The Sow's Ear looks like at one time it might have been someone's idea of a silk purse. The telltale marks of what used to be paint still cling in occasional flecks to the door. Royal Purple. Between the dried blood and gouges that front door looks more like a butcher's block than the ingress to any sort of gin sling or swill house you'd ever want to be caught in during the daylight, and even less when the sun went down.

 

The main room has a bar against one wall and a few tiny tables dotting the floor. Mirrors on the wall struggle to make the place and the crowd look larger, but fail even if all the mirrors were still intact. The stools at the bar are empty save for one old man that looks like he was whittled out of the same warped and pocked wood the front door is made of. The dining room is a bit better, the tables a little cleaner, the floor clean of food. A bouncer stands at the entry way to keep the bar patrons where they belong. 

 

The place smells like old spilled ale, and of smoke that hangs in the air. The man at the bar looks at each customer although he is handsome, one might have trouble understanding him. He takes your order and spits in a glass mug before wiping it down clean with a rag that doubles as dishcloth.  There's something else inside the Sow's Ear. Under the grime, the overly sweet perfume of women rented by the quarter hour and the squeak of the soles of your shoe sticking to the floor, the Ear is the one place where no one knows your name and no one cares. 

 

Welcome to The Sow's Ear, the place anyone can call home when they can't call on hope.