Karram sat in the back of Flint's vehicle watching the activity near the club. It was a dingy looking environment, to say the least. But Karram knew all too well this was simply a front for what lies beyond those exterior walls. Inside would be a dimly lit and highly fashionable area full of vampires and thralls and everything in between dancing and sorting their business and enjoying drinks. The quality of the interior could beat out any 5-star club downtown, and that fact filled the vampires with a sense of pride. Karram had been in quite a few of these exclusive clubs in his lifetime, mostly by order of the court to investigate suspicious transactions; after all, de Lacy liked to keep a watchful eye on all his subordinates. 

And yet now, he sat parallel to the place, hoping there wouldn't be a need for him to enter The Rusty Steak Knife (what a terrible name, he thought). He hoped this small-scale operation would go off without a hitch, but a churning pain in his stomach seemed to think otherwise. Nonetheless, Karram stayed on guard, his eyes carefully scanning the club and the area surrounding their car, and his hand firmly grasping the hilt of his blade. Karram's eyes darted to Flint when he began sipping down whiskey. [i]Nerves, or boredom? Never know with this guy,[/i] he thought as his sense memory kicked in and the taste of the whiskey subtly flavored his palate. He shook off the thought and leaned forward. 

"Spare a swig," he questioned? [i]A little alcohol might calm my nerves.[/i]