She performs a couple pretty numbers, the lilting head-voice songs that make the inn's patrons swoon when she looks out at them through her lashes. It's muscle memory at this point, closer to a chore than the thrill of a true performance, but it gets her enough coin to buy another ale, at least.
"Good stuff. Be careful with yer horns on the pillows." Huford grunts, like that's a proper compliment. Hue ignores him, downs her ale standing up until her parched throat is soothed, and heads up the stairs to the room she was given without saying goodnight to the crowd of bar-goers, even though she feels them watching her leave.
The eyes of an audience don't feel the same as they used to, because nothing feels the same as it used to. The polite applause just leaves her an angry kind of empty, makes her want to curse and scream because there's a space beside her where someone should be, nobody there to clasp hands and bow with after a good show.
(He'd always rattle off some crowd-pleaser jokes about the audience, or the town, or themselves, and people would cheer like these two tieflings were the best act they'd seen in weeks. He was so funny, she thinks, and then: is funny. Still is. Has to be.)
Hue strips down to her underthings with too many empty, angry claws, thumps onto the shitty mattress with not a single fuck about Huford's pillows. People still cheer for her, she thinks. It's just sounds half as loud.
She worries the flat of her horn on the wooden headboard, gets comfortable like that, even though it really feels nothing like lying beside another tiefling. When she shuts her eyes, she squeezes them closed tight, like it might make sleep come faster.