To Flow From

Danior was in the club, sat forward on one of the comfortable chairs, head in his hands. A tumbler of whiskey on the low table in front of him, and smoking ban be damned, he had a cigarette hanging from between his fingers. Not like anyone was likely to enforce it in Emanare anyway. 

He had a killer headache.  Bone-chilling weather suited him, disney-fied images of angels everywhere amused him, but Christmas crowds.. just.. ugh. Too much temptation, too much panic and high-pitched emotion, too much stinking humanity. No challenge in an all-you-could-eat buffet.

"Bah, hum-fucking-bug," he muttered into his hands as someone passed by.