"Now that that's ben taken care of, perhaps we could have that drink," the lady states, matter-of-factly, as she tugs back on her sooty boot and wipes the ashes on her trousers. "The tavern 'cross the square -is it safe?" she asks, and upon your response, she nods. "Then lets have at it, shall we?" She strolls out of Helping Hand and across the Square, looking back over her shoulder to see if you are following her.
***
Farrel is wheeled through a cracked, green-tiled hallway, down a shallow ramp, and into a dingy, gaslit, underground room that stinks of wet soil and rot. The room is large, though partitioned off into many smaller rooms by old gray curtains streaked with ancient blood.
Gunther wheels him behind one of the curtains, draws it around him, and departs. Somewhere in the close distance Farrel hears something sawing through flesh and bone, and then a long, agonized scream that echoes in his ears long after it dies out. Then a willowy man dressed all in gray, with a tarnished tin skullcap and dust-mask tied tightly over his nose and mouth, comes to the bedside.
"This won't hurt you none," the man says in an oddly high, effeminate voice. His old, gnarled, liver-spotted hands wield a long needle, and he plunges it into Farrel's arm. Then, everything goes black...
***
Prohibition is jumping with raucous activity, and this is not unexpected to you - the only tavern in the only place in the Hive that is considered "neutral ground" by the punks and the gangers; Prohibition is always stuffed to the rafters.
The ground floor is open all the way up to the water-stained plaster ceiling, three stories above, and wooden staircases lead up to balconies from which private rooms can be accessed. Numerous tables and booths are scattered all throughout the floor, occupied by a motley crew of gangers, mercenaries, dust-heads, drunks, and every assortment of loser that you can imagine. Also do Prohibition's patrons wander from table to table, taking in hushed voices and drunken shouts as they greet friends, taunt their enemies, and deal in illicit contraband.
A small, makeshift stage has been erected in the far corner, where a young bard in white grease-paint and blackened eyes plays The Ballad of Grimley Fiendish. Across the floor three women in tight red-leather corsets tend the bar, serving up cracked shot-glasses and greasy mugs of dark liquors to rowdy patrons. And in the center of the floor lies Prohibition's main attraction: the Ratting Pit, where scrawny mutts captured off the street are thrown into a hole filled with rabid, teeming Dire Rats, and bets are made to see how many of them the mutt can kill before he is killed by them.
The red-haired lady finds an unoccupied table near the door and sits down, motioning for you all to do the same, and then she waves a serving wench over. You can see by the look on her face that she is not accustomed to such environs, but she is doing her best not to let it show.
