The Wailing Hound tavern is half-full with shopkeepers, dockhandlers,

and seamen of all types. Due to the recent decrease in river-borne

traffic, they are becoming restless and rowdy, and as their supply of

cash dwindles, increasingly violent. Loud, rough laughter pervades the

establishment, with the occasional yelp as a barmaid slaps the hand of

a leering patron. The bartender stands behind his bar, keeping a wary

eye on the patrons, and one hand on a large club. The door is north.