"Oh, I don't know. Rage doesn't necessarily preclude taste," Loki says thoughtfully. "But I do find that the larger the mob, the less fashionable it's able to be, since conformity is inherent in group mentality gone out of control..."

Literally no one asked for this opinion, and Loki doesn't even believe it himself, but in the presence of someone who enjoys playing with words the way he does, he can't quite help himself. Speaking of enjoying the sound of one's own voice.

He takes a turn opposite the way they came in, leading the way into the barroom, which is almost empty this time of day. There are three figures at a table in the corner discussing something in low voices, probably something illicit, and one person in a heap on the chair near the hearth, passed out cold. The surfaces are stained and grungier-looking than the stockroom, and the waterstains on the menus are unappetizing, but when the food itself is brought out, it seems like pretty solid fare. Cheap, but filling.

Loki orders an Irish coffee on his own coin, and seems willing to pay for Molly, or help with the tab, but he won't make a big deal out of it either way. And once they're packed out, he leads the way outside and down the street toward the edge of town.