10.11.98
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Music boomed and echoed through the confines of the smoky little club, the volume and accompanying lightshow enough to disorient the firstime visitor. He wasn't a newcomer, but he hadn't been here often enough to acclimate himself to it. Closing his eyes, the man rubbed at his eyebrows and took another shallow sip of his beer.

Zhurrie Maunlev broke away from the knot of his admirers with a small joke about some inconsequential thing, shoving his way through the dancers, heading for the bar. Casually elbowing his way in between a buxom woman in snug leather and velvet and a rather mousy man in T-shirt and jeans, he nods to the bartender. The guy behind the counter returns the nod, reaching down to a shelf beneath the bartop and producing a silver flask, which he hands to Zhurrie.

There was the custom vintage, kept at the establishment... That must be his contact. Thomas turns towards the man beside him, holding his bottle of ShortWater's Stout a few centimeters from the surface of the bar, cocking his head. "Some service you get here... You the head honcho or something?"

Lowering the container as he's addressed, the man gives the plain outfit, boring hair, and mirrored sunglasses a curious look. "No, just lucky. Excuse my bluntness, but is there any reason you're wearing those glasses indoors, at night?" Maunlev wasn't in the mood to be any more polite than he absolutely had to, at the moment. He'd been waiting all night to meet some new contributor to the cause, and all he'd seen so far was the usual gang of sycophants. He thought he might develop a headache in another hour or so...

"Ah... The Great Lady smiles on you, does she?" He chuckles, forcing a smile onto his face. "Yes, actually... My eyes are horrendously sensitive to light in places like this... Hyperphotosensitivity, my opthamologist calls it. Now it's my turn to ask a question... Would you, perhaps, be Mister Zhurrie Maunlev?" Thomas's smile fades swiftly, assissted by another long swallow of beer.

Zhurrie shrugs, recapping the flask. "On occasion... Less-so, of late. You?" The news about the man's eyesight is regarded with plenty of suspicion. "Really. Well, I hate to sound like an alarmist, or to ruin your evening, but.... Could you do me the favor of removing them, at least while we converse? It's...disconcerting, to speak with my own reflection." He covers his surprise at hearing his name from this complete stranger by setting the smoothver object on the bar and sliding it back to the 'keep. Turning his attention to the man beside him, he inclines his head. "That's usually how I introduce myself, these days... And would you be our mystery philanthropist of the week...?" Dark eyes narrow, studying the man again. His clothing was tight enough to prove that he was unarmed, and, unless he had access to advanced technology, he wasn't wearing a wire either. And was that a bite-mark peeking out from under his collar?

"Too bad... Neh, Luck's as fickle as any other woman. Late, though, she been good, more'r'less." His accent, or the one he'd chosen to adopt tonight, was getting thicker with practice. Good. Now, to keep it from getting -too- thick, or fluctuating much, that was the trick... "An alarmist? Neh, makes perfect sense. Wouldn't want you t'worry..." Complying, he removes the spectacles, folding them and slipping one earpiece into the collar of his shirt. The light has the expected result, causing him to wince, blink, and squint. "Good. I am... I'm Cornelius Gothtam, and I've been thinking about donating to your cause for quite a while now..." He looks up, his mouth graced by a soft little smile. And, just for the curious, the mark -was- made by human teeth... But that's another story.