Rango Rither’s Western Bar was booming, as it always did as night fell, and all the workers went straight to the taverns. Seraphine recognized most of the misters and missus occupying the creaky wooden chairs, and torn leather booths. Rither’s was a bar that welcomed anyone, so most of the people coming in were the outcasts no one else would open their doors to. People like lizardfolks, dragonborns, tabaxis, poorer folks, just to name a few.

Rango walked over to him, his fake mustache as shiny as ever, and his large cowboy hat tipped down to patrons as he passed. Rango was a small lizardfolk, one that resembled a desert horned lizard. How he ended up in Phyptil, a jungle city, she didn’t have a clue. Anyways, Rango was quite a bit shorter than her, standing at 4’4. He always wore a cowboy hat much too big for the size of his head, a face mustache, and a large striped poncho. Despite his lacking fashion sense, he had taken Seraphine in as his own, and slowly he had become the father she couldn’t remember. She also knew he started wearing the mustache to make her feel better about her full-coverage face mask.

“Business boomin’, Cricket,” he commented in his choppy, accented way of talking.

“Sure is, Rango,” Seraphine chuckled as she poured two glasses of wine for a couple.

“Keep an eye out for new patrons too, alright? Everyone’s welcomed,” he reminded, pointing a claw at her.

She rolled her eyes fondly. “I know, now get out from behind the bar and mingle with your patrons, old man.”

The short lizardfolk grumbled under his breath, but it dissolved into chuckles as he began to make his rounds. Seraphine smiled behind her metal mask, before she turned back to the people occupying the barstools. That’s when she noticed someone she had never seen before, as in never ever. She curiously walked over to stand in front of the newcomer.

“Need a drink? Maybe a strong one?” she asked, noticing the stoic expression on the stranger’s face.

When they didn’t reply instantly, she was definitely confused. They did want a drink, right? Why else would you come to a bar? With a soft sigh, she poured them a glass of whiskey.

“On the house,” she said, patting the counter in front of them before she slipped away to serve other people.

After all, she of all people knew how cruel, and hard life could be. She’d been through four identities now, and none of them were her real one. She couldn’t even remember her real one, no matter how many healers she visited. Amnesia was a bitch.