The flash of neon light was dazzling. However, for Arran, the rapid, yet brief explosions of bright turquoise light were nothing more than an inconsequence. As was the heady smell of smoke and crushed opium that permeated the atmosphere in this place. 

Turquoise was not the only colour that punctuated the dark, smoky ambience that the club sought to achieve. Its low-budget, fluorescent tubes passed for the most basic of lighting within the buildings cavernous interior. Periodically, explosions of yellow, orange, red and purple emanated from the dance floor to leave painful, garish silhouettes tattooed across Arran’s vision. 

Synthesised, metallic beats that passed for music assaulted his ears. Techno Rock they called it. The club itself was known as “The Schooner”, and it was situated right in the heart of the Station Eternity.

Grunting in displeasure, Arran shook his head, his silvery brown locks jostling from the movement. Nursing a glass of something liquids in his right hand, he lifted it up to take a small swig as he slammed the glass back down on the back trestle table on which he sat. 

Wiping his mouth with his hand, Arran glanced over to the side.  Not too far away, in the corner of the level he sat on, there was what appeared to be a slip of a girl, notable with the shock of lavender hair on her head tied back in a ponytail.  She appeared to be working on one of the speakers situated at the side, one that wasn’t pumping out more of the horrible music.

On the level below them, occasionally punctuated by flashes of neon light, shadowy forms could be seen silhouetted against the dance floor, waving their arms in typically uncoordinated movements, looking for all the words like the proverbial tin full of sardines.

Arran noticed a burly fellow with a mohawk glaring at him from across the other side of the table at him. 

He sighed.  He wasn’t sure if it was the garish attire he wore.  The long, red trenchcoat he typically wore on nights out tended to net him all sorts of unwanted attention.  But then, there was a darker part of him that revelled in the attention and the violence.  Arran was many things....a random, unpredictable source of chaos.

He snorted at the intrusive fellow, [b]"Look, if you don’t put your eyes back in where they belong, I’ll ram my size ten right up your backside so hard it’ll be coming out of your nose."[/b]

There was a wide variety of people’s teeming inside the Schooner tonight, and the atmosphere was ripe for violence. Apart from the rough looking individuals sitting in a group just opposite the two (of which Mohawk Man was only one), there were representatives from all sorts of races around. There was an illithari dancing on the floor, its tentacles flopping up and down from the side of its face and chin. On the podiums, dancing within two cages elevated from the central, sparkling dance floor were two miniature, green-skinned ladies. 

Goblynne’s. 

Sitting just further up from him, sniffing as he drank a particularly vile-looking steaming green brew was a fellow with a horse’s head. 

A G’nool.

Violence was in the air, he could smell it. And whether it be the rough looking group that continued to glare at him or not, it was only a matter of time before the alcohol took its toll and the place erupted in a brawl.