The shady tavern was filled with the same sights and smells that most of its ilk were - a smoky sort of musk that only barely held back the smell of stale piss, vomit, and sawdust - and the typical sorts of miscreants that one would find in a tavern suited for those not among the uppermost rungs of the metaphorical societal ladder. Phanyx definitely fit the description of the latter, and as his satyric form entered into the inn it drew forth the attention of most of the inhabitants, before the shock faded and they returned to whatever shady business it was that they were planning. Phanyx had long ago gotten accustomed to people shying away from his heathenistic appearance - he looked like what most people envisioned gods of the darker arts looked like, and that was something he was fine with. He was, after all, likely the closest they would ever get to a true deity.

"Word reached mine ears that thine establishment requires an undertaker of sorts..." the sooty, raspy voice of the ancient satyr came forth, not loud enough to pierce the conversational veil that the inhabitants provided, but enough to pique the interest of the bartender and potentially of those relatively near the bar. From that point on, the finer details were discussed more quietly to avoid more prying, though if one were to lean closely in it might have been possible to gleam new insights into the direction the macabre conversation was heading in. Whether or not the satyr minded was a different matter entirely, but his appearance was one that made it seem wiser to avoid his ire.