The speakeasy was a single large room perhaps three or four times as long as it was wide, with the entrance being on the narrow end. The height of the ceiling, the positively chilly ambience, and the presence of old wine barrels betrayed this place’s former identity as a wine cellar.

Alongside the right wall there was a long bar, taking up some two-thirds of the wall’s length, with a small gap between its farthest edge and the simple stage all the way at the back. Curiously, the bar was partially curtained off much in the same way as some street vendors and smaller restaurants, only instead of segmented curtain fabric it was… Flags. All sorts of flags from ones that plucked at the strings of recognition to ones that conveyed their meaning at a glance.

Among them, at a glance Zel recognized the flag of Willowdale, the flag of Ikesia as a whole, and a thoroughly defaced Pateirian flag. There were also other, more specific flags, such as one that was all black bearing the symbol of… Some Pateirian province or another? A half-formed memory told Zelsys it represented an independence movement from one of the great many islands the empire had annexed. Some were clearly just jokes - there was one depicting an exaggerated wendigo on all fours in a field of bright yellow, the text “TAKE OUR GUNS” printed above it and “SEE WHAT HAPPENS” printed below, both in bold, black lettering.

Opposite the bar, most of the remaining free space was taken up by tables. Most were just normal tables, but some were halves from huge barrels or old rope reels. Strolvath headed towards one near the stage, and Zel followed suit, taking in the atmosphere. She hadn’t even noticed the persistent miasma of tobacco smoke that lingered in the air up until now, it was like a greyish blanket that floated just barely overhead.

Strol sat in one of the chairs facing the bar, while Zel sprawled out on one that had a good view of the stage. A pleasant surprise, the chair didn’t so much as squeak, and it was comfortable - at least, once she took off her holster and stowed it under the table, well within reach just in case.

Their gazes met, and Strolvath spoke for the first time since they’d left Riverside Remedies: “We can either handle business right now, or we can drink and deal with it in a bit. Yer pick.”

“The latter is fine,” Zel said as she lazily raised her eyes from him, looking about. A staggering majority of the customers were just outright Ikesian soldiers, still wearing their uniforms, some openly speaking of how they had been falsely accused of war crimes. There were mentions of regretting that they hadn’t acted as heartlessly and pragmatically as their accusers claimed they had - some jokingly, some less so.

Her gaze naturally drifted to the stage, two men occupying it - a bearded, scarred old Grekurian in a heavily-worn Ikesian uniform, missing an ear and possessed of a peg left leg. Even calling it a peg was a compliment, thing looked like a log. The other person was in utter contrast - a young Ikesian man, just barely fighting-age, wearing an officer’s uniform that bore only a few tears alongside the stains of pub life.

The older man strummed the same couple chords for rhythm while singing, while the younger played lead guitar and rhythmically bounced his leg up and down, shaking a tambourine that was affixed to his knee with a belt.

Indeed the man in the tattered uniform sang, he sang with sorrow and anger that matched Strolvath’s, his deep tenor voice cracking occasionally: “In our own towns we’re foreigners now, our names are spat and cursed; the headlines smack of another attack, not the last and not the worst… Oh my fathers they look down on me, I wonder what they feel? To see their noble sons driven down, beneath a coward’s heel!”

So the song went, lamenting the perceived attacks on Ikesian cultural identity and reaffirming the intent of resistance and reclamation. And so they sat, listening - for a short while, anyway. Zelsys eventually reached under the table, took out her tablet, and retrieved ten gelt in coppers, and so Strolvath dropped a silver of his own on the table and saddled her with his order too.

One tankard of “Dragon’s Milk” ale and one of “Tanker’s Delight” cider, each filled to just below the brim so as to leave room for a shot’s worth of liquid. Humoring the burned man, Zel took his coin too and went to the bar, poking her head in through the curtain of flags. It fortunately only took a few seconds for the barkeep to notice and come over to her, perhaps because none others were ordering at the moment, or perhaps she simply caught the full-bodied older woman’s eye. One could see at least three children’s consequences on that woman, with hips wide enough that one had to wonder if she had even gotten in through the tunnel.

She regarded Zelsys with an effervescent warmth, bubbling, “What’ll it be, tall dark n’ handsome?”

Returning a smile, Zel made out Strol’s order and her own separately - her order being just a tankard of cider. It came out to a higher total than she had expected, but then, the barkeep made it plain that this was the nicest stuff the establishment had to offer. Three full tankards in an iron grip she returned to their table and without spilling a drop set down each one in its place. By the time she sat down, the brass-eyed soldier had already pulled a seal-bottle from his backpack, yanked the cork with his teeth, and filled the free space in his tankards.

“You really add that stuff to everything, huh.”

“This doesn’t count. Fer me the green stuff smells n’ tastes like the finest liquor to ever be conceived, so I use it to make B-grade stuff more palatable. Kinda ruined regular booze for me to be honest.”

“Really?” chuckled the one-armed slayer. “For me it’s… Not fitting for any old drink, let’s put it that way.”