The tension in the air was palpable as you walk into the Last Drop.

The patrons look at you with open hostility, some gripping their weapons more tightly, others simply glaring with unabashed hatred.

Enforcers in the Undercity are like a weasel in the hen house. They can’t be trusted.

As you limp up to the bar, it’s clear that you’re not in the best shape. There’s a bandage wrapped around your leg, and your mask is cracked. You’d be easy prey if they decided to rise up against you.

You glance up at the barkeep. He’s a man in his twenties, broad-shouldered and muscular, with a thick torso and hips. His hair is a messy brown, his features craggy but not unhandsome. He must be Vander, the owner.

There’s another man there, too, sitting with an open journal. Silco, Vander’s business partner, most likely. He’s much smaller, thinner and more ferret-like, with long black hair and pale skin. He’s tensed, as if waiting for you to attack at any moment.

“You here sniffin’ around for trouble?” asks Vander roughly. He’s practically bristling like an angry dog.

You shake your head. “No trouble, friend. How much for a shot and some pretzels?”

He peers at you with a mix of suspicion and interest. “Two copper bits.”

You place down three shiny coins on the counter, and he gives a low chuff.

“You daft, or just can’t count? I said two bits, not three,” he says, but scoops up the payment anyway and plunks it into his pocket.

Your gaze flits up and down his bulky body. “Just a tip for a nice barkeep.”

His lips twist into a displeased look as Silco scoffs quietly from his perch on the barstool. “Don’t try to flirt with me, Piltie. I’ll throw you back out onto the street to be eaten by the wolves.”

You sniff, taking a swallow of your drink. “Would that be those dreadful thugs you keep around to protect this place?”

“Gotta have some security,” replies Vander coldly. “Or you Pilties will be tryna cart us all off to Stillwater.”