As anyone who has ever attempted to keep an inn, and managed to do so for longer than a week, knows, a cellar is highly practical asset for any establishment of this sort. Though seldom is it employed for such purposes as something as a cellar was originally intended for, such as preserving wine - which is often far too expensive, considering the financial resources of the average inn's patrons, to meet any demand worthy of that name - it can serve a variety of purposes. If there is no suitable dump or scrapyard not yet slavaged by goblins in the environs, it can contain prodigious amounts of refuse without its stench reaching the inn proper for months. It can keep carcasses fresh enough to please a ravenous orc's palate. And, last but not least, it can comfortably house lodgers whose appearance would be highly detrimental for business if exposed too frequently to the public eye.

The most recent of such lodgers having taken up temporary residence at the Red Mug presently gnashed his teeth, stretched his forelimbs and coiled and uncoiled his neck a few times as a loud crash from upstairs awoke him from his daily rest. Ah, new customers were beginning to arrive, it seemed, and energetic ones at that. It was probably already dark, anyway. Good, good. A gnarled, three-fingered claw caught an intact bone lying amid the assorted wreckage upon the cellar's floor and deftly tossed it in the approximate direction of the expectant jaws, which snapped it, sucked it dry of only slightly stale marrow and spat its remains into a corner. Next, eight revolting legs clicked in place, lifing the bloated, hairy abdomen enough for it not to scape the ground, skittered up the damp staircase and, impressively enough, kicked the cellar door open, revealing their burden's full glory to what tatters а the world had the misfoortune  of being assembled in that inn.

Khri'zhatt blinked a few times - a sight fearsome enough for the three hobgoblins seated closest to him to hurriedly move to the further end of the room - and surveyed that evening's clientele. Regulars, mostly, veriefiedly uninteresting, suitable, scrawny as they mostly were, for neither business nor consumption, except... Ah, there. Two unfamiliar faces, or nearly, probably responsible for the door's mournful state - a boisterous-looking orc recklessly swallowing ale, or whatever resembled it, and a strange red-garbed figure - elf? Human? Neither, though he resembled both? It was a while since he had had some elf. He might as well try with this one, despite his tankard being full of what seemed to be saliva. [color=saddlebrown][i]Does he actually drink that?[/i][/color] Khri'zhatt wondered, as he crawled toward the pair. If they proved less than tolerant of his presence, a sufficiently loud shriek should be sufficient to summon Thrik from the stable - by the bye, he would have to verify the umber hulk was fed well enough. Otherwise, he might consider feeding it the innkeeper next. Ah, well, there would be time enough for this.

[color=saddlebrown]"Well met, gentle-monsters"[/color] he hissed at the newcomers in his finest Honest John impression, [color=saddlebrown]"Are you in need of anything this lous- vely city has to offer? Some fine working-hands, perhaps? Fresh, obedient, cheaper by the dozen. Just say the word."[/color]