Malmsteen exits the lavatory, readjusting his belt as he looks at the newly repopulated tavern. His cruel gaze falls upon each member of the tavern in turn, judging everyone silently as he makes his way to the makeshift stage in the corner of the main floor. Grabbing a small stool as he passes, Viggo climbs onto the stage and takes his guitar off his back, saddling it across his chest. Once on stage, the pale musician sits and sheds his heavy black-leather jacket, letting it crumple to the ground behind him. Clearing his throat once, Viggo begins to tune his instrument, letting the strings twang softly as their pitch raises and lowers. After a few minutes of housekeeping, Viggo runs his calloused palm across the neck of his remarkable guitar, and begins to play. 

The melody is plucky and sharp, but has a certain harmony to it. The song rises and falls as Viggo's fingers climb up and down the neck of his instrument, his blond hair cascading forward and hiding his face as he continues to play the tune. The sophistication of the jaunty little ballad would inspire a foot-tap from anyone in a decent enough mood, and generally provides the otherwise quiet establishment with a pleasant and relaxing atmosphere. 

'[i]I bet none of these losers even recognise this as Zwelf's Fourth Ballad[/i]' he thinks to himself as he continues to play, '[i]Bah, to hell with such thoughts, I don't need their compliments or musical taste, only their coin...[/i]' he muses quietly, grinning as he continues to pluck at his fantastical guitar. After a little while, his song concludes, giving Viggo a chance to kick forward a small pail with a few shillings and silver pieces in it.