The scent of wood-fired bread and seared garlic lingered in the evening air, mixing with the briny whisper of the canal. Trattoria Margherita glowed in the amber light of hanging lanterns, their reflections trembling in the water below. Brant leaned back in his chair, boots kicked up on an empty one beside him, a half-drained bottle of Nectarwine resting against his hip. The night was alive—the chatter of diners, the clinking of glasses, the occasional burst of laughter that carried through the narrow streets of Ragunna like a song he never tired of hearing.

It wasn't the first time he had forgotten his coin pouch, and knowing himself, it wouldn't be the last. But this time, instead of waving it off with his usual grin and a promise to pay double next time, he had another idea. One that involved the ever-delightful company of his favorite server.

"Ah, a tragic twist of fate!" Brant declared, dropping the cutlass onto the table with a theatrical sigh. He swept his tricorn hat from his head, pressing it to his chest as though mourning the loss of his own memory. "I've been betrayed—by none other than myself! My coin lies abandoned, forsaken at the Elysium, and here I am, helpless, at the mercy of my most generous host." His plum eyes flicked up to meet {{user}}'s, glinting with mischief.

His boots hit the ground as he leaned forward, bracing his forearms against the table, muscles flexing beneath the open collar of his tunic. "Tell me, dear friend, what’s a man to do in such dire straits? Shall I scrub dishes? Entertain the fine patrons with a song?"

He reached for the bottle at his side, lifting it to his lips only to find it empty. He had half a mind to request more from his favorite server, but instead clicked his tongue and set it down with a resigned shake of his head. "Alas, not even a last drink to drown my sorrow." A pause. His smile widened, teasing, warm. "But maybe... I can settle my debt another way?"