUS – TRACKER:→ [Curiosity]→ [Spontaneous Laughter]→ [Sustained Eye Contact]→ [Unconscious Physical Proximity]→ [Social Dominance Shift]→ [Chemical Tension] (stage 1 of 3)
"All right then, Dante-from-the-Capital. What skills do you have besides dodging nets?"
I grinned.
"Well, I've got a pickaxe. A natural talent for nearly dying. And an uncanny ability to make pretty girls laugh even after they try to scream me into the void."
She rolled her eyes — but didn't hide the smile. "Cheap charm."
"It's not much, but it's honest."
She laughed again. That was my cue. I just held the grin.
She took a step closer — unintentional, subtle. Her eyes were still smiling, but her posture said the game had shifted.
"What's your name again?" I asked, tilting my head just a bit.
"Lina."
"Lina," I repeated. "Pretty name. Strong lungs. Loud enough to wake the dead."
"You're the one who barged in through the door!"
"Minor detail. And not even the worst part…"
I looked at her closely, not just because she was pretty (which she absolutely was), but because something in her voice had changed. It wasn't sarcasm. It wasn't teasing. It was raw, like someone who accidentally cut too deep while peeling an onion and just stared at the wound, not sure if it hurt yet.
"I get that," I said, quieter now. "Places like this… they're sticky. You don't even notice when you stop dreaming. Just kind of… sink."
She nodded, eyes still fixed on the distance, somewhere past the crates, the tavern, the drunk snoring by the back wall. Somewhere where life moved a little faster.
"I wanted to be a singer once," she said, smiling like it was someone else's memory. "Not even famous. Just... on a stage. In a city. Where people clap because they want to, not because they know your dad."
"Let me guess," I said, nudging her gently. "That dream died after a particularly tragic open mic night and three beers too many?"
She laughed, which was the goal. "Something like that. Or maybe I just got scared. Or tired. Or both."
I nodded. "Fear's a hell of a cage. But you've still got the key. Somewhere under all this sarcasm and secondhand uniforms."
She turned to me, her face half-lit by moonlight, half in shadow. "You talk too much for who's technically a criminal."
"I'm charming," I said. "And arguably innocent."
"Arguably."
"Don't ruin my moment."
She smiled, and for the first time that night, it didn't look like she was guarding herself. It looked like she'd let one brick of the wall fall, maybe two. Not enough to walk through, but enough to peek inside.
The silence after that wasn't awkward. It was... still. Like the universe was waiting to see what we'd do next.
"Thanks for the clothes," I said eventually, holding up the bundle.
"Don't mention it."
"I might try them on and return to seduce half a tavern."
"Make sure I'm on break when you do."
"I'll schedule around you."
She shook her head with a smile and stood up. "I should head back, before someone notices I'm gone and assumes I got kidnapped by a half-orc hobo with a flair for bad magic tricks."
"I'd never dare," I said, hand to chest, mock-offended.
"Dante...?"
"Yeah?"
She hesitated, then just said, "Good night," and disappeared back through the side door.
I sat there for a moment longer, holding a warm bundle of borrowed clothes and a weirdly hopeful silence in my chest.
Ashveil might be a dead-end village in the middle of nowhere... but maybe, just maybe, it had a few stories left in it. And one of them had just laughed at my terrible flower trick.
Not a bad start.
"What would you do? If you left?"
"Learn magic," she said, almost shyly. "Since I was a kid. Always wanted to. But nobody teaches it here. Only a few old books ever show up at old Marlow's library — he runs the newspaper. Most of them don't seem useful. He says magic is for the capital. That it's expensive. That it's not worth it."
So there was a library around. And it was guarded by the town's journalist. This really was a strange place.
"But you still want to."
"Wanting is all I can do for now."
"Then let's make a deal," I said, turning to her. "You help me not die in this village. And I'll take you to learn real magic."
She turned her face away, pretending not to care that much. "Do you make that promise to every barmaid you meet?"
"Only the ones who are red-haired, smart, and beautiful. And believe me, there aren't many."
Lina gave a genuine smile.
"Then it's a deal."
We sat there, leaning against the back wall of the tavern, perched on old crates. The dawn mist still curled around the ground, but the sky was starting to pale. The smell of old ale, wet earth, and burnt wood hung in the chilly morning air. She giggled softly at my exaggerated stories.
We talked until sunrise.
"You're not like the others around here," she said, playing with her hair absentmindedly.
"Is it the way I talk?" I asked, slipping into an over-the-top capital accent. "Or just the natural charm?"
She laughed and gave my shoulder a light push, the kind that said she was already a little too comfortable.
But of course… peace never lasts.
The tavern's back door flew open with a bang, slamming against the stone wall.
"LINA?!"
The tavern keeper — a wide man with the face of someone who probably snacks on broken glass — appeared in the doorway, eyes wide.
For two seconds, he said nothing. Just stared at the scene: his daughter sitting next to a dirty, suspicious-looking half-orc.
Then he grabbed the first thing in reach — a broken broom handle leaning against the wall — and charged at me, yelling:
"YOU FILTHY LITTLE CREATURE! I'LL SWEEP THE STABLES WITH YOUR FACE!"
Funny how life works. You fight goblins, almost get eaten by a spider, escape a deranged circus, and your biggest challenge ends up being dodging a broomstick coming straight at your face.