The long drop pub was dreary. Well, that's nothing new. The pub seemed to fluctuate between mirroring the poverty of its clientele. Almost without exception bleak very desperate - too showing a side of Aquesulis Cylon loved. A side of the city that was full of intrigue and shadowy dealings, a fervor that that sometimes surfaced into a violent ruckus. Perhaps he even sore something in himself in this?
Cylon banished that thought as soon as it had occurred. Not the time nor place. He has something to get for someone very special and maybe these Tremere could help.
He sat waiting. He liked meeting the high clans south of the city. He liked reminding them of the human cost of their machinations. Although it was likely none of them really cared. But that was fine to Cylon - it was the principle of the matter. He takes a another sip of whiskey. What was it that Dorian called it?
"Piss whiskey". He says the phrase aloud, and grins to himself manically.