[u][b]With Miles[/b][/u]

The rest of the journey is uneventful, the directions given by the Peddler proving accurate, if the route chosen slightly circuitous. You notice wryly that a sharp detour is made around what looks like a Constabulary. The buildings seem to shrink as you progress towards the Mandrake, the roofs dropping from near a dozen stories on average to a mean of no more than five. What the edifices lack in height, however, they make up for in adornment. The crowds seem to grow much more fashionable as you make your way to the tavern: the gristle of criminals and laborers replaced by the elegant, powdered sophistication of the middle class. Never reaching the opulence of the concert hall, but certainly a welcome change of pace. The styles are also much more varied, on all genders equally. It appears countercultural, and with a keen eye one can detect warped and perverted modifications to the finery of the upper class, the streaks and drabs of poorer clothes, all bedecked in a cavalcade of bright colors. One particular woman, with hair of onyx and a peach-like complexion wears a gown striped with another of those Not-Colors, bright Almost-Yellow faintly streaking the mottled grey cloth, bringing dim memories of the surface welling up like a geyser. Fellow pedestrians have rather polarized views, and careful observation can see an almost even split between enraptured attention and spiteful disdain.

A short while later and you are at the doors of the Mandrake. It is a building too large to be a pub but to small and square to be anything else; it lies in the middle of an uncanny gulf, no doubt favored by bohemian sensibilities. The large doors are unguarded, sitting ajar slightly. A sign depicting the titular mandrake hangs above the door in wrought-iron, the title of the establishment hanging below it in the same rusty hue. There is a small garden in front of the building proper, a well-maintained cluster of topiary and flowers standing in resolute contrast to the tall buildings flanking the venue.

If one ventures inside the establishment, it is host to a bizarre menagerie of characters. Every person is different from every other, as though every man and woman fighting for the limelight in their own way, a sort of fashion arms race apparent. A pair in the corner stands out, dressed in business finery in subdued black and charcoal, clearly receiving immense attention from nearly half the pub's occupants. The denizens are different not only in fashion but natural appearance: there are young and old, men and women, fat and skinny all every shade of hair or skin under the sun. There are clear groups, aside from the cluster around the outsiders, cliques clearly sorted by any number of things: a trio of citizens all with matching hats. Three fat men playing cards. A pentagon on elderly men and women, all of whom look frustrated at their present company. The place is full of noise, also. You hear no less than three voices reciting poetry, all clustered around the two suited gentlemen, all of dubious quality, though none lacking in enthusiasm or self-satisfaction. A violin croons from one corner of the room, and a man sings in another, though none compare in earned attention nor quality to the pianist upon the single stage, several feet above the crowd and illuminated by bright lights.

The woman seated at the piano is breathtaking. Her fingers dance over the keys with a practiced air, gliding along with the calm, haunting waltz, a beautiful melody floating above adoring and eager bass notes. She plays alone, yet has enraptured most of the gathered peculiars who do not currently fruitlessly compete for attention with her. The two suited gentlemen watch as though bewitched. She is outstanding in most every way, clearly in a class of her own. Curly brown hair tops her well-endowed, lithe form, and her artistry is matched only by her general beauty, a class above the rest here. She shows no signs of finishing her piece anytime soon, and after a few moments of standing in the bar quizzical eyes turn to you, scanning you over and trying to decipher why you are here. The bartender motions you over, presumably wanting to take your order, and several empty tables sit ready to be occupied.

[b][u]With Spencer[/u][/b]

If the Mandrake is not the eatery one is looking for, then there are plenty of food shops around Wolfstack, though most representing the poor economic status of the neighborhood. 'Peculiar Zee-Cheeses', 'Gracious Gnawings', 'Dark-Drop Coffeehouse' and a hundred more sub-standard restaurants and cafes line the commercial streets of inner wolfstock, the ever-present smell of cooked and raw fish [if what comes from the zee can truly be called such] is noxious and unfamiliar, and more than once street hawkers proposition their particular foods and beverages as being superior, or 'good enough for the Traitor Empress' [a reminder that London here is no longer part of the nearly-dead empire of the surface that still holds the title of 'Britain'] or other such obviously false boasts.

There are, in addition, an astounding number of pubs, liquor stores and brothels, all much larger and grander than any of the reputable business, obviously doing incredible business off the zailors, who one would assume would come off the Zee terrified and homesick, ready to drown their fears and sorrows in cheap, possibly diseased, debauchery.

The most appealing restaurant, though not a difficult title to hold, is the [i]Speared Whale[/i], an upscale diner, fairly busy with a more median class crowd, a pleasant smell cutting through the waft of desiccated fish entrails. Surprisingly, if you decide to sit at one of its tables, a man immediately presents you with a plate of steaming hot food and a tall glass of ice-cold water, not having waited more than a minute. A whole fish lies in front of you, garnished with a sauce packed with mushrooms of all shapes and sizes, tasting bittersweet and salty all at once.