The Surly Wench Inn sits on a dusty nondescript hilltop that could be anywhere. In a way, it is anywhere. And anywhen. It stands at a crossroads, not of twining ribbons of road but of the fabric of our worlds. Spacers drink with cowboys, maidens play darts with evil scientists, and demons dance the gavotte with post-humans. Many find the inn by mistake, never to return after their first visit, while others have the knack and come back again and again. There are simple rooms upstairs to let, certified flea-free and the common room is warm. The beer is cold, the roast beast hot, and the chairs not too hard. Presiding over it all is the surly wench Tamarin, no surname that she admits to. She tends the bar with a grudge, wipes counters with a mildewed rag, speaks ten languages, brews her own beer and ages her own pumpkin brandy. She doesn't smile much, speaks even less, but listens without judgement. Come have a seat, spin a tale, and learn a thing.