“Here, we have a table for you!” The tavern owner pointed at Blorbo as Ducaz set him down on the ground, as if Blorbo was the tavern’s property. He promptly put the first round of jugs on Blorbo.

  As Blorbo’s legs were roughly thunked against the tavern floor, a warm, sloshing noise of spilled ale washed over him. Marin had already sat down and slapped a jug of ale onto him. “Good ale!” Then he gestured for the party to come over. “Come! Talk! We have lots to catch up, and the night’s still young.” He took another big gulp and yelled at the tavern owner for another jug.

  Already? This guy’s an alcoholic! This quest is going to be so easy.

  [Jug of Ale refilled: 0]

  What? Why zero?

  Wait. The quest says ‘refill’. The first drink is not a refill.

  Stupid technical wording! What if the tavern owner simply brought him a new jug? Then would it not count as a refill? He could drink the entire tavern and the quest would still be incomplete.

  Then he noticed something peculiar.

  The tavern owner, a stout man with the permanent expression of someone who’d just been asked to cater a wedding on one hour’s notice, passed by again. This time, however, Blorbo saw the weird contraption on his back.

  A keg. A massive, gleaming keg. Strapped to his back like a steampunk tortoise shell, complete with pipes, nozzles, and what looked like a pressure gauge that twitched every time he tilted.

  The tavern owner bent down, reached behind him with a hiss of gears, and refilled a patron’s mug with a precise, sizzling stream of golden liquid, without ever removing the mug from the table.

  That’s a refill unit.

  Marin waved a hand toward the tavern owner. “Hey! Hey, good sir! Bring us another!”

  The tavern owner, clearly seasoned in ignoring loud idiots, instead strolled over to a nearby table. That table, unlike theirs, had legs made of pistons and an arm that flipped over empty mugs automatically. One of the patrons nodded, pressed a large red button, and a telescoping pipe extended from the keg into their mug.

  What the heck are those things on those tables? Why do they look like that? Do those arm extensions help the patrons with anything at all? Those legs even breathe like dragons exhaling!

  None of the patrons seem to question those things as well. One is even playing with the pistons. It’s as if they’re used to it.

  Marin called again. The tavern owner wasn’t even looking their way. The light overhead flared briefly as he walked beneath it. Only now did Blorbo realize how strange that light above where his head was. A strange device it was—clearly alchemical in origin—hung from the ceiling, glowing softly like a captured will-o’-the-wisp inside a thin glass dome.

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  It had a metal stem and three hinges. It turned when the owner passed beneath it.

  Blorbo’s eyes widened.

  “...Wait a second.”

  That’s an angle adjustment hinge.

  If he could redirect the light. Aim it directly at the tavern owner's face. That would get his attention.

  Now, this was risky. Tables were not supposed to move. Not with four people sitting around it. At least Anders was busy complaining about something else again to be bothered with him.

  He activated Adjustable Angle (Level 2).

  The light above him stirred, a subtle disturbance at first. It began to shift, and the shadows in their corner of the tavern stretched and contortedas the light’s focus wavered. He made his first adjustment, a precise seven-degree turn. The beam, instead of hitting its intended target, struck a polished metal plate hanging on the wall.

  Dang. Let’s try again.

  He quickly made another seven-degree adjustment toward another direction. This time, the light found a new reflective surface: a shiny part of a patron’s ornate armor. The redirected light now angled towards the bar.

  With a final, careful adjustment of seven degrees, he aimed the light. It struck a glass bottle sitting on the counter, and the light finally found its mark. The beam, amplified and focused by the curved glass, flashed directly into… Anders’ face.

  “Awgh!” Anders covered his eyes. “Which idiot did this?”

  He failed again, but he wasn’t about to give up here.

  He realized there was a weird contraption on the wall with a reflective surface. The contraption was a chaotic assembly of gears, mismatched metal plates, and what looked like repurposed clockwork. Three clocks were embedded within it, each displaying a different time, their hands spinning with seemingly no regard for any coherent schedule. A series of mirrors, haphazardly placed at odd angles, glinted within the device’s framework. This time, he only angled the light by six degrees. The beam struck a small, convex mirror on the contraption, then bounced off a tarnished silver disc, before ricocheting off a small gear, and finally hitting a tiny shard of glass, which ultimately directed the light to the tavern owner’s face.

  Oh yeah! I did it!

  “What’s going on?” But the voice that came next wasn’t the tavern owner’s. It was Lena’s. “Why’s the table leaning?”

  Oh no! I’m busted!

  [Passive Skill: Forked Tongue has activated. Attempting to redirect attention.]

  Lena frowned and looked at the table, then at Ducaz. “Stop it. You’re gonna make our jugs fall!”

  Ducaz blinked mid-sip. “What? I haven’t even—”

  Lena cut him off. “You are heavy. Don’t put all your weight on the table, you’ll crush poor Blorbo.”

  Ducaz would be the last person Blorbo called heavy, but as long as things were working in his favor, he wasn’t complaining.

  The tavern owner shielded his eyes, still blinking from the sudden glare, and finally turned to face them.

  A miracle.

  “I’m not doing anything!” Ducaz protested. “Look!” He spread his arms and legs to prove he didn’t have any contact with Blorbo.

  At that exact moment, Blorbo masterfully de-activated Adjustable Angle, and he sat upright again.

  “Then how do you explain the table returning to normal as soon as you move out the way?” Lena asked.

  “It’s not me! Ask Marin. He’s drunk and built like a stone!” Ducaz said.

  “It’s probably me. I don’t know. I have that effect on things,” Marin admitted.

  Don’t admit to things that are not your fault, you idiot.