Ssarrinaa walked past a lanky kenku slumped over one of the tables, its feathered head lying in a pool of dark, thick liquid. She huffed and snatched her mirror from the clutter. As she applied colorful paint to her scales, the body’s reflection loomed behind her, a stain on her perfect morning ritual.

The dawn light filtered through colored glass panels - real glass, imported from Balic at ruinous cost - casting jeweled patterns across the messy bar. Ssarrinaa could have had slaves handle the morning cleanup after those raucous, savage nights, but some discoveries demanded her eyes alone. “Sssome thingsss need ssspecial care.” she kept repeating to herself when she had to deal with such unpleasantries.

Satisfied with how the paint looked on her scales, she took up her jewelry: it was heavy, practically polished rocks on sturdy strings, with matching rings crowding every finger. She looked at herself in the mirror, pleased with what she saw: a large living treasure of baubles and shiny pieces of rock.

She moved to the main task: cleaning the glorious Luxodor, the jewel of pleasure dens in the Tablelands. Or at least, a jewel in Tyr. Since the death of Kalak, most such establishments had been destroyed or closed, the economy in shambles. Well… maybe not even a jewel in Tyr. The Luxodor stood in Shadow Square, right in the middle of the Warren, sandwiched between the Red Kank and the back door of the infamous Weeping Widow. The truth was, no matter how much she had paid for the beautifully painted sign outside the entrance, the Luxodor was just a haven for Tyr’s dangerous outcasts, a palace for freaks.

Days usually started slowly at the Luxodor, but today, as Ssarrinaa unlocked the door, Tzoluiki pranced into view, a necklace of finger bones from every race clattering around his neck. He smelled of an unpleasant blend of blood and something sweetly rotting.

The halfling waved toward her, his grin stretched beneath a web of scars that crawled across his bald scalp. He carried a large jute bag that dripped at his side. Many in Shadow Square called him Grinscar, but Ssarrinaa always made the effort to call him by his proper name, which she pronounced ‘Tssoluuukii.’

“Where’s that stupid kreen, Jchak’ik? Got something to share with him.” he said, peering inside the bar while holding his bag over his head. From afar, he might have looked like a harmless child next to the towering Ssarrinaa, who stood nearly three times his height.

“Dear, youuu are the firssst today. Welcome!” Ssarrinaa said, bending toward him in courtesy, though her eyes lingered on him with suspicion.

“By the Dead King, it’s hot in here! Got any bulis sparkling wine today?” the halfling asked as he hopped onto his favorite stool.

“No, but I juuussst got fresssh cactuusss ale.” she lied. The sickeningly sweet blue-purple wine was known to go straight to Tzoluiki’s head and bring out the worst of his already terrible nature.

“Naaah, hate that stuff - give me a bottle of rakra, the good stuff those cheap tari ferment for you.” he said, dropping a piece of silver onto the counter.

Rakra didn’t do him much better, but at least the fat markup on those bottles made it worthwhile - sometimes. Ssarrinaa stretched for one on the top shelf, her claws grabbing the most expensive one. From the corner of her eye, she saw the halfling pulling out a severed arm from his bag. It made a wet plop when he dropped it on the counter. She squeezed her eyes shut for a second.

“Pleasssse, not here.” she said after a moment, Tzoluiki stared at her blankly as she turned back to him. “In the kitcheeen, pleasssse, dear Tssoluuukii. It’sss bad for everybody’sss busssssinesssss.”

Tzoluiki looked at her, then at the limb. A heartbeat passed before he understood: “Oh yeah, I’ll get the cleaver in the kitchen, won’t make a mess.” he said, jumping down and hurrying to the kitchen.

A groan came from the kenku. Ssarrinaa went to him and grabbed his beak that lay in the sticky pool of thick wine. Bulis wine obviously didn’t sit well with him either.

She raised his head with her claw. “I thought youuu were dead.” She thought of offering him a glass of water - he wasn’t a bad customer, though a better customer would settle his tabs on time. Instead, she said “Youu better get going, youuu’ll be late for work.”

The kenku held his head painfully, coughed, and mumbled some nonsense. Ssarrinaa helped him to his feet. He looked shaky for a moment before he steadied himself and left without saying goodbye. He’d be back by early morning… if his guild master didn’t skin him alive for the state he’d show up in.

SLAM! The sturdy door banged into the wall, shaking the whole room. A powerful pheromone smell followed as Jchak’ik stood in the doorway, greeted Ssarrinaa, and let out a loud serie of clicking noises.

From the kitchen, Tzoluiki answered: “The usual for the mantis; a warm cup of broth.” He went on with some clicking noises of his own, which seemed to please Jchak’ik, or at least that’s what Ssarrinaa hoped.

As the day advanced, a few more regular faces came into the Luxodor, all greeting Ssarrinaa or some of the other regulars. A quiet man, with the skin of his chin drawn tight over the bone from an old burn, sat down in his usual corner where his back rested against the wall. Father Kizlot took off his hat made of animal bones covered with esoteric symbols and laid it on the table. He was a strange and lonely cleric who had communed with a rare caustic elemental patron, which had given him powers that proved useful to Ssarrinaa when accidents needed to disappear with the help of acid. Father Kizlot had taken a liking to the Luxodor. Despite only ever drinking the cheapest tea, he appreciated the chaos the place could bring.

Tzoluiki came out of the kitchen with a bloody plate. The arm had been skinned and the digits cut off, hardly recognizable as a humanoid forearm to anyone stupid enough to look closely at what a halfling was gladly sharing with a thri-kreen. Father Kizlot respectfully nodded to the halfling, who answered with his massive grin.

Two bright purple nikaals came with their instruments, the musicians for the night. Before playing, they stopped by Father Kizlot - whom they called Papa - and reverently spat acid into the palm of his left hand. The acid sizzled, and the smell of burned flesh filled the bar. Father Kizlot gracefully blessed their ryl pipe and toblyk drum, and they happily went to play their first set.

“A bottle more of that rakra, Ssarriii!” howled Tzoluiki as he loudly sucked on a bone from his meal. As if the bone gave him an idea, he continued: “Oh! And prepare us a pipe of nargile!”

Just at that moment, the pack of tari that lived in the nearby abandoned sewers came in, all chittering loudly. Their smell was unmistakable, but they never failed to receive a hoot, as they always carried some of their latest batch of bottled rakra.

Two agents of some mysterious secret society sat in silence in a hidden corner of the bar. Ssarrinaa could sense bits of psionic communication between the two men. One of them lifted a finger. She nodded; it was the sign that they were taking their leave and wanted to settle the payment. The place was becoming too busy for the agents’ needs.

As the two agents left, a small group of visibly intoxicated elves peeked their heads in the door. “Beautiful scales!” a lanky red-haired elf shouted, revoltingly cheerful.

“Kitchen’s open? We’re hungry!” The bar fell silent. Tzoluiki and Jchak’ik exchanged a meaningful look. Ssarrinaa recognized the elves as regulars from the Weeping Widow - drunk gladiators were never something to look forward to.

Ssarrinaa’s hesitation to react changed when one of the elves whistled to get her attention. Without blinking, she lunged forward, grabbed a chair, and threw it straight at the elves.

“Out! No sssservicessss for you trassssh!” The smashed chair sailing just past their heads sent most of the elves scrambling for some other food joint. But the lanky red-haired elf took a step toward Ssarrinaa.

Ssarrinaa knew she couldn’t back off now and began storming toward the door, only to see the other elves grab their friend, dragging him away while shushing him. When she turned around, she saw Tzoluiki grinning, his mouth still bloody from his snack, and Jchak’ik towering behind him with his chatkcha at the ready. Most other regulars, even the tari, looked ready to back her up if the elves didn’t understand the message.

“Ssarri, you should have fattened up those tasty elves!” Tzoluiki laughed.

“No moneeey with drunkardsss. Only problemsss.” answered the ssurran as she picked up her apron, and went back to prepare the herb for the nargile pipe.

By the time the pipe was ready, Tzoluiki had migrated to the pack of tari, with whom he conversed fluently in their language. Ssarrinaa was always impressed by Tzoluiki’s ability to speak nearly every language her customers spoke. The tari sneaked him a few sips of their latest batch of rakra, worried about being seen by Ssarrinaa. She never missed it, of course, but saw it as good business: giving out tasters to the crowd before the tari inevitably sold her the bottles.

The nikaals finished their first set and came over for an ale. Ssarrinaa filled the mugs fast and shoved them across the counter. One mug sat a finger higher than the other.

“He hasss more.” one of the nikaals said flatly.

She squinted at the pair.

She took both mugs back, tipped the fuller one, and let the excess slosh into the other until the levels matched.

She pushed them forward again. “Happy?” Ssarrinaa asked as she moved to serve some other customer, not bothering to wait for the nikaal’s answer.

A human in traveling clothes that marked him as foreign - Nibenese, by the cut of his linen shirt and the style of his sandals - entered tentatively. Young, barely twenty years old, with the soft hands of someone who’d never done real labor. A merchant’s son, maybe, or a minor noble’s clerk. The ssurran’s demeanor transformed instantly: she glided forward, her scales catching the light and her rings sparkling, radiating welcome.

“Good daay, honored guuesst! Welcome to the Lussador, Tyr’ss finesst esstablisshment!” she said gracefully, with barely a hint of hiss. “I am Mistresss Ssarrinaa, proprietor and hostess. How may I sserve you?” The young man blinked, clearly overwhelmed by the sight of the clientele. “I… I was told this was where I should meet with…” He stopped, hesitating to say more.

The ssurran was about to suggest the best table for the young dandy, when a dusty, heavily hooded woman entered. Her perfume immediately gave her away. Ssarrinaa recognized it as one of the unique concoctions by Narissa Dreev, the best perfume maker in the whole of Athas. A rich noble, without question.

“Ah, beautiful Lerek DiPaon! You made it!” the woman happily exclaimed as she revealed her beautiful face from under the heavy hood. Ssarrinaa recognized Lady Agystya, the eldest daughter of Senator Trevalis Minthur. She had piercing dark eyes and oddly dilated pupils. It wasn’t the first time she’d come to the Luxodor, always with a different lover and always with a new set of problems. Still, Ssarrinaa beamed with pride at having such distinguished nobility under her roof.

“By Ral, what’s this… place?” murmured Lerek as he gave a chaste hug to Agystya, who took the opportunity to grab him behind the head and give him a passionate kiss.

“A place where no one judges.” she replied, finishing her kiss with a soft bite on the stunned young man’s ear. “Innkeeper! Bring us your best Asticles wine!” She waved at Ssarrinaa, who immediately rushed to her cellar.

When the ssurran came back with the wine, she froze at the sight of Agystya attempting to pick up a conversation with Tzoluiki, who was still surrounded by the tari and their rakra. His smile had vanished. He flicked his hand to shoo the noblewoman away before resuming his talk with the tari in their language.

Agystya’s latest beau sat in terrified silence, and looked quite relieved to see Ssarrinaa and the bottle of exclusive wine. He rushed to her and grabbed the bottle from her claws, attempting to woo Lady Agystya back to their table. Ssarrinaa noticed then that the noble lady was far more intoxicated than she’d initially assumed - Agystya was making loud remarks about the smell of the tari. She seemed proud of her jabs and laughed at her own jokes, as Lerek’s face grew red in shame and the other customers tried to ignore her.

The music and the liveliness of the bar thankfully drew attention away from the nobles, and the ssurran went back to serving the regulars. Only when the young nobleman came back and politely asked for a second bottle did Ssarrinaa notice that Lady Agystya was nowhere to be seen. She refrained from asking and pocketed Lerek’s money as she went to grab the wine. The cork on that bottle proved difficult, and while she focused on the bottle, Agystya appeared in her line of sight.

She was approaching, almost sneaking up on Tzoluiki, who was drunkenly laughing with the tari. Ssarrinaa wrestled the stubborn cork free - pop - and froze at the sight of the reeking outhouse bucket in the noble’s hands. In a swift move, Lady Agystya emptied the contents of the bucket on the halfling’s head and let the bucket dunk onto his bald head. Ssarrinaa gasped, her stomach tightened.

Tzoluiki slowly took the bucket off his head. Now covered in feces and waste, he stared at the bucket as if trying to understand what had just happened. The tari around him were frozen stiff and didn’t even dare to breathe.

“Puah!” Tzoluiki exclaimed before letting out a loud, incredulous laugh, hitting his thigh as if he had just witnessed the greatest circus act. Ssarrinaa almost allowed herself a hopeful smile. Maybe things would be alright?

“You truly are some sick bastards.” the halfling said as he kept laughing. “Is it some of your homemade tari perfume?”

The tari exchanged worried looks but still didn’t dare to move.

Tzoluiki pointed at one of the tari. “That must have been your idea.”

The tari shook his head vigorously and chittered in deference. At that moment, the halfling realized that no one else was laughing and that nearly everyone stared at him with their mouths wide open.

Confused, he turned to Ssarrinaa. “Ssarri, it wasn’t you, right?” She answered by showing that both her hands were occupied. The halfling frowned, anger slowly appearing on his face. He turned toward Father Kizlot, who shook his head.

“By the bloody dead king, who did it? Is it you, you stupid kreen?” he shouted, agitated, toward Jchak’ik, who sat in a far corner of the bar.

Then came the laugh, from the only person who could dare to laugh.

At that moment, things moved fast. Lerek, still waiting for the bottle of wine, stared with eyes wide at Agystya, who laughed and pointed at the raging halfling.

Ssarrinaa grabbed the young man by the sleeve. “Run, run now! Take her with you!” she ordered him.

Tzoluiki rushed to the bar. “Give me the knife! I’ll kill her right here!”

Ssarrinaa tried to shush him and placed her hand on his shoulder as if to calm him, while eyeing the couple - who weren’t moving fast enough for her taste. At this point, the music had stopped and everyone stood on their feet, not knowing what would happen. “I said give me that knife!” Tzoluiki screamed as he banged his fists on the bar. As he noticed the couple heading toward the door, he lunged at them.

“Run!” shouted Ssarrinaa, signaling one of the tari to push the couple toward the exit. No one in this establishment could afford to let the daughter of one of the most powerful men in Tyr be murdered without expecting swift retribution. Lady Agystya seemed to know this and to enjoy it, as she walked toward the exit with the confidence of a high templar. Her young lover, however, had more sense and was pulling her by the arm as he begged her to hurry, all while one of the tari pushed her from behind.

“Let me kill her!” Tzoluiki howled. Jchak’ik and the other tari forced him to the floor, the thri-kreen doing his best to contain the tiny ball of rage fighting with all his might to free himself.

“By the Dragon, don’t be a fool! We can’t let you kill a bloody Minthur noble!” said Father Kizlot, who had come over to help, holding down one of the halfling’s arms.

Tzoluiki wildly thrashed to break free, wriggling and twisting like a slick worm in their clutches. Ssarrinaa watched in alarm as he began to slip from their grasp and rushed to help, but the halfling sprang free and was at the front door in two jumps, ripping it open.

Lerek stood just outside the door and raised an arm to stop the halfling. “Wait! I can…” but no one heard what he had to say. Tzoluiki jumped straight for the nobleman’s throat, viciously biting into his jugular as he plunged his knife into Lerek’s stomach. It was over in seconds; when the ssurran caught up with the halfling, there wasn’t much to be done. The look of surprise frozen on the dead man’s face made Ssarrinaa uncomfortable. Then the tari that had helped Lady Agystya escape caught her eye, and gave her a look; she let out a brief breath of relief.

Tzoluiki kept kicking and punching the body for a little longer, and then ripped the fine Nibenese linen shirt off the body to wipe his face and head. Taking out his knife, he cut off Lerek’s left thumb as a trophy, threw a silver coin to Ssarrinaa, and rushed off without saying another word. There wasn’t much to be said anymore anyway. She grabbed the body by the legs and dragged it back inside the bar, the head making a loud bang on each step as she pulled it along.

Father Kizlot motioned to the two nikaal musicians to give her a hand. There wouldn’t be any more music tonight, that was certain, as the few patrons who hadn’t fled during the commotion were now leaving the Luxodor. “If you need my help to clean up that little accident, we’ll need those large terracotta jars of yours…” said the priest as he went to look for the kitchen knife.

A few moments later, a loud knocking came from the door, which was now locked. Father Kizlot annoyingly mumbled as he had already filled one of the pots with acid. Ssarrinaa hesitated for a moment. “We’re closssed, come back tomorrow!”

“It’s me! It’s me!” Ssarrinaa recognized the voice. The morning’s kenku, back for more as she’d predicted.

“Tomorrow, I sssaid!” she said, then let out in a murmur, “No money to be made with drunkardsss.”