As far as taverns went, the Black Dog was a top notch place. Weathered beams, creaking wooden floors aside, there was room to breathe in the layout. Which was a good thing too because of the cinnamon cigarette and coconut tropic cigar smoke filling the air with red and yellow haze.  There were stairs leading up to a second floor of rooms off to the left side and a small area beside the hearth where a singer or storyteller could set up on the right. Front and center was the three sided bar, doors to the kitchen right beside it, and the entire area between filled with tables. Most tables were circular and sized to fit a small party, but others were long and rectangular, designed to set up a whole crew for drinking and a meal.<br/><br/>Breathing in a deep sigh, readying himself for the task ahead, Kit was taken aback for a moment as someone at one of the small tables hailed him. It was always a double-edged sword being recognized in this world; there were ample opportunities to piss off your contemporaries and despite codes of ethics, backbiting and backstabbing were not new inventions among candy pirates. However, it was a doubly dubious business when you were recognized by someone you didn't know, which Kit-Kat did not the man who'd spoken of debt.<br/><br/>Sauntering over casually, Kit raised a hand to the bar keep, asking for a general butter beer for himself, metal rings on his fingers glittering in the light of candles in the murky room. "Do I? How you figure that, friend?" Kit-Kat asked, pulling a chair out for himself across from the other and planting his ass comfortably down upon it. "Have we met?"<br/><br/>He supposed it was possible and he simply didn't remember. Kit was known for getting smashed on a sugar high and butter beer drink binge on occasion; who knew the debts he had that he simply couldn't remember?