<span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Times New Roman;">The barmaid almost gets misty at Miaren's oath.<br/><br/>Almost.<br/><br/>Then she shuffles her lugubrious bones into the back room.  Rummaging commences at a predictably torpid pace.  For awhile, there's just the sound of the sky vomiting endless volumes of its greasy rain, interspersed with clunking noises from the room the maid vanished into.<br/><br/>Then she comes back with a pile of moth-eaten blankets that smell profoundly of dishwater.  They are mercifully dry however, with the exception of the greasy sackcloth package wrapped in twine on them.  So far as Miaren can tell from the faint aroma, the package contains pork in some state of disrepair.<br/><br/>"Here you go, and bless your heart to Baal and back for being so kind as to help."  The barmaid croaks.  She wipes her noise, then looks reproachfully at her fingers before continuing.  "The blankets aren't much - just what some farmers have donated over the years for them what visit here and can't make it home.  I hope they see you home alright, though; all of you.  It's been ages since I can think of a person doing something good here in Southwark.  We all built a well together some seasons back, best I can recall.  It's covered over now.  But I got a feeling the good you do will be more permanent."<br/><br/>She coughs into her hand.  "You just make it back safe."<br/><br/>Then the pile of supplies is slid forward by hands shivering with earnest gratitude.<br/><br/><strong>Meanwhile, </strong>Draque experiences a less gracious gift from the bar, as he samples Miaren's mug.  His refined senses dissect the awful broth into its components:  An anatomy of foul things left to ferment - skunkweed, bad barley and pepper.  The resultant concoction is clearly designed to offend the body into believing it is being intoxicated, while actually providing none of the happier qualities of alcoholic beverages.  It succeeds in offending, at least.</span>