Finding an inn turned out to be easier than Dylan expected.

  Mostly because he walked in a random direction until he saw a building with a sign depicting a bed and a mug, which he correctly interpreted as "we have rooms and probably food."

  The inn was called The Wayward Wanderer, according to the slightly askew wooden sign hanging above the door. It looked respectable enough, three stories, decent stonework, windows that appeared to have actual glass instead of oiled parchment. Not fancy, but not the kind of place where you'd wake up missing a kidney.

  Dylan stood outside for a moment, gathering his courage.

  This would be his first real social interaction since the market disaster. This would require actual conversation. Possibly negotiation. Definitely the ability to act like a normal person instead of a panicking dimensional refugee.

  "You can do this," he whispered to himself. "Just walk in, ask for a room, pay whatever they ask, and don't accidentally reveal that you're a walking apocalypse. Simple."

  His ears twitched nervously beneath his hood.

  "Also, don't let your ears give away your emotional state. That would be helpful too."

  The ears twitched again, as if mocking him.

  Dylan took a breath and pushed open the door.

  The common room was exactly what he'd expect from a fantasy tavern, wooden tables, a bar along one wall, a fireplace crackling cheerfully despite it being midday. The smell hit him immediately: food, ale, wood smoke, and the accumulated essence of hundreds of travelers passing through.

  It wasn't unpleasant, just... a lot. His enhanced senses tried to catalog everything at once, sorting through layers of scent like he was reading an olfactory history of the building.

  A handful of patrons occupied the tables, a dwarf nursing a drink in the corner, two humans playing cards, an elf reading something while pointedly ignoring everyone else. Nobody looked up when Dylan entered, which was perfect.

  Behind the bar stood a woman who could only be the innkeeper. Human, middle-aged, with the kind of efficient demeanor that suggested she'd seen everything and been impressed by none of it. She was wiping down a glass with a cloth that had seen better days, her eyes tracking Dylan's approach with professional assessment.

  "Help you?" she asked as Dylan reached the bar.

  "I need a room," Dylan said, proud that his voice came out mostly steady. "Just for tonight. Maybe longer. I'm not sure yet."

  The innkeeper set down her glass. "Single occupancy?"

  "Yes."

  "Meals included or separate?"

  "Included, please." Dylan had no idea how long he'd be here, but having food readily available seemed smart.

  "Two silver for the night, meals included. Pay up front." The innkeeper held out a hand expectantly.

  Two silver. Dylan's mind raced through currency conversions. In the game, copper was the lowest denomination, then silver, then gold, then platinum. One hundred copper to a silver, one hundred silver to a gold.

  So two silver was... two hundred copper. Which was nothing. Absolutely nothing. He could probably buy the entire inn with what was in his inventory.

  He pulled up his interface, carefully, subtly, turning slightly so the innkeeper couldn't see, and focused on withdrawing five silver coins.

  They materialized in his palm with a soft clink.

  He placed them on the bar before the innkeeper could notice anything unusual.

  She swept the coins up, examined them briefly, and nodded. "Room 7, second floor, third door on the right. Breakfast is at dawn, lunch at midday, dinner at dusk. Don't miss them or you don't eat. Any questions?"

  "No, thank you."

  "Good." She reached under the bar and produced an iron key, setting it on the wood with a solid thunk. "Welcome to The Wayward Wanderer. Try not to break anything."

  Dylan took the key, heavier than he expected, warm from wherever it had been stored, and headed for the stairs.

  He made it exactly three steps before the innkeeper called after him: "Nice ears, by the way. Don't see many rabbitfolk through here."

  Dylan's ears tried to flatten in embarrassment beneath his hood. "Thank you," he managed, and continued upstairs before she could say anything else.

  ***

  Room 7 was small but clean.

  A bed that looked reasonably comfortable, a small table with a chair, a washbasin, a window overlooking the street below. The kind of space designed for function rather than comfort, but after sleeping on the ground and then having a panic attack in an alley, it looked like luxury.

  Dylan closed the door behind him, turned the lock, and finally, finally, let himself relax.

  He pulled back his hood, and his ears sprang free like they'd been waiting for parole. They swiveled around, mapping the room's acoustics, tracking sounds from the common room below and the street outside.

  Dylan caught sight of himself in a small, slightly warped mirror hanging on the wall.

  Lyriana looked back at him. Even tired and windswept, even in the plain traveler's clothes, she was striking. The kind of person who belonged in a story, not stumbling through a personal crisis in a budget inn.

  He looked away.

  "Okay," he said to the empty room. "Safe space acquired. Food situation..." He paused, his stomach growling on cue. "Food situation needs addressing."

  The single vegetable skewer from the market, minus the one he'd dropped during his panic, had not been enough. His new body apparently metabolized food like a furnace, and it was making its displeasure known.

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  Dylan headed back downstairs, hoping to catch lunch service.

  ***

  The common room had filled up slightly since he'd arrived. More travelers, more locals, more noise and life. Dylan found an empty table in a corner, because of course he did, corners were safe, and waited.

  The innkeeper herself emerged from what was probably the kitchen, carrying plates. She set them down at a nearby table, then noticed Dylan and walked over.

  "Settling in alright?" she asked.

  "Yes, thank you. I was hoping to get some food?"

  "Lunch service just started. Today's special is meat pies, beef and gravy. We've also got bread, cheese, and I can have the cook throw together a salad if you need it."

  Dylan's stomach growled enthusiastically at the mention of meat pies.

  His brain, still operating on thirty years of human dietary habits, thought: Yes, meat pie sounds perfect.

  His newer rabbitfolk instincts were apparently asleep at the wheel.

  "I'll take a meat pie," Dylan said confidently. "Two, actually. I'm starving."

  The innkeeper's eyebrows rose slightly. "You sure about that? You're rabbitfolk, aren't you?"

  "Yes, but I'm from very far away. Different... dietary customs." It was becoming his go-to excuse for not knowing basic things about his own species.

  The innkeeper looked skeptical but shrugged. "Your coin, your stomach. Two meat pies coming up."

  She disappeared back into the kitchen, leaving Dylan to congratulate himself on successfully ordering food like a normal person.

  Around him, the ambient noise of the inn continued. Conversations, laughter, the clink of mugs and cutlery. It was almost peaceful.

  The peace lasted exactly as long as it took for the innkeeper to return with his order.

  She set down two plates, each containing a golden-brown pie that steamed gently, the crust flaking perfectly, the scent of seasoned beef and rich gravy wafting up in waves that should have been appetizing.

  Should have been.

  Instead, Dylan's body had a reaction that could only be described as immediate and violent rejection.

  His nose wrinkled involuntarily. His ears pinned flat against his skull. His stomach, which had been growling for food mere seconds ago, suddenly clenched in preemptive revolt.

  "That's..." Dylan started, staring at the pies like they'd personally offended him. "That smells..."

  "Like meat?" the innkeeper supplied, her expression somewhere between amused and concerned.

  "Like wrong," Dylan managed. The smell was getting worse, or rather, his perception of it was. What should have been savory and delicious instead registered as fundamentally, spiritually, biologically incorrect.

  "I did warn you," the innkeeper said. "Rabbitfolk and meat don't mix. Your people have been vegetarian for... well, forever, from what I understand. Something about your digestive system just rejecting it."

  "I thought that was an exaggeration," Dylan said weakly, his stomach doing complicated gymnastics.

  "It's not." She crossed her arms. "You going to be sick?"

  "I haven't even eaten it yet."

  "The smell's usually enough for your kind."

  Dylan stared at the meat pies. At the food he'd confidently ordered. At the mistake he'd made because his human brain hadn't caught up with his rabbit body.

  He should cut his losses. Apologize. Ask for that salad instead.

  But a stubborn part of him, the part that had spent thirty years being human, eating meat, enjoying a good burger or a well-cooked steak, refused to accept that his body could just reject an entire food group without him getting a say in it.

  "I'm going to try it anyway," Dylan announced.

  The innkeeper's expression shifted from concern to fascination. "Really."

  "Really." He picked up his fork with determination he absolutely didn't feel. "I'm not letting my biology dictate my life choices. I am in control of this body, not the other way around."

  "That's... certainly an attitude," the innkeeper said. "Mind if I watch? This should be educational."

  Several nearby patrons had noticed the exchange and were now openly staring. The dwarf in the corner leaned forward with interest. Even the elf had looked up from their book.

  Dylan was suddenly very aware that he had an audience.

  "No pressure," he muttered to himself.

  He cut into the meat pie. The crust yielded perfectly, revealing steaming beef and vegetables in thick gravy. It looked good. It should have been good.

  Dylan lifted a forkful to his mouth.

  His body staged an intervention.

  His hand started shaking. His ears flattened so hard against his skull they might as well have been glued there. His stomach twisted into a knot that had opinions about what happened next.

  "You really don't have to do this," the innkeeper said, and she actually sounded concerned now.

  "I really do," Dylan said through gritted teeth.

  He shoved the fork into his mouth.

  For approximately two seconds, nothing happened.

  Dylan chewed. The texture was... fine? Wrong, but fine. The flavor was... actually kind of awful, but maybe that was psychological,

  Then his body realized what he'd done.

  The revolt was immediate, unanimous, and comprehensive.

  His stomach lurched like he'd swallowed poison. His throat tried to close. His entire digestive system apparently held a snap vote and decided that whatever was in his mouth needed to be anywhere else.

  Dylan's eyes watered. His ears stood straight up in alarm. He made a sound that was somewhere between a gag and a whimper.

  The innkeeper grabbed a bucket from somewhere and thrust it at him.

  Dylan spat the mouthful into the bucket, then spent the next thirty seconds dry-heaving while his body thoroughly expressed its disappointment in his life choices.

  When he finally looked up, gasping, his eyes streaming, the entire common room was silent.

  Everyone was staring.

  The innkeeper stood with her arms crossed, her expression a perfect mixture of "I told you so" and "I've seen some stupid things, but this is new."

  "So," she said calmly, "shall I get you that salad now?"

  Dylan nodded weakly, not trusting his voice.

  "Thought so." She took the plates with the offending meat pies. "Vegetables coming right up. On the house, since you provided entertainment."

  She returned to the kitchen, and slowly, mercifully, the other patrons went back to their business, though Dylan caught several amused glances and heard at least one person chuckling.

  The dwarf in the corner raised his mug in a sympathetic salute.

  Dylan put his head down on the table and tried to will himself out of existence.

  His ears drooped beside his face, the very picture of defeat.

  "I'm a vegetarian," he mumbled into the wooden surface. "I'm actually, genuinely, biologically a vegetarian now. That's my life. That's my reality."

  The innkeeper returned with a large salad, fresh vegetables, some kind of vinaigrette, chunks of bread on the side.

  "Here," she said, not unkindly. "This won't try to kill you."

  Dylan lifted his head and looked at the salad. It smelled amazing. His body, having firmly established its boundaries regarding acceptable food, was suddenly very enthusiastic.

  He took a cautious bite.

  The vegetables tasted like forgiveness.

  "Oh, thank god," Dylan breathed.

  "Better?" the innkeeper asked.

  "So much better." He took another bite, and another, his body practically singing with relief. The flavors were vivid and bright, crisp lettuce, sweet tomatoes, sharp onions, all of it exactly what his system wanted.

  "Word of advice," the innkeeper said, pulling up a chair and sitting across from him. "When your body tells you something that clearly, listen to it. Rabbitfolk have been vegetarian for generations. It's not a preference, it's biology. You try to force it, you're just going to make yourself miserable."

  Dylan swallowed his mouthful. "I'm learning that."

  "Good." She stood up. "Anything else you need to learn the hard way, or are we done with the experiments?"

  "I think I'm done," Dylan said quietly.

  "Smart choice." She patted his shoulder, a surprisingly gentle gesture, and returned to her duties.

  Dylan finished his salad in silence, acutely aware of the occasional glance from other patrons. He'd officially made a spectacle of himself twice in one day, which had to be some kind of record.

  When he was done, the salad vanished with impressive speed, he retreated upstairs to Room 7, locked the door, and collapsed on the bed.

  "Note to self," he said to the ceiling. "You are a rabbit. Rabbits eat vegetables. This is not negotiable. Your human memories do not override your current biology. Accept this and move on."

  His stomach, finally satisfied, rumbled in agreement.

  Dylan closed his eyes.

  He'd wanted to matter. Wanted to be important. Wanted to be powerful and capable and free from the limitations of his old life.

  He just hadn't expected the new limitations to include "cannot eat a significant percentage of food without projectile vomiting."

  "Tomorrow," he decided. "Tomorrow I'll figure out what to do about the legendary hero situation. Tonight, I'm going to sleep and try to forget that I publicly gagged into a bucket in front of strangers."

  His ears twitched in residual embarrassment.

  Outside, the sun continued its descent, painting the sky in shades of orange and gold.

  Inside, Dylan pulled a blanket over himself and let exhaustion take him.

  At least the vegetables had been good.