I went in first—Scott had wanted to lead, but I'd insisted—and I felt the eyes on me from the darkened booths and tables. The bartender, a grizzled ork with chipped fangs, gave me a welcoming sneer. From the rough direction of the dance stage—currently vacant, although the lights gleamed on something that could be oil on the worn carpet covering—I heard a muttered comment, something highly derogatory by its tone, and a harsh laugh. Yep, this was just the kind of place I was looking for.