On approach the tavern struck them as a place maintained by necessity rather than care.  The roof was sagging, several shingles missing, the sign a weatherworn plank with paint so badly flaking that its namesake was an outline, more a suggestion of beak and wings, than an actual gryphon.  The rotted boards of the porch creaked wearily as they trudged up the stairs in their heavy boots.<br/><br/>Inside their ill impression was only confirmed.  Despite being midday, the room was as dark and musty as a broom closet, lit almost entirely by oil lamps hanging from the rafters.  A half dozen tables filled the common room with an oak counter near the front, off which lay the kitchen, the rank smoke pouring from within contributing to the smoggy atmosphere of the poorly ventilated establishment.  It smelled of sour ale, burnt cooking fat, and sweaty human bodies pressed just a little closer than was comfortable or sanitary.<br/><br/>It was hardly a welcoming sight nor were the hard stares the women immediately received from nearly every occupied chair.  They were being sized up, studied, pegged as outsiders.  This uncomfortable focus was not broken until a portly man with a florid completion and peaked nose, stepped over, draping a filthy washrag over his arm.  “New travelers.  Must have come with the supply caravans, mh?”  His eyes dipped down from their faces, taking in their slender forms with a look that lingered just a moment too long, particularly on the generous swath of thigh revealed by Lia’s armor, before it formed itself into an oily smile.  “Baths and beds you’ll be wanting.  Fortunately I have an open one in the loft upstairs you can share.  Only thirty silver for both of you…”<br/><br/>Someone snorted from the table nearby.  A<strong>dwarf</strong>in a filthy yellow surcoat shook his head, then went back to sipping at his ale.  This was a true dwarf, not the mythical kind, and he sat atop his chair with his feet dangling over the edge.<br/><br/>Elsewhere in the room were small clots of patrons easily identifiable by their clothing.  A few<strong>trappers</strong>in the same stained furs and heavy beards as the ones they’d passed swapping boasts.<strong>Half-drunk miners </strong>in their dusty work garb commiserating over some recent misfortune.<strong>Guards </strong>without their heavy mail but still bearing the red ram on their breast and swords at their hips, exchanging bored glances<br/><br/>At a distant table they could hear the roll of dice resuming.  The patrons gathered there were a more mixed affair, most of them armed, with the slightly seedy look of veteran<strong>adventurers </strong>or mercenaries about them.  One was even a woman, the only other one in the room besides themselves, a solidly built young lass with a dented breast plate and helm resting beside her chair.<br/><br/>“Well, then, sweet ladies,” the<strong>owner</strong>urged, sneaking a hand around Leanna’s back as he drew them in away from the door, “have you the coin?  You’ll not find finer lodgings anywhere in Moldave.”  He grinned, revealing a mouth of teeth stained black from moonleaf.  “In fact, you’ll not find any other lodgings at all.”