The Frog's Toe Tavern View attachment 80632 It wasn't a really large bar. A little old-timey for Vegas, if one was to be honest. Wood floors, low lighting, lots of red in the design scheme, bowls of peanuts dotting the bar and tables, and a hearty reassurance from the bartender that one could drop the shells on the floor. The jukebox in the corner that was almost always playing some form of rock was less old-timey, and the same went for the pool table laid out in a slightly lower area than the rest of the bar, but neither affected the medieval feel of the place. As it was a place created to serve and sate the appetites of various non-humans, the medieval atmosphere was quite intentional. The proprietor of the place, a wizard named Jensen, is quite adamant about keeping The Frog's Toe Tavern neutral in any and all conflicts that may occur between different factions or races, and fighting will not be tolerated. The Starter Faceclaim (Move your mouse to reveal the content) Faceclaim (open) Faceclaim (close) View attachment 80635 Jensen's faceclaim is the lovely Misha Collins. It had been...a really fucking boring afternoon, really. Afternoons usually weren't particularly busy, but this one was extra-super-specially dead. And to make boring matters worse, not a single person had so much as asked about the job offer he'd taped to the window. "Seeking assistant witch able to or willing to learn to brew cocktails, mixed drinks, and other beverages. Inquire within" the paper read. He thought it was pretty clever. But then, he thought he was pretty clever most of the time. It probably should've gone in the newspaper, but that would draw the attention of more normal people than would be recommended, given the nature of the bar. Creatures killing humans because he just had to hire a replacement for his usual assistant bartender as fast as possible would not end well for anyone involved. So, shitty little note on the window it had to be. Letting out an over-dramatic sigh even though there was no one around to hear him, Jensen hopped over the bar with all the grace of someone who did that at least three times a day and walked over to the jukebox to queue up some Metallica. It matched the faded black Metallica tee he was wearing as well as his mood. Perfect. After that was done, he gave a meaningful look at the big green felt billiards table. He did love pool, but he was working. It would be unprofessional. But then, it wasn't like anyone was going to come in, right? Ah, screw it. He quickly set up a game and got to playing, the crack and clatter of balls colliding or sinking into a pocket and the happy whistling of the place's proprietor soon filling the air.