Vincent walked into the packed tavern, looking around. He knew that if he was good enough, he could make a lot of money. He had been asked by the owner of this place to come and entertain the guests, and here he was. He went to a stool by the fire and put down his bag, looking at the contents. He had a tambourine, a flute, a horn, and a lute in there. He had been carrying his drum on his back, so there was no need to worry about that. He thought for a moment before taking out the lute, thinking about what tale to tell and weave. Maybe he should do the one about the wandering knight or the kid who saved his village. Or maybe he should sing something different. He thought about it for a bit before remembering a tale he had heard about a lost child who was saved and raised by a vampire. He began to the strum the strings of his lute, beginning to weave his tale. He changed how he spoke and the tune depending on what was happening. His voice full of despair when the girl was lost, hope when she was found, frightened when she saw her father try and kill her savior, sorrow when he had died. He milked the tale, while still making it sound believable. He wanted others to feel the poor girls pain, her fear, her sorrow, her happiness. This was how he made money, so he would make it as entertaining as possible. He saw a few tears shed. That's exactly what he had wanted. To engage his audience. He was only doing his job, entertain. 

Feyre sat in a dark corner of the tavern, an empty mug of ale beside her and a fake look of drunken stupor on her face. Nobody would suspect a drunk female of spying or picking pockets. The dark, heavy cloak covered her pastel pink hair and pointed ears, just the way she intended it too. She half listened to the man weave his stories and half watched a man sitting beside her finish his third drink.

She was preparing to snatch a few silvers from his pocket. Normally, Feyre would never stoop to stealing, but she had no choice. Nobody would hire a female as small as she is for manual labor, although she was capable, and nobody wanted a Fae working in their home. And she sure as hell wasn't turning to prostitution, so that left stealing and the occasional odd job that came around. 

Feyre stood from her seat and assumed a drunken walk, carefully coordinating her steps to send her falling right into the drunk man. She let out a loud "oomph" as she collided with him and began to quickly apologize with a false slur, pretending to straighten his clothes. She swiped a few coins while straightening out his jacket, and walked to the opposite corner of the room, losing her limp and straightening up. She glanced around to make sure n one noticed and locked eyes with the story teller.