In one of the seediest parts of town, The Niche Inn is where many of the most notorious criminals gather to openly plan their next heist and enjoy questionable pleasures. Although it tends to be a familiar haunt for many, its ramshackle outside matches the facades of many of the sooty and refuse-covered buildings around it. Inside, the atmosphere is almost that of a smutty holiday. People of many species join into the almost constant barfight, gamble shamelessly, drink themselves below the tables, or enjoy the well-paid maids who are scattered strategically throughout. 



The only windows are shuttered holes, not large enough to let out the sweaty, smoky atmosphere, but just conveniently placed as to chuck out a particularly putrid puking patron. The bartender is a large, bald man who wears his empty eye socket proudly, winning it as he had in the same card game he had gotten the Inn in. Dirty glasses clatter under the hands of both the wealthy and poor as they mingle - for the most part. The upper floor is generally used for nighttime pleasures and a bit of sociable quiet. 



Patrons wishing for more privacy for their planning can be hurried off to the side rooms or, with a large group, to the catacombs below - for a fee, of course. Anyone they might need for their plots can probably be found upstairs, and with a heavy coin and a sharp bark, the richer patrons can have the wanted specimen wrested from the raucous crowd. No "Lawkeepers" have yet found the secret rooms - or at least those who don't participate in the tavern's many pleasures themselves. Buisness continues as usual, despite the constant warfare between class and species - As they say, "Quite frankly, we're all the same, so who gives a d---."

Gibbons picked his teeth languidly with the dull end of a toothpick, surveying his empire triumphantly. Buisness was booming. Some black market merchants were busy peddling their wares three tables from the back corner, the gambling tables were turning in his favor, and the ale flowed easily. He wiggled his sausage-like toes in his boots in anticipation still, though. The biggest haul was yet to come. Some pretentious noble had rented out three of the lower catacombs for some secret affair. What a rich man Gibbons would be after this night!

A customer called for another round of drinks and the slop that was currently being served as lunch. The barkeep looked into the pot and ladeled some out, doubting that anyone would really eat the gruel if they hadn't been already impaired. He mentally shrugged and fetched one of his waiters to get the customers' refills. Not his problem.

He leaned back against the back counter again, scratching his expansive belly thoughtfully. Who can say they have such a wonderful s***hole as this? He grinned his cracked, blackened teeth. He was waxing poetic today.