<span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Times New Roman;">The interior of the Southwark Tavern is more charming than some rotted out trees.  Some.  <br/><br/>The angles don't really fit together.  The roof is never at the same level at any one of the five corners of the tavern.  The same might be said about the floor.  Decor consists of little more than a few furs nailed to the walls, an animal drawn by some apparently fingerless artist or a full-frontal portraiture with asymmetrical features.  No landscapes.  They don't do landscapes in Southwark.<br/><br/>The clientele leave much to be desired as well.  The waitress with a black eye and a cleft palate spends most of her time smelling her fingers by the bar and deliberately ignoring the customers.  A row of peat farmers crammed at the only long table wedged into this ungainly, cramped space is a silent buffet of hunched, sipping stink.  An older man sits asleep in the corner on the other side of the fire from Miaren and Drague, snoring and soaking in a seat of his own urine.  Another man lies with his face on the bar and his eyes open, breathing hard.<br/><br/>It seems like someone should be crying, but no one is.  <br/><br/>Instead, there is rain.  The heavens throw down nosily buckets of grief, until the land bubbles up with mud and splashes as if sobbing in pain.  Rain rages down, and all Southwark Tavern can do is literally tie the door closed, keep the wet wood in the fireplace burning and ball up.</span>