You ask to work there

You approach the bar, and look to the orcish tavernkeep.

“Excuse me. Looking for help around here?”

The barkeep's eyes linger on your grey-skin, and takes stock of your face, and other things.

“You want to work here?” he asks, raising a bushy eyebrow. “We don’t pay much, but the tips can be decent if you’re quick with your hands and don’t mind drunkards staring at your ass.”

You nod.

“I’m a quick learner,” you reply. “I run my own shop during the day, but I could use extra coin in the evenings. Serving drinks, cleaning tables… not gonna say it's easy, but there should be some transfer of experience, heh.”

He leans on the bar, studying you with a mix of amusement and appraisal.

He has a short, warm laugh. “Tell you what — you can start tonight if you want. Trial shift. If the patrons like you and you don’t break too many mugs, we’ll talk proper pay.”

He jerks his thumb toward the back room.

“Go grab an apron. And try not to cry when you get a fondle or two, okay? I'll feel bad if you do, and I don't do well with crying ladies.”

You feel a strange flutter in your stomach. Part nervousness, part excitement at having acquired this not particularly prestigious job.

Heading behind the bar, you change into a typical, if not pretty outfit of such a establishment: a white linen blouse with a low neckline, a corset over that, and a dark brown skirt that runs down to your knees. It accentuates your figure quite well to say the least.

Your new life as a tavern wench begins.