You enter a bar you heard about through the grapevine. The hunter community was fond of the bustling atmosphere of The Roadhouse.

A muted ebony bartop, with a variety of liquors lining the back wall, Leather upholstered stools that had a few straggling patrons, nursing beers.

It was a slow night. Cozier.

You approach the bartop, to place an order. Hard days call for hard beverages.

A young woman approaches, towel tossed over her shoulder, she rests her hands on the edge of the bar.

“What can I get for you, tonight?” She asks, you seem different.

Most hunters around her age come through that door and try to impress her with some pizza, a six pack, and side one of Zeppelin IV.