Isekai Hero Bartender

On my way back to the Breakwater Inn, I passed ‌a few locals. By now, I was waving to every other person, it seemed. And it wasn't just because word of my singular heroic exploit had traveled, either. Dimly lit faces from the bar, only half recognizable in the daylight, smiled at me with familiar ease.

I smiled back. In no time, I'd worked my way into the heart of the town. This was home now, well and truly.

As I approached the inn, I slowed. Sitting on the porch in some kind of borrowed easy chair was a picture of divine purple.

Or rather, not divine. Downright sinful.

Shivai's demonkin body was nearly on full display. It looked like she'd taken her cues from a certain magazine’s increasingly daring swimsuit editions and made her attire a bit more risqué. Whatever she was wearing, it looked like it was the sort of thing that arrived in discreet packaging—or went on display at upscale sex shops back on Earth.

Finger-thin ropes looped intricately around her. Interlacing, twisting cords formed little X figures over her nipples, leaving the darkened ring visible beneath. A long, bulky knot covered her sex. The outfit—if one could call it that—tied around her arms, hips, and legs at odd points. Despite appearing restrained, she seemed able to move freely.

Her tail flicked lasciviously as I approached, and a cocky grin spread across her lips, showing sharp canines.

"Morning, boss man! How was sword training?"

"We had to end early. It was getting too hot out."

“So you went swimming, didja?”

My eyes narrowed. “How’d you know?”

She sat upright, suddenly less casual. The beginnings of a nervous laugh morphed into a forced cough, then a clearing of a throat. “Um, just a lucky guess? You have sand stuck to your skin. And, uh, the signs are all there.”

I shrugged. “Yeah, we took a dip. The walk back actually felt nice after that. I can finally feel warmth coming back into my bones.”

"You’re telling me! I love the heat."

"Is that a racial thing, or are you just a masochist?" I asked, immediately regretting the question. Her bondage-inspired getup pretty much answered the question for me.

"Can't it be both?"

She adjusted herself, going back to something more relaxed. Yet instead of simply lounging, she leaned forward like she wanted to tell me a secret. She’d used a similar trick from across the bar just the other night. The strings of her outfit tried and failed to contain the generous swells of her genetics, which spilled out from their confines.

I tried to bite back a groan of frustrated approval. Damn, but she was hot as hell.

"Where did you get that outfit?" I asked. "The Shibari Shack?"

"Where's that?"

I barely stopped myself from saying, My wildest dreams. Instead, I went with, "Never mind."

"I just didn't want anything clinging to me. A dry heat I can deal with. Humidity is less rewarding. This string thing here hides my nips and slit, but lets everything else breathe."

Practical though she made it sound, we were trying to run a family-friendly establishment. There had to be an easy way to communicate that.

"Hngh." Nope. I blinked and shook my head, ready to try again. "Fuuuuuuck. Ugh. I don't know if that's appropriate work attire."

"Well, good thing I'm not at work then! Wynnie's inside, by the way. She already handled breakfast. But I think she wouldn't mind your help with cleaning."

I almost wanted to ask her to clean, but she had a point. She wasn't scheduled to work except for evenings. She'd asked for a job, not a lifestyle. Every extra helping hand she gave us was a bonus, not a baseline. The place belonged to me and Wynnie, after all. The only people who really owed any kind of sweat were those who also had equity. 

Besides, she already looked oddly tired for so early in the day. Glassy light skimmed off her outline, hinting at a clear sheen of perspiration. Dust smudged against her leather shoes and speckled her ankles. It looked like she’d been on a decent walk or even a light hike.

I opened the door to enter the inn, but paused when I was halfway through. Something felt unresolved between us. A question lingered on my tongue, hesitant. Shivai cocked her head expectantly, waiting to hear what I had to say.

It wasn't much. Just a bit of curiosity.

"What are you planning to do with your day, then?"

She shrugged. "Who knows? This and that, maybe. Might get a little bit of alone time thinking about my handsome, sweaty guy."

I rolled my eyes. I could tell she was teasing now. "Come on."

"Fine. I already… was out.” She forcibly demurred, looking away as she did. Then, her innocence returned. “So, painting, probably. It's been a while since I got to break out my oils. I get a bit pent up without artistic release, know what I mean?"

I didn't. "Yeah, I know what you mean."

Inside, a few traces of the cooler night air still lingered. Unfortunately, that made it only one step below a sauna. Even if it was less oppressive than outside, it had to be over ninety degrees in the bar area alone.

And with the still, stifling air?

I made a beeline for the kitchen, expecting to find Wynnie there. She was panting heavily, still sweeping the crumbs from the floor. A look of relief came over her features when she saw me. Her broom clattered to the floor, and she crossed the room to give me a hug.

It was short-lived, of course. Our bodies were damp and sticky, feeling unfortunately slimy against each other.

"Ew," she said, grimacing at how sweaty I was.

"Ew," I agreed.

"Are you ready for another fun night?" I asked.

"I'm not sure if I can handle it. Last night was so hot and busy. Tonight I'm worried I might get boiled alive in the kitchen!"

"Can't you just do the same thing you did last night? With your wavy arms and frosty fingers?"

"That really took it out of me. And assuming we make ice cream again today?” Her lips pursed into a thin, straight line. “Maybe with more practice, I can work with more mana and use it more efficiently, but…"

"But…"

And there it was. I still didn't know how magic worked. Not really. If we were going to actually solve problems with it, I was going to need a solid rundown.

It was time to ask.

"Do you think you could teach me a bit more about mana?"

"Sure! What do you want to know?"

"Everything." That might've been a bit much to chew off all at once, so I added, "Also, is there any way to charge up more mana quickly? Or maybe store it somewhere?"

"Oh! You mean, like, with a runescribe?"

I blinked. She'd asked the question so plainly, and with such native fluency, that I had to assume that a runescribe was exactly what I meant without knowing it. And if she immediately recognized what I might be asking about, why hadn't she ever mentioned this before?

There had to be a reason.

"What's a runescribe?"

"It's someone who's adept at writing runes, of course. If they write them well enough, getting every detail perfect—and if it's crafted with sufficient care and passion, they can store considerable power." She stroked her chin as she explained, visibly in thought. "Many people think of runescribes as mages in their own right."

"And let me guess, there are no rune scribes around here?"

"Oh, definitely not. They're true artisans. It can take years of schooling and study to understand the ancient, arcane symbols that form the basis of magical power."

I cocked a brow. "Really? It's not just like having perfect cursive or something?"

"It's mostly like that. But how many people do you know who have perfect cursive?"

"Touché."

For a few moments, the two of us sat in silence, realizing that we were going down a dead end. If there were no runescribes around, then it was unlikely we'd be able to store Wynnie's power that way.

Still, I had to know more. The mechanisms, the possibilities—they were all so interesting. Call it an old RPG player's curiosity, but I needed answers. There was a system, and I intended to understand it.

The first thing I thought of were spells like Alarm and Glyph of Warding. "Just to satisfy some questions, can a rune just store mana? Or can it also store a specific spell?"

"I don't know. I'm not a rune scribe."

Well, now she was just being cheeky. Her dimpled smile told me as much, as did the cute twinkle in her eye.

"But seriously," I started.

"I'm actually not sure if runes can store spells. But they can store mana and mana effects. For example, with my magic, the effect of my mana is coldness. Ice. At the very least, a rune would be able to store the cold of my magic."

Now we were getting somewhere.

"And if you wanted to store, say, a snowstorm? Or a bolt of frozen ice?"

"I don't know. Maybe? With sufficiently advanced mana control, or with a very talented runescribe, that might be possible. Unfortunately, I'm not a very talented mage."

"And we don't know any runescribes," I commiserated. "But if we did know one, what would we have to teach them? Just the shape of a rune, or what?"

"More or less, that would be the basic part of it. But you'd also have to teach feeling. Passion. All that fuzzy stuff. Runescribes draw from a well of emotion and pour it onto whatever surface they're scribing the rune."

Wynnie began rummaging through cupboards for her biggest saucepans. Her ample form jiggled about as she reached on tiptoes to pull down a stockpot that hadn’t seen use since the stew days. I probably could’ve helped, but I was busy staring and appreciating.

Instead, I kept my inquiries moving.

"So, they need to be a true artist? Someone who puts their whole heart into what they're doing?"

"Basically. If they don't, then the rune won't work right. In fact, it might not work at all." Wynnie arrayed the saucepans on the counter, then snagged a ladle and two whisks. “We have eggs still, right?”

The makeshift icebox we’d created held a dozen. Not as many as I’d hoped, but it’d get the job done. Two jugs of creamy milk stood next to each other. Frost bloomed around their sides.

I placed all the stored ice cream ingredients on the counter nearby. We’d have a smaller batch today. We’d have a reduced yield today. And with the heatwave in full effect, I didn’t want to trek to and from Farmer Cal’s carrying half my bodyweight in cream. That was to say nothing of Wynnie’s dwindling mana reserves.

Together, we set up prep to make a small batch of vanilla ice cream.

I only had one final question. Not that it mattered. It wasn't like this was going anywhere.

"So, what's stopping any old artist from becoming a rune scribe?"

She shrugged. "Training, I guess. It's not like there are a lot of mages out there. Everybody has mana running through them, but only a fraction of a percent of us can actually wield it and turn it into anything tangible. In a town this small, there'd be no reason for an artist to become a runescribe."

I nodded, understanding. "Because there'd be no real demand for one."

"Exactly. Anyway, this is all to say that, unfortunately, I don't think we can store my cold by using a runescribe's runes. There's just nobody around here with the artistic talent or deep, inner passion necessary to create a glyph that’d do the trick."

Wynnie separated eggs while I measured out the ingredients for the custard. Already, we’d built a solid flow, splitting duties effectively and without a word. Our steps felt the worn-in pathways around each other’s space, trading spots as needed, as we handed things back and forth. It was as though ice cream had been on the menu for weeks. That we’d known each other for years.

I barely even focused as we worked. All I could think of was Wynnie’s declaration that everyone had mana—just not everyone could use it.

And that drawing a rune was a form of magic all on its own.

A quick, rapid knocking came from the kitchen door. Before either of us could say come in, Shivai popped her head, two pointed horns first. in. Her spaded tail whipped in front of her, almost as though it had a mind of its own.

“Whatcha doing? Ice cream stuff? Need a hand?”

Wynnie’s eyes went wide, and she covered a shocked gasp. “Shivai! What are you wearing?”

“Ropes! Do you like them!”

They’re very… nice,” Wynnie said finally. To me, she muttered, “But she’s not serving kids wearing that sorry excuse for a fishnet.”

“Oh, definitely not,” I whispered back.

Wynnie cleared her throat. “I think we’re set. Small batch today. You can do, um, whatever.”

"Fine with me, so long as you save me a scoop.” She sauntered over and peered into the bowl I’d just started whisking. “I was about to do some painting anyway, but I can't find any of my oils. Did either of you move them when you put all my stuff in storage?"

"Oh, fiddlesticks! Your stuff!" Wynnie winced and smacked her forehead. "Sorry. I saw some loose bags and put them in the shed.”

Shivai let out a relieved sigh. "Oh, good. I was worried they'd gotten thrown out."

"You paint?" asked the elf innkeeper.

"When I can. I also do charcoal, sculpture, whatever I can, really." Her tail flicked behind her languidly. "You know how succubi are. So full of feeling. The best way I found to channel that is through my art. Without an artistic release, I get so pent up that I feel crazy sometimes."

Wynnie looked at me as if to ask, Are you hearing this? I blinked back surprise. How had we not put that together earlier? All we needed to do now was see if this would work.

After ice cream—and after service—we’d have to see how her cursive was… or whatever.

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