Falun listened, nodding along, half his mind elsewhere. "Righ' on 'en. I reckon I'll 'ave plen'y a' folks ta send yer way; lotsa accidents 'appenin' in 'ese parts, an' 'avin' summun local ta take 'em to's a blessin'. Ah, 'ere we are."
They'd turned onto a street heading between the Slups and the Warehouse district which curved along a little further south. At a confluence of intersections, situated on a triangular plot, was a two-story slate-roof tavern that, while not exactly homey, at least looked durable. A faded sign above the door showed a lily drooping, and the lettering confirmed it as The Lilting Lily. Falun held the door open for Nevenka, gesturing her on in.
The atmosphere inside was a bit smokey, most of it gathering in the rafters of a large central space formed by the inner walls of what must have been the private rooms on the second floor, accessible by stairways in the near corners of the building that led to a hallway ringing the building. On the walls, odd little trophies hung - a bit of a facade that looked like it might have been torn from an opera house, given the fragment of drama mask visible; a framed contract of some sort with signatures in shaky paw; and, held in place on a wooden shelf by a wire ring around the neck and hammered into the wall, a truly ornate bottle of some sort of liquor, now empty. Below the rooms on the left, sitting areas held space for games of Twenny-Wah, roulette, and Downel Hold 'Em, with a few beasts, mostly foxes but a few others mixed in, sitting around smoking while they played. Tucked away in the corner was a large machine of some sort in a wooden case, with a long lever on the right side and three large wheels with different symbols on them embedded in the middle, a sign saying "OUT OF ORDER" propped up on the dash. On the right side of the room, a few ratty couches were arranged around a beat-up standing pipe of some sort, an ornate contraption of brass and glass, with four pipes leading from the bowl with nozzles at the end. Between the two sections in the middle, various tables were set up with an electric mismatch of furniture evidently scavenged from here and there, a few bottles and hands of cards left out on one. In the far back, a sullen-looking vixen with short orange fur was polishing a glass with a dirty rag as she stood behind a bar. A pair of doors in the back evidently led to a kitchen and an office of some sort, from what could be seen of the rooms beyond.
As soon as Falun came in, several of the gamblers straightened to attention. "'Ey boss," one, a weasel, called, "'oo's th' jill? New biz?"
"None a' yers, Clive, 'cept fer ya t' take 'er trunk up ta room four," Falun shot back. The weasel scrambled to obey as Falun turned his eyes on Nevenka. "You' hungry, thirs'y? Our kitchen ain' th' bes', bu' we do a mean borsht, an' our spaghetti ain' half bad neither. Mah treat."
