You mutually decide to leave 'The Drowned Rat' before further trouble arrives, whether in the form of a returning Rolf and his boys, the Watch coming to investigate or the increasingly angry looking tavern keep decide he might demand payment for the damages after all.
Outside the air is cooling and early evening is setting in with the beginnings of a fog settling in. As you walk down the street Fyodor - still inconsolable about the non-existence of free ale or silver - nearly squashes a diminutive halfling hot pie seller trying to sell his wares to the diminishing crowds (the enterprising seller still tries to tempt you with his pies -
"hot and fresh just like your grandam used to make!")
Magnus is certain he has heard of a delightful inn that stocks excellent Bretonnian brandy and is justly famed for it's roast Hochland duck and friendly flaxen haired and buxom barmaid. He's even heard his fellows at the Guild speak lovingly of it. Alas he can't quite recall where in the city it lies and after a couple of false turns gives up and leads the others towards the Westgate-Sudgarten district where he is reasonably certain there are affordable inns.
'The Drowned Rat' faces west onto Kupferstrasse, one of the wider and better lit streets in the Southgate district. True enough to the street name you do see several coppersmiths, their businesses marked with hanging signs in various ingenious shapes. The buildings here, mostly half timber and with thatched roofs seem a little larger and more prosperous, but are still narrow and high in the Middenheim style. This is still Southgate but a better end and after a walk you reach an east-west street, cross it and enter the Westgate-Sudgarten district.
A large city inn stands across the road with a jaunty painted wooden sign of an unsmiling man in a belled hat beneath which are painted the letter 'The Sullen Jester'.
As you enter you are greeted by an elderly woman not much taller than Klinka with iron grey hair in a bun and an expression easily as grim as the jester on the sign out front.
"You'll be wanting rooms I suppose?" she asks, looking at each of you in turn in case you are miscreants or Sigmarites.
"Common room is five pence a head, private room is ten shillings. No pets, no elves, no girls after dark, no loud noises. Baths and food are extra. This is a proper Ulric-fearing establishment and we have standards to keep."