Fresh lurches forward, her hand clutching the front of her chest as the heavy burning sensation courses through her throat. The thick, tarry liquid, oozing down into her gut, feels like it’s setting her insides on fire. It takes everything that she has in herself not to start coughing and spluttering and retching everywhere. The taste is… indistinctly metallic. It simply tastes like you would expect a shot of black goo to taste. Oily. A little like sucking on wet coins. It burns.

Wincing and clenching her eyes tightly shut, as the muscles in her tense neck turn her head to the side, she swallows the last of it and sets the glass quietly back down onto the counter with her shaking hand.

It hits her stomach like a brick and her body convulses, as if to try to push it back up and out of itself immediately. She presses it back down, ignoring the acidic taste rising in the back of her throat. The room is still deathly quiet, the air is no less tense, the voice still sings for a cause unknown. Her eyes raise up, but there is still no singer to be seen. It is as if there is simply a specter, a wailing ghost whose presence fills the room. Her eyes reach the small masked figure, their head covered by a burgundy-red hood. Fresh wonders, is this the same person? Weren’t they wearing green?

Oh wait, that was yesterday. Obviously people wear different clothes. Duh. She nods to the figure, who places their empty glass back onto the counter. The figure shakes their hands out into the air in disgust, as if the taste had disturbed them as well and then nods back to her.

Fresh has no idea what’s happening anymore.

The barkeeper quietly takes both empty glasses, inspecting them, before setting them down and out of the way. Reaching back up, she slides a key across the bar, towards the small figure, who takes it and nods. Looking at Fresh, the stranger raise a finger, gesturing for her to follow, as they then turn and walk towards an upwards leading stone staircase, on the other side of the room. Fresh feels entirely lost now. Were they… was this some kind of… seduction? Drinks and a room? What?

No… No, she’s being ridiculous. There’s obviously something that the small figure wants from her and this is no place to talk, she realizes, watching the masked person who has reached the stairs. Plus that window that had appeared said they formed a party. So she’s in a party now? That’s great, isn’t it? That’s exactly why she came here! They turn and look back to her questioningly. The singing voice calls all around them, unperturbed by any of this, as it continues with its aria. Fresh clenches her fists tightly and steps towards the stairs, deciding to follow them. She wants to be brave. She wants to take risks. This is a new life. She had promised herself. No fear. No doubts.

But, despite that wishful thinking, Fresh stops again in her tracks, feeling the coins in her hand and the burning in her gut. It’s all she has. But… it would be rude not to… wouldn’t it? She wants to do it right. She wants to do it all right. All of it. She won’t miss any more opportunities to be the person who she wants to be. She wants to live right, she wants to live forthrightly.

Fresh turns around once more towards the barkeeper, who looks back up to the girl, as she places two of her three coins onto the counter and slides them towards the elf, who stares back curiously. But then nods to Fresh, understanding the meaning of the gesture. Fresh nods back and heads towards the stairs and towards the hooded figure, holding her last coin, her lucky coin, tightly clenched in her fists. It wasn’t a pragmatic decision, obviously. But it felt like the right thing to do. One for each drink. That feeling, that’s how she wants to live. She wants to feel like she has chosen the right things with every choice she makes in this new life and as of right now, she does.

Quietly as she moves to the stairs, she thanks Mr. Mushroom one last time for everything that he’s done for her. For the good feelings that he has let her feel today.

Oddly though, she feels more eyes on her now. As the gazes of some of the tables have returned to her for some reason. Yet none speak, whisper or murmur; daring not to break the spell of the siren song. The group before her, at the table just by the staircase, all look at each other with certainty in their gazes. As she passes them by, a woman in white with long, strawberry-brown hair, reaches out and gently grabs the side of Fresh’s robe, to get her attention. Fresh looks at the woman, who appears to be a priestess of some kind. Her features are delicate and soft, she seems compassionate. But her mug is just as full as all of the other mugs here. She scoots to the side, opening a space at their table up.

Fresh’s eyes open wide. Were they… were they inviting her to sit with them? Her? Really?! Her heart beats fast. Nobody had ever asked her to sit with them anywhere, ever… Why? What did she do? She feels happy, as she looks to the rest of the table who all nod back to her, their expressions as certain and determined as the priestess’. They want her. Fresh’s mind buzzes with a joy that she quite can’t put into coherent thoughts, the bewitching voice mesmerizing her, mixing with this unbridled feeling of warmth and giving it an oddly sad depth. She doesn’t understand this at all, but -

Something grabs her and Fresh almost yelps in surprise, as her thoughts are slashed in twain. But she keeps it down, as she looks at the small figure on the staircase who has grabbed her by the hand and drags her away from the table before she can react.

Somewhat troubled and uncertain of what to do, she lets herself be pulled away, but somewhat sadly waves goodbye to the group at the table, as she is pulled up the staircase by the surprisingly strong figure, given their size. The group looks oddly disappointed at her leaving, which isn’t something that she is used to seeing. But it doesn’t feel bad to see either.