The back streets and alleys of the meat district run grey with rivers of rendered fat. The rent is cheap, though, and a bargain for one who no longer has the full faculty of smell. On arriving in the city, Freja had wandered the streets for three nights, sleeping in gutters and gulleys, feeling out the ebb and the flow of people and of energy, before settling on this place. She had paid the neighbouring abattoir’s owner three months of rent up-front, with a few pinches of gold flakes. Real, for, as they say, you do not transmute where you eat. Or, at least, as Freja could afford but one weathered table for refreshments and reactions alike, you do not mix business with pleasure.