The Motherlode Shadows cloak much of this tavern's interior, perhaps by design. Through the stinging cig smoke, you can make out the vague shapes - if not the specific features - of sentient beings of most every stripe from humanoid to reptiloid to insectoid, huddled around tables or hunched over the bar counter. Some sit alone, contemplating the darkness. Others talk business in urgent and occasionally panicked tones. The voices are muted beneath the wail of the jukebox. Contents: CEO Bishop Layout CD jukebox Bishop signals the bartender to refresh a tall glass with whiskey. Bishop smirks. "Oops."