To Flow From

Charlie was seated on a stool at the bar on the middle level, frowning into his glass of scotch.

"Christmas is weird," he grumbled into his glass, before downing its contents and holding it out for a refill.

Sundays weren't any different at the Emanare than any other day. It was crowded with a multitude of beings, corners and nooks isolated for peace. Any beverage was served at the bar on each level by one of the Morgan women.

It was simple, it was relaxing, it was neutral. That was the charm.