The Sad Flint is just as it always is, seemingly unchanging but never quite the same. The interior of the Sad Flint is quite crowded. People are coming and going all over the rather large barroom. Patrons of any possible description abound, most content to drink the beers in their hands. No one bothers to turn their head when yet another patron walks in. The atmosphere of the place is slightly dingy, but comfortable.
A lone half-giant is serving as the bartender at the long bar across from the entrance. Round tables with an average of four chairs each litter the common area, although several have borrowed chairs from others nearby. More than half of them seem occupied by patrons of some description and number. A pair of armored bouncers guard a double door along the west wall.
Barmaids of many different races weave in and out of the traffic, delivering food and drinks, as well as picking up empty crockery and more than a few pick-up lines.