<em>The devil narrows his crimson eyes, spines standing on end as he towers menacingly over the succubus, his fangs an inch from her face.<br/><br/>"The customers of my master, you cow."<br/><br/>Then, in the blink of an eye, he straightens, and opens the door for her, in a professional, almost courteous manner, were it not for the vicious glare in his eyes or the venomous sarcasm dripping from his voice.<br/><br/>"Please, madam, enter at your pleasure. Your contacts are, indeed, within."<br/><br/>As the door, forged of black adamantine, creaks open, the dimly lit interior reveals itself to Morrigan. Aristocratic drow priestesses, likely of great power, pit fiend generals, balor warlords, archmages of necromancy, the Garrote's top assassins, sadistic unseelie fey nobles, yugoloth mercenary leaders, and every other manner of vile creature finds itself populating the massive tavern, more a club than anything else, luxurious couches and large tables scattered throughout the room as alcohol, drugs, and more magical pleasures are partaken of by its occupants.</em>