He sings, of course, in far more languages than he speaks properly. In a place like this, he spends far more time slipping back toward songs in the languages he grew up falling back and forth among. There are more recognizing bobs of heads in places like this; more rough, amused voices which lifted from dark corners to join his own.

It's not surprising that a voice from the right joins his while he sits comfortably on the bar. It's worth only the briefest lift of his head in the direction of the voice with the crook of a pleased smile before his attention resumes scanning the room. If there's any particular recognition in his eyes, it's likely lost in the dim lighting of the tavern.

In the bard's mind, there's absolutely no stopping in the middle of a well-beloved song. There's certainly no utility in allowing this particular man the power of having stopped the singing while they're existing in this quiet balance.

Besides, when's the last time he had a proper partner in a duet who wasn't half-drunk and terribly untrained?

That isn't to say that the approach of the voice doesn't have him sitting just a little straighter, chin lifting just a hair higher as his attention continues in its lazy drifting. It sticks to his shoulders even as the song winds itself to an end. There might be some nerves in it, but from the cant of his head, it's clear that the majority of it is really just meant to be the unprofessional mimic of professionalism.

"Guten Abend, meine Herrn. Pass over another and I'll sing any tune you can name."